I knew that M would need clothes. The staff at the hospital had made mention of a couple of days at the hospital in Boston. My older son, Child #1, would need to be apprised of the situation. I guessed that meant I would have to wake him. I would need to make plans for the dog, work, transportation for C#1 to and from school, etc.
I arrived at home, woke C#1, and told him that I would expect him to drive to school, and that I would call during the day to let him know what was going on. I told him to handle the dog situation as if it were a normal day. Then I packed M some clothes and a toothbrush and began my drive to Children's Hospital, in Boston.
I am not sure how driving 75 miles per hour can feel so slow, but let it suffice to say that this was probably the longest trip of my life (including the 27 hour trip to Florida in rainstorms with a yowling cat in the back seat). There was virtually no other car on the road. It felt like it was me, alone in the dark, with a few bright lights to keep me company. I couldn't bring myself to turn on the radio.
When I arrived, I parked the car in Children's secure parking garage, pleased to discover that the hospital was close to one of the two places to which I knew how to drive in Boston.
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| No minotaur is pictured. Nor is the local string store. |
You see, Boston, with all its one way streets, angled roads, and alleyways, is like a labyrinth. A labyrinth that only the sage can navigate. It lacks only a minotaur. Unless equipped with a long string, I can only find my way to two places in Boston with ease, and those two only out of sheer repetition: Fenway Park and the Boston Museum of Science. Children's is near Fenway. I was grateful to learn that I could find my way there if I had to.
The main entrance to the hospital was closed. I had to wend my way to the one open door and a security guard. I don't remember what I said to the man (I'm sure it was very mumbly, and something guards at Children's Hospital are trained to understand.), but I somehow made it to the Emergency Room where my daughter was sleeping. The ER there was really spectacular. The space in which M was being monitored was a closed room. Not cozy, but private. B had a cup of coffee and began to tell me how every good-looking doctor on the planet must work here. He further stated that we should encourage C#1 to go to medical school so he could meet all these hotties.
As if by command, one such hottie entered the room to tell us that we would be moving M to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU), not because she necessarily needed intensive care, but because there were no beds at the level of care she needed. Hottie explained that they would rather bump her up to a higher level of care than bump her down to a lower level of care. Hottie, looking composed and graceful at 2:45 in the morning, gave off an aura of confidence that made me think that her reasoning made absolute sense.
Before being moved, M woke up and said she was hungry. Hottie said no, she couldn't eat. M whined, but otherwise seemed in good spirits.
Shortly, we were shipped to the ICU. M was put in a cavernous room with lots of screens, wires, and IV bags. She was hooked up to some sort of insulin dispenser. The port that the nice nurse had installed at our local hospital was holding up nicely. In the ICU, there is a nurse for every two or three children. The nurse sits in a glass room monitoring each child's vitals and pokes her head in the room frequently. It was at this point that I realized we were blessed. Every person on the staff knew just how to treat children and their neurotic families. Communication was flawless. Sensitivity was demonstrated. Phlebotomists understood the fear of needles.
M, who had dozed on the way to the room, woke up to ask for food again. The nurse explained that she could not be permitted to eat until her blood sugar was better under control. She said it much nicer than this. I, however, was too dazed to take note of the exact wording.
I recommended that B take a snooze on the bench provided in the back of the room. There was a curtain and everything. It was explained to us that parents are not normally permitted to sleep in the room with the child in ICU, but since M was not contagious or susceptible to infection, they were willing to bend the rules for us. Thank God, because nothing was going separate me from my baby.
I sat next to M and thought. I thought about C#1 and the fact that he was supposed to visit a college on Friday (now tomorrow). I thought about how we would take care of the dog. I thought about how we would turn in our property assessment form, which was due (now yesterday). I thought about how to get a sub at both of my part-time teaching jobs. I thought about where we would sleep while May was getting the care she needed.
I planned and planned. In the meantime, I watched the numbers on the screens attached to my daughter change. I listened to my daughter breathe. I breathed with her, and prayed. I watched her intently. Every sound she made, every twitch of her face seemed like it should be a clue to how she was feeling. Her heart rate slowed. It seemed like it slowed too much. I tried to remain calm.
At 6:00 am, with a 'take charge' attitude, I started making phone calls. I called one school, explaining that I would likely need a sub for the remainder of the week. I cried.
I left a message at the other school saying the same thing, in a wavering voice.
I called the dog sitter and asked if she could take Levy this afternoon and indefinitely. A little less wavery.
I called our neighbor and asked if she could deliver the dog to the dog sitter and deliver our property assessment to the town. Calm, quiet, voice.
I called our friend in Stoneham and asked if C#1 and B could sleep at his house tonight, and possibly for a couple of nights. Calm, stiff-upper-lip voice.
I called C#1's school and told them what was happening and to keep an eye out for him that day. Calm, stiff-upper-lip voice.
I called mom and asked her if she and dad would drive C#1 to the hospital that night so that he could see his sister and prepare for his college visit. Calm, "things-are-looking better" voice.
Finally, I called C#1 and told him that his sister was improving, and that we were going to get him down to Boston. "We-are-going-to-be fine, really" voice.
Plans in place, I went back to the room. B and M were still sleeping. I smiled at the nurse through the glass.
I thought, "It takes a village."
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