Post by larue on Aug 21, 2006 20:31:33 GMT 10
I hated to leave them. We’d held him and diapered him. Held him as his PIC line was flushed. Held him as he was given a little breast milk nourishment through his gavage tube. Held him and cuddled him and coaxed him through every procedure that encompassed his early morning routine in NICU. And then I had to leave. Abby promised me that she would go home and get some rest but I knew she wouldn’t. We had waited too long to finally be able to hold him. She was still there when I bounded up the stairs from the ER during a lull. This time she was snuggled under a light blanket with him skin to skin - Kangaroo holding - they called it. Something to encourage nursing when he was ready. I was actually a little jealous....of both of them. She was still there at the end of my shift, waiting for me. We spent a few quiet moments with him and then left, together. We were almost giddy with excitement as we walked hand in hand toward the el station. We both felt lighter than air.
Maggie had left a casserole in the oven for us and had gone back to the hospital to sit with him during the night. It was sort of our routine. She was there when we weren’t. It was the best routine. It worked for all of us.
We ate dinner snuggled together on the couch in front of the tv. We talked quietly about our day. Abby’s eyes fairly sparkled when she recounted every single minute with Joe. And I wanted to hear it....all of it....again. I reveled in the feel of her and the smell of her. This was the ‘pregnant’ Abby of before. The teasing, laughing, happy one of before. Before the guns. Before the surgery. Before the incredible worry. I was glad she was back again.
I took a long shower while Abby worked with her breast pump. Then she showered while I put the container of milk she had expressed into the refrigerator and carefully cleaned the pump for her. I was in bed, waiting, when she came out of the bathroom. She shook her still damp hair out and slipped into our bed under the covers. I pulled her close to me and she giggled as I tickled her - nuzzled the back of her neck - and then settled as I relaxed and held her close, spooning our bodies together. It wasn’t long before we both slipped into a deep, satisfying sleep.
The sound was annoying. It was the buzzing alarm clock sound. Abby had set it to go off so she would wake up to pump every three hours. I reached over to turn it off and then opened my eyes. It wasn’t the alarm. It was my pager.....and Abby’s. They were both going off. I picked mine up and read the text message. Suddenly I was wide awake. I shook Abby next to me.
“Abby....” I said. “We need to go to the hospital.” She was instantly awake and out of bed. We pulled on jeans and tee shirts and jackets and shoes. Screw the el. I hailed a cab and we were speeding through the very early morning Chicago streets toward the hospital. Because it was the most familiar entrance for us, the cab dropped us off at the ER ambulance bay and we raced inside. Abby almost bumped into Chuny as we hurried toward the elevators.
“What’s going on?” Chuny called after us with a worried frown. I lifted my hand in a wave as the elevator doors closed. The ride up was incredibly long. We didn’t say a word. Abby’s arms were folded tightly across her chest and she was frowning. The doors opened again we hurried down the hall toward NICU. Inside we scrubbed our hands and threw on gowns and hurried toward Joe’s station.
Maggie was standing next to his warming table with her arms folded in that familiar ‘Abby way’. Tight....protective.....safe. Abby approached and gasped slightly - sadly - as she saw our son....intubated and on a vent once again. The resident and nurse responsible for Joe’s night care were talking. Monitor malfunction. O2 levels. Maggie insisted. Maggie demanded. Lucky she was there. I sighed heavily and shook my head slowly as I gazed down at our son. I dragged my eyes to Abby’s face. A single tear was slipping down her cheek as she carefully adjusted one of the monitor lines on the table. She wiped it away, reached out to caress Joe’s foot and then smiled sadly. She lifted her eyes to her mother and watched her for a moment.
“Mom,” she said finally. Maggie’s eyes darted from Joe to Abby’s face and she frowned slightly as if she wasn't seeing her. Abby’s shoulders sagged.
“Mom.....” she said insistently. Maggie forced a small smile and opened her arms. Abby moved into them and the two of them stood together and cried.
“He’s going to be okay, Abby,” Maggie said as she held her daughter close. “He’s going to make it through this.” She glanced over at me and smiled reassuringly before closing her eyes again and holding Abby even tighter.
I turned my attention back to my son and sighed. He was still so tiny. His body was working so hard. Almost too hard. I glanced up at the monitors and gauges at the head of his station. Suddenly I wasn’t sad any more. I wasn’t...... frustrated. I was angry. Why was this happening to me? To us? Was it some sort of punishment for something I’d done? Was my son suffering because of....... I turned away from the table and stalked wordlessly out of NICU.
I stood in the hall for a moment and had no idea where to turn. Where to go. I needed to get out. I needed to get away. I found my way to the bathroom and pushed open the door. I ripped the paper gown from my shoulders. I leaned on the sink and stared into the eyes of the man that looked back at me from the mirror. A dark, brooding, angry man. Suddenly I turned and reached for the nearest unattached object in the bathroom. The trash can. With a roar I picked it up in my arms and threw at the man in the mirror.
Maggie had left a casserole in the oven for us and had gone back to the hospital to sit with him during the night. It was sort of our routine. She was there when we weren’t. It was the best routine. It worked for all of us.
We ate dinner snuggled together on the couch in front of the tv. We talked quietly about our day. Abby’s eyes fairly sparkled when she recounted every single minute with Joe. And I wanted to hear it....all of it....again. I reveled in the feel of her and the smell of her. This was the ‘pregnant’ Abby of before. The teasing, laughing, happy one of before. Before the guns. Before the surgery. Before the incredible worry. I was glad she was back again.
I took a long shower while Abby worked with her breast pump. Then she showered while I put the container of milk she had expressed into the refrigerator and carefully cleaned the pump for her. I was in bed, waiting, when she came out of the bathroom. She shook her still damp hair out and slipped into our bed under the covers. I pulled her close to me and she giggled as I tickled her - nuzzled the back of her neck - and then settled as I relaxed and held her close, spooning our bodies together. It wasn’t long before we both slipped into a deep, satisfying sleep.
The sound was annoying. It was the buzzing alarm clock sound. Abby had set it to go off so she would wake up to pump every three hours. I reached over to turn it off and then opened my eyes. It wasn’t the alarm. It was my pager.....and Abby’s. They were both going off. I picked mine up and read the text message. Suddenly I was wide awake. I shook Abby next to me.
“Abby....” I said. “We need to go to the hospital.” She was instantly awake and out of bed. We pulled on jeans and tee shirts and jackets and shoes. Screw the el. I hailed a cab and we were speeding through the very early morning Chicago streets toward the hospital. Because it was the most familiar entrance for us, the cab dropped us off at the ER ambulance bay and we raced inside. Abby almost bumped into Chuny as we hurried toward the elevators.
“What’s going on?” Chuny called after us with a worried frown. I lifted my hand in a wave as the elevator doors closed. The ride up was incredibly long. We didn’t say a word. Abby’s arms were folded tightly across her chest and she was frowning. The doors opened again we hurried down the hall toward NICU. Inside we scrubbed our hands and threw on gowns and hurried toward Joe’s station.
Maggie was standing next to his warming table with her arms folded in that familiar ‘Abby way’. Tight....protective.....safe. Abby approached and gasped slightly - sadly - as she saw our son....intubated and on a vent once again. The resident and nurse responsible for Joe’s night care were talking. Monitor malfunction. O2 levels. Maggie insisted. Maggie demanded. Lucky she was there. I sighed heavily and shook my head slowly as I gazed down at our son. I dragged my eyes to Abby’s face. A single tear was slipping down her cheek as she carefully adjusted one of the monitor lines on the table. She wiped it away, reached out to caress Joe’s foot and then smiled sadly. She lifted her eyes to her mother and watched her for a moment.
“Mom,” she said finally. Maggie’s eyes darted from Joe to Abby’s face and she frowned slightly as if she wasn't seeing her. Abby’s shoulders sagged.
“Mom.....” she said insistently. Maggie forced a small smile and opened her arms. Abby moved into them and the two of them stood together and cried.
“He’s going to be okay, Abby,” Maggie said as she held her daughter close. “He’s going to make it through this.” She glanced over at me and smiled reassuringly before closing her eyes again and holding Abby even tighter.
I turned my attention back to my son and sighed. He was still so tiny. His body was working so hard. Almost too hard. I glanced up at the monitors and gauges at the head of his station. Suddenly I wasn’t sad any more. I wasn’t...... frustrated. I was angry. Why was this happening to me? To us? Was it some sort of punishment for something I’d done? Was my son suffering because of....... I turned away from the table and stalked wordlessly out of NICU.
I stood in the hall for a moment and had no idea where to turn. Where to go. I needed to get out. I needed to get away. I found my way to the bathroom and pushed open the door. I ripped the paper gown from my shoulders. I leaned on the sink and stared into the eyes of the man that looked back at me from the mirror. A dark, brooding, angry man. Suddenly I turned and reached for the nearest unattached object in the bathroom. The trash can. With a roar I picked it up in my arms and threw at the man in the mirror.