I didn’t have a badge.
Or a title.
Or a name on the visitor list.
I wasn’t a spouse.
I wasn’t medical.
I wasn’t allowed in most of the time.
But I was everywhere.
I worked in a hospital alcove for six days straight.
Wedged between an outdated phone charging station and a row of vending machines.
Laptop balanced on my knees.
Patient ID number scrawled in Sharpie on a post-it.
Just in case.
I wasn’t technically part of the care team.
But I scheduled myself into their meetings.
Took notes.
Tracked progress.
Translated jargon to my dad.
Checked the meds.
Updated the insurance.
Gave her coffee. Decaf only.
Brushed her hair.
They called me by name, eventually.
The nurses. The techs. The OT.
Even the one who always forgot to close the bathroom curtain started handing me my coffee – full caffeine, one Splenda – just the way I like it.
But I wasn’t allowed in the first night.
Not when she was in the hallway by the bathroom.
Not when she came home mid-stroke.
Not when she collapsed.
Not when the first hospital said “you’re fine” and the second one had to fix it.
COVID rules, they said.
Only one visitor allowed, they said.
Pick one, they said.
So I picked everything else.
I picked paperwork and schedules.
Frozen dinners and medication logs.
Rides to rehab and awkward silences.
Conference calls and secondhand updates.
Being helpful but not included.
Present but not permitted.
I picked the middle.
Because no one else could hold it.
There’s no room for daughters in the system.
Not the messy kind.
Not the assertive kind.
Not the kind who show up with a laptop, a list of questions, and a soft voice that gets sharper when no one’s paying attention.
But I was there.
Always.
Just offstage.
Just down the hall.
Just enough to catch her when it all slipped through.
