Millie is at Saint Vincent's with a severe bout of pnuemonia. She may or may not be up for vistors. Call my phone. I'll be there.


Earlier, she was having trouble with how much the pregnancy restricted what she could do. I pointed out that all I could do was sit on the sidelines, and I felt helpless, in a way, since I can't care for Isabel the way she can. I didn't need to have that hammered home, and yet, that's what happened.
I thought I was going to lose her. I'd been arguing with her to get her to go, I asked her "Please, let me be overprotective" - she refused, then caved in once the trouble breathing started.
She started spitting up blood at the hospital. When I went to get her things, I came back, and she was being given oxygen. Then she fell in the bathroom, right after she told me I should go out with the squad on our case.
Later, she wasn't better, and then, when I was looking right at her, she stopped breathing. She just stopped. She...just...stopped, and I knew I was losing her, losing them both.
She said she wanted me to carry on if something happened to her, to Isabel. I told her the truth...that it would be impossible. Even if I didn't do it myself, I'd be a walking dead man until I walked into the path of a car or a bullet.
Three months ago, I didn't know her. Three months ago, Isabel didn't exist. Now, if things go back to the way they were, three months ago, no Millie, no Isa, I don't know how I'd live - or why I'd want to.