Silent tears hit hospital-white sheets. The young Pakistani mother holds the mask that brings moisture, oxygen and medicine to her babygirls lungs as she struggles against the slime that threatens to suffocate her.

On the walls of the childrens wing in the Akershus Universityhospital near Oslo, bright art shines. Highly skilled and trained personell runs and bikes through the corridors, figures in strongly colored paper tremble in the wake of their passage.

This place should be cheerful.

A doctor makes her second attempt at finding a vein in the arm of my 14 days old girl. No luck. The veins in her head are easier to locate.

Anna cries at every touch. Breastfeeding, the favorite activity in her short life, seems without interest. Sometimes she forgets to breathe, and we must stroke her chest to remind her.

Four days ago I slept fitfully at the same place with Tourism Board Corporate Information another child. Aleksander, my oldest, came to me after bedtime, crying. Every breath hurt.

At the hospital, every conceivable test was taken. X-rays, ultrasound, EKG, CRP, culture growth, urinesamples - nothing was found. Aleksander, who without flinching gets tackled on the soccerfield, cried. The next morning he was fine.

The Pakistani girl keeps struggling. Anna turns grey. Her CRP indicates an infection; a tube in her nose brings breastmilk to her stomach while the IV in her head provides antibiotics and saline.

In a quiet room of the hospital, my body clenches. Tears flood my eyes.

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I take two deep breaths. No time for tears. Not yet.

Back in 1997, my wife woke me in the middle of the night. Something was wrong with the five-month old fetus inside her.

A few hours later she miscarried in this hospital.

I wrote a song to the little girl that left us.