I should know better than to watch medical dramas. I surely should know to avoid medical dramas about sick babies. It wasn't a reality show. It wasn't even a character-driven drama. It was an old episode of House. It was more about the medical mystery than the hope-fear-loss-saving. But there were still trigger points for me.
A baby actually dies in this episode. Chase doesn't want to stop shocking the baby, but House calls it. Time of death . . . They don't actually say that, or maybe they just refrain when one of the parents is standing right there. I've watched too many medical shows and movies. When Henry died, I kept waiting for somebody to make it official: Time of death . . . but they never said it.
Cameron takes pity on parents staring through glass at their sick baby. "Imagine not being able to hold your own baby." There were two days at the beginning of Henry's life when I didn't get to hold him, and far too many when he was too unstable or too connected to machines to pick up. And then of course there are all the days since December 17, 2007.
And then there were the times I did get to hold him, hold him down, hold him still while they tried desperately to find a vein they could get blood from. I remember him, red faced, tears running down his face, and absolute silence because the tubes in his throat didn't allow him to scream. My poor little pincushion.
We have two seasons of House on DVD, and I will probably continue to watch them, but perhaps I'll skip the ones that mention sick kids in the episode description. It hits far too close to home.
Showing posts with label triggers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label triggers. Show all posts
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
15 minutes
"Here, watch this," Brian said, handing me his iPod.
He had been showing Kathleen a short video of her from earlier this summer when she first learned to go down the little slide in our yard. She watched the first few seconds and then looked up at me and earnestly repeated slide, slide, slide. Then she saw herself go down and said Whee!
When the clip was over, she poked at the screen, unintentionally starting the 15-minute montage Brian put together of Henry's life.
"Baby!" she said, and Brian told her it was Henry. They watched a few seconds, then he handed it to me.
He was in the NICU when I got it, in my arms, just waking up. I haven't watched any of this footage in a long time. I notice how much his chest moves, how hard he is breathing. Did I notice at the time? Did I get so used to it that it didn't register?
I'm okay until his smile the morning before his surgery. That's when I start to cry.
I watch a solemn me holding his hand a few days after surgery, waiting for him, willing him to wake up. I note the angry gash down his chest. I half-smile through my tears at the cordless dance, when we twirl around the CICU, free of oxygen for the very first time.
I beg him not to pull his NG tube out as he fiddles with it in a later clip and notice that his scar has healed nicely. I smile again as our favorite nurse bends over his stroller to say good-bye to him and another favorite hip checks her out of the way.
And then we are home. Henry is asleep in his swing. Brian pans the camera over to me. I am not listening to the sound, but I know I am telling about our efforts to leave the hospital, being forced to turn around in the storm, stumbling back to the hospital through the snow carrying Henry and his oxygen. I am daunted by the med schedule ahead of us, but so, so glad to be home.
You can see the haunted look in the back of my eyes from what we've been through, but over that the relief. We are home. It is incredibly important to me that we got Henry home, but it is never enough. I see that relief now, see the me who had no idea that within hours everything would come crashing down.
While I watched and cried and felt myself go limp, I was also pretending to laugh as Kathleen tickled my toes. My baby who's here, my baby who's not.
I find myself wondering again, how did we get here?
He had been showing Kathleen a short video of her from earlier this summer when she first learned to go down the little slide in our yard. She watched the first few seconds and then looked up at me and earnestly repeated slide, slide, slide. Then she saw herself go down and said Whee!
When the clip was over, she poked at the screen, unintentionally starting the 15-minute montage Brian put together of Henry's life.
"Baby!" she said, and Brian told her it was Henry. They watched a few seconds, then he handed it to me.
He was in the NICU when I got it, in my arms, just waking up. I haven't watched any of this footage in a long time. I notice how much his chest moves, how hard he is breathing. Did I notice at the time? Did I get so used to it that it didn't register?
I'm okay until his smile the morning before his surgery. That's when I start to cry.
I watch a solemn me holding his hand a few days after surgery, waiting for him, willing him to wake up. I note the angry gash down his chest. I half-smile through my tears at the cordless dance, when we twirl around the CICU, free of oxygen for the very first time.
I beg him not to pull his NG tube out as he fiddles with it in a later clip and notice that his scar has healed nicely. I smile again as our favorite nurse bends over his stroller to say good-bye to him and another favorite hip checks her out of the way.
And then we are home. Henry is asleep in his swing. Brian pans the camera over to me. I am not listening to the sound, but I know I am telling about our efforts to leave the hospital, being forced to turn around in the storm, stumbling back to the hospital through the snow carrying Henry and his oxygen. I am daunted by the med schedule ahead of us, but so, so glad to be home.
You can see the haunted look in the back of my eyes from what we've been through, but over that the relief. We are home. It is incredibly important to me that we got Henry home, but it is never enough. I see that relief now, see the me who had no idea that within hours everything would come crashing down.
While I watched and cried and felt myself go limp, I was also pretending to laugh as Kathleen tickled my toes. My baby who's here, my baby who's not.
I find myself wondering again, how did we get here?
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The purple box
My mom and sisters came today for a work day to help me get some things organized, and we did. I can actually enter the walk-in closet in my office; the four open boxes of outgrown baby clothes are arranged by size and ready to go in the attic; and the clothes we are transitioning in and out of in the next few months are tucked neatly in Kathleen's closet.
As we were clearing out one closet, my sister pulled a fancy white box off the shelf. I said it was just a gift box, but when she opened it, there was a fancy card a heart of silk roses on the front. My friend A. sent it for Henry's first birthday. Hanging from the heart is a small elephant charm because she remembered elephants were significant to my family. I remember that box coming in the mail on his actual birthday. There was no question I would keep the card, but I figured I didn't need to keep it in the big box it came in. Yet, I didn't want it to be crushed.
I remembered that the memory box from the hospital was practically empty. It would be safe there. I pulled the purple box of the shelf in Kathleen's room, where it sits for want of a better home. I sat down in the rocker, untied the ribbons binding it closed, and, Oh! It sucked the breath out of me.
I had sorted once again through the pile of blue clothes that we got when he was born. I identified the box my mom started to sort through with his caterpillar toy and his little old man plaid romper as a Henry box. Both of these without a pause or a catch or a cry. But the purple box stopped me. I cried looking at the barely existent wisps of hair, the bit of umbilical cord, the purple hand and footprints. I just sat there and cried.
My baby died.
Will that ever cease to surprise me? shock me?
I sat for a few minutes and cried. Then I put the card in the box, closed the lid, tied it shut again. I put the box up on the shelf in Kathleen's closet. Then I walked back downstairs and answered questions about where to find a rag and whether it was okay to make a box for ribbon and where the popsicles were. I didn't tell my family that opening that purple box was harder than expected, that I had cried, that I could still be sitting crying in that chair. I didn't keep it to myself because they wouldn't understand, but because my bed was piled two feet high with clothes to be packed away and you couldn't even walk into my office. There were things that needed to be done, and we didn't have time today for me to sit and cry for hours. The difference between now and two years ago is that I could have my little cry and then stop it.
But I keep thinking of that purple box now. There are pieces of Henry all over our house, but I keep remembering that box now and sighing.
As we were clearing out one closet, my sister pulled a fancy white box off the shelf. I said it was just a gift box, but when she opened it, there was a fancy card a heart of silk roses on the front. My friend A. sent it for Henry's first birthday. Hanging from the heart is a small elephant charm because she remembered elephants were significant to my family. I remember that box coming in the mail on his actual birthday. There was no question I would keep the card, but I figured I didn't need to keep it in the big box it came in. Yet, I didn't want it to be crushed.
I remembered that the memory box from the hospital was practically empty. It would be safe there. I pulled the purple box of the shelf in Kathleen's room, where it sits for want of a better home. I sat down in the rocker, untied the ribbons binding it closed, and, Oh! It sucked the breath out of me.
I had sorted once again through the pile of blue clothes that we got when he was born. I identified the box my mom started to sort through with his caterpillar toy and his little old man plaid romper as a Henry box. Both of these without a pause or a catch or a cry. But the purple box stopped me. I cried looking at the barely existent wisps of hair, the bit of umbilical cord, the purple hand and footprints. I just sat there and cried.
My baby died.
Will that ever cease to surprise me? shock me?
I sat for a few minutes and cried. Then I put the card in the box, closed the lid, tied it shut again. I put the box up on the shelf in Kathleen's closet. Then I walked back downstairs and answered questions about where to find a rag and whether it was okay to make a box for ribbon and where the popsicles were. I didn't tell my family that opening that purple box was harder than expected, that I had cried, that I could still be sitting crying in that chair. I didn't keep it to myself because they wouldn't understand, but because my bed was piled two feet high with clothes to be packed away and you couldn't even walk into my office. There were things that needed to be done, and we didn't have time today for me to sit and cry for hours. The difference between now and two years ago is that I could have my little cry and then stop it.
But I keep thinking of that purple box now. There are pieces of Henry all over our house, but I keep remembering that box now and sighing.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Looking back on the day
Last year, walking through the soft, big flakes would have triggered a memory. I would have found myself back on Longwood Ave., stumbling along the slippery sidewalk, Henry heavy in his car seat, the oxygen tank slipping off my shoulder. Yes, a bit of weather could have thrown me back into the full-blown panic of trying to get my baby back to the hospital after being discharged into a massive traffic jam caused by a not so massive snow storm. But yesterday, I just noticed the beauty and sighed at the sight of more fallen lilac bush limbs. Then later in the day, my brain made the connection but I didn't get the emotional punch.
***
Today we went to our favorite sugar shack. We took Kathleen for the first time last year, and it triggered a flood of memories and missing. This year was different. We ran into friends who have a little boy who was born three days before Henry. We sat together and talked about a mutual friend who is pregnant again. We laughed at their son bestowing kisses on Kathleen. I fed Kathleen; they admonished their son to sit down and eat. It was fun to have breakfast with somebody we know.
Not once did I look at their son and think that Henry should be sitting across from him at the little kids' picnic table. Not once did I have a stab of what should be but isn't.
Later in the day I thought about the fact that their son is Henry's age, a simple fact once would have paralyzed me. I might have cried all the way home or curled into bed with Henry's blanket once we got here. But lately, things haven't been triggers tripping off emotional explosions. Lately, they just make me connect memories, that may be sad but are not as loaded as they used to be. It's a curious thing.
***
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the slant of sunlight coming in the window or the scent of moist soil or a paper that got tucked into the wrong box may set me off, leave me clutching the counter top to stand and wipe me out for days. I know I have no power over these triggers. They come unbidden and unsuspected. Right now, the likely candidates aren't hitting me that way.
So for now, for as long as I can, I'll enjoy the fluffy snow and the conversations with the woman who I shared my first big belly days with. I'll watch with a smile as her son plays with my daughter and not bemoan that he doesn't play with my son. I'll enjoy these things as they are today, unmarred by scary memories, unshadowed by what what should have been.
***
Today we went to our favorite sugar shack. We took Kathleen for the first time last year, and it triggered a flood of memories and missing. This year was different. We ran into friends who have a little boy who was born three days before Henry. We sat together and talked about a mutual friend who is pregnant again. We laughed at their son bestowing kisses on Kathleen. I fed Kathleen; they admonished their son to sit down and eat. It was fun to have breakfast with somebody we know.
Not once did I look at their son and think that Henry should be sitting across from him at the little kids' picnic table. Not once did I have a stab of what should be but isn't.
Later in the day I thought about the fact that their son is Henry's age, a simple fact once would have paralyzed me. I might have cried all the way home or curled into bed with Henry's blanket once we got here. But lately, things haven't been triggers tripping off emotional explosions. Lately, they just make me connect memories, that may be sad but are not as loaded as they used to be. It's a curious thing.
***
Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day, the slant of sunlight coming in the window or the scent of moist soil or a paper that got tucked into the wrong box may set me off, leave me clutching the counter top to stand and wipe me out for days. I know I have no power over these triggers. They come unbidden and unsuspected. Right now, the likely candidates aren't hitting me that way.
So for now, for as long as I can, I'll enjoy the fluffy snow and the conversations with the woman who I shared my first big belly days with. I'll watch with a smile as her son plays with my daughter and not bemoan that he doesn't play with my son. I'll enjoy these things as they are today, unmarred by scary memories, unshadowed by what what should have been.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Falling
I'm falling
or falling apart.
these last two days.
An ambulance, lights and siren on, on a certain stretch of road—it is the route we traveled, Henry and I, that day in September. Seeing the ambulance, I am not there, not in the back with Henry and the oxygen and my bag jammed under my feet. I'm not there, but the terror grips my heart for a moment and I cry out.
State-insurance paperwork, poorly worded confusing questions, like the reams I filled out to get Henry enrolled in services when he was in the hospital. It took me a month or more. I was thick-headed, uncertain about how to fill out to forms. When is says you does it mean me or him? Here it means you. There it is him. Pages to determine what he can do or can't do. Dress himself, feed himself, walk, speak . . . he's 6 months old. I don't know the numbers, don't have the paperwork I need. I went back to the financial aid office again and again and again. He was finally approved. The letter was sent the day he died. Today I filled out some of the same paperwork to get assistance with our insurance premiums. All that came flooding back with a stack of paper today.
Last night, Kathleen woke and would not settle. I rocked and rocked her. She would almost fall asleep and then jerk herself up. She grabbed hold of my pajamas. "You can let go," I told her, wanting her to give in to the sleep she so needed. But I have said those words before, and the memory gripped me. And I spiraled down, down, down.
I said those words in October 2007, the night we thought Henry might die. I looked at his pale little body, laid out under the lights, covered with more tube and wires and equipment than I had seen even right after his surgery. He had already been through so much. "If you've had enough, you can let go. You can stop." Did I mean it? I wanted him to go if he was ready, not wait for me, for I would never really be ready, no matter what I told him. "You can let go. But please, wait until Daddy gets here." And he did. Brian arrived, my sisters, my in-laws, my parents were already there. They set aside a room for our family to wait in. Henry started to look just a wee bit pinker. His numbers looked better. To hear my mom tell the story now, she was foolish to call and worry everyone. But he almost died that night. He did, and I tried to let him go if he needed to.
In December I said it again as I felt him slipping from me, as I sang to him the names of all the people who loved him, I was trying so hard to hold on to him. My mom heard my singing, but didn't understand. "I can't hear you. I don't know what you are saying." And I shushed her away, my song the last thread between me and my baby.
Twice I told my baby he could let go, he could go, he could be free from all his little body had put him through.
Twice I tried to mean it, but couldn't really.
You can let go.
He finally did.
And then I had to.
Had to let go.
Let go of the thread of song.
Let go eventually of his body.
And now I struggle:
How do I hold on to him and let him go at the same time?
I'm falling apart
falling into deep waters, flailing, drowning.
Just two days ago, I wrote to Sally about healing.
Just over a week ago, I wrote of the lifting that came with the passing of December.
And today, I sat on my kitchen floor and wept.
I sat and could do nothing else.
And now, I have pulled the pieces together again
and I sit with the drained, weary feeling that comes
after the sobbing and the memories.
And I wonder if the sun will shine tomorrow
or if I'll fall a little more.
or falling apart.
these last two days.
An ambulance, lights and siren on, on a certain stretch of road—it is the route we traveled, Henry and I, that day in September. Seeing the ambulance, I am not there, not in the back with Henry and the oxygen and my bag jammed under my feet. I'm not there, but the terror grips my heart for a moment and I cry out.
State-insurance paperwork, poorly worded confusing questions, like the reams I filled out to get Henry enrolled in services when he was in the hospital. It took me a month or more. I was thick-headed, uncertain about how to fill out to forms. When is says you does it mean me or him? Here it means you. There it is him. Pages to determine what he can do or can't do. Dress himself, feed himself, walk, speak . . . he's 6 months old. I don't know the numbers, don't have the paperwork I need. I went back to the financial aid office again and again and again. He was finally approved. The letter was sent the day he died. Today I filled out some of the same paperwork to get assistance with our insurance premiums. All that came flooding back with a stack of paper today.
Last night, Kathleen woke and would not settle. I rocked and rocked her. She would almost fall asleep and then jerk herself up. She grabbed hold of my pajamas. "You can let go," I told her, wanting her to give in to the sleep she so needed. But I have said those words before, and the memory gripped me. And I spiraled down, down, down.
I said those words in October 2007, the night we thought Henry might die. I looked at his pale little body, laid out under the lights, covered with more tube and wires and equipment than I had seen even right after his surgery. He had already been through so much. "If you've had enough, you can let go. You can stop." Did I mean it? I wanted him to go if he was ready, not wait for me, for I would never really be ready, no matter what I told him. "You can let go. But please, wait until Daddy gets here." And he did. Brian arrived, my sisters, my in-laws, my parents were already there. They set aside a room for our family to wait in. Henry started to look just a wee bit pinker. His numbers looked better. To hear my mom tell the story now, she was foolish to call and worry everyone. But he almost died that night. He did, and I tried to let him go if he needed to.
In December I said it again as I felt him slipping from me, as I sang to him the names of all the people who loved him, I was trying so hard to hold on to him. My mom heard my singing, but didn't understand. "I can't hear you. I don't know what you are saying." And I shushed her away, my song the last thread between me and my baby.
Twice I told my baby he could let go, he could go, he could be free from all his little body had put him through.
Twice I tried to mean it, but couldn't really.
You can let go.
He finally did.
And then I had to.
Had to let go.
Let go of the thread of song.
Let go eventually of his body.
And now I struggle:
How do I hold on to him and let him go at the same time?
I'm falling apart
falling into deep waters, flailing, drowning.
Just two days ago, I wrote to Sally about healing.
Just over a week ago, I wrote of the lifting that came with the passing of December.
And today, I sat on my kitchen floor and wept.
I sat and could do nothing else.
And now, I have pulled the pieces together again
and I sit with the drained, weary feeling that comes
after the sobbing and the memories.
And I wonder if the sun will shine tomorrow
or if I'll fall a little more.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Flashback
I've been thinking all week of the night Henry almost died and the night before that when he turned blue in my arms and I almost lost myself. I meant to write about those earlier in the week, but each night it got late and Kathleen woke up and I eventually quit and went to bed. Tonight, I sat down to write about the Buddy Walk we did today and about learning Henry had Down syndrome, and I had just started when Kathleen started crying. I went up into her dark room and reached into the crib and the top of her head was sticky and wet. My first thought was blood, but no, vomit.
I got her cleaned up—bath, hair washed, fresh diaper, clean pjs, new sleep sack—and then went up to tackle the crib. While I was wrestling the sheets on to the crib mattress, Henry's last night came to me and is sitting with me still. It is not a night I like to remember. In fact, it is one of the few events of Henry's life that I did not relive last year.
Sitting in Kathleen's room, I could see the feeding pump on its pole by one end of the crib, hear the oxygen machine, smell the diarrhea, for that was Henry's problem that night. Over and over and over we changed him and the sheets and finally gave up and left him just in a diaper. I was on the phone to Children's and our pediatrician. I hear the panic, the rising hysteria, in my voice.
I was so scared to take him to the ER and expose him to all those germs. I was so scared to take him to a hospital less than 48 hours after we left one for fear they would take him back.
He had a fever that night. We gave him Tylenol, maybe ibuprofen too. I worried about hydration with him not keeping anything in. I didn't worry so much about the fever. This is the detail I focus in on now. I knew— had seen, time and again—how even a low fever affected Henry's heart rate, and once his heart rate went up, his heart didn't pump all that effectively and pressure built up and he started into a pulmonary hypertensive cycle. I had been vigilant about fever in the hospital. I had worried that outside people would pooh-pooh me when I told them he had a low-grade fever. I didn't imagine I'd be the one to ignore the fever.
I was so tired that night. Three months in the hospital, three months of dramatic ups and downs daily, or within the day, had taken their toll. Sleeping on upright in a chair or on the floor the last night in the hospital with just sheet hadn't helped. A night at home with meds every few hours hadn't helped either. I was delirious with exhaustion.
We did not take him to the hospital that night, but to our pediatrician the next day and from there to the hospital, but that's a different story, or a different piece of it, one I don't have energy to tackle tonight. I have a baby with a stomach bug, who is sleeping right now but may wake up any time.
It's okay, I told her, but realized she doesn't feel at all okay right now.
So I amended to, You'll be okay.
And then for me: You have to be okay.
And I mostly believe it, but tonight the shadows in her room were dark and was in a place I didn't want to be. Her warm body, so big!, snuggled against me brought me back to the now, but those memories I don't want persist in lingering.
I got her cleaned up—bath, hair washed, fresh diaper, clean pjs, new sleep sack—and then went up to tackle the crib. While I was wrestling the sheets on to the crib mattress, Henry's last night came to me and is sitting with me still. It is not a night I like to remember. In fact, it is one of the few events of Henry's life that I did not relive last year.
Sitting in Kathleen's room, I could see the feeding pump on its pole by one end of the crib, hear the oxygen machine, smell the diarrhea, for that was Henry's problem that night. Over and over and over we changed him and the sheets and finally gave up and left him just in a diaper. I was on the phone to Children's and our pediatrician. I hear the panic, the rising hysteria, in my voice.
I was so scared to take him to the ER and expose him to all those germs. I was so scared to take him to a hospital less than 48 hours after we left one for fear they would take him back.
He had a fever that night. We gave him Tylenol, maybe ibuprofen too. I worried about hydration with him not keeping anything in. I didn't worry so much about the fever. This is the detail I focus in on now. I knew— had seen, time and again—how even a low fever affected Henry's heart rate, and once his heart rate went up, his heart didn't pump all that effectively and pressure built up and he started into a pulmonary hypertensive cycle. I had been vigilant about fever in the hospital. I had worried that outside people would pooh-pooh me when I told them he had a low-grade fever. I didn't imagine I'd be the one to ignore the fever.
I was so tired that night. Three months in the hospital, three months of dramatic ups and downs daily, or within the day, had taken their toll. Sleeping on upright in a chair or on the floor the last night in the hospital with just sheet hadn't helped. A night at home with meds every few hours hadn't helped either. I was delirious with exhaustion.
We did not take him to the hospital that night, but to our pediatrician the next day and from there to the hospital, but that's a different story, or a different piece of it, one I don't have energy to tackle tonight. I have a baby with a stomach bug, who is sleeping right now but may wake up any time.
It's okay, I told her, but realized she doesn't feel at all okay right now.
So I amended to, You'll be okay.
And then for me: You have to be okay.
And I mostly believe it, but tonight the shadows in her room were dark and was in a place I didn't want to be. Her warm body, so big!, snuggled against me brought me back to the now, but those memories I don't want persist in lingering.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Someday
Kathleen was pulling books of a shelf today, and I saw one I hadn't seen in a while, one that came as a gift soon after she was born, one that made me cry. Just looking at it, I felt my tears welling up. Kathleen looked at me and laughed, and I smiled back.
Then, instead of putting the book back on the shelf, I opened it and read it. And then I did cry. It is a lovely little book called Someday. It begins with a mother talking to her small child, telling him or her about how she counted their toes when they were a baby. It tells things the she has done with the child and then moves into the things she will watch her child will do someday.
I cried for Henry and his lost somedays, for all the things he will never do, all the things I will never watch him do. And I cried in wonder at the potential there in front of me on the floor, for all Kathleen's somedays, for all the things I hope the see her do. For all the somedays that seem to be every day right now as she is changing so fast.
The heaviness of those tears is lingering with me tonight as I think of the somedays lost, but I smile with those tears thinking of the somedays yet to be. Ah, this endless tangle of sweet and bitter.
Then, instead of putting the book back on the shelf, I opened it and read it. And then I did cry. It is a lovely little book called Someday. It begins with a mother talking to her small child, telling him or her about how she counted their toes when they were a baby. It tells things the she has done with the child and then moves into the things she will watch her child will do someday.
I cried for Henry and his lost somedays, for all the things he will never do, all the things I will never watch him do. And I cried in wonder at the potential there in front of me on the floor, for all Kathleen's somedays, for all the things I hope the see her do. For all the somedays that seem to be every day right now as she is changing so fast.
The heaviness of those tears is lingering with me tonight as I think of the somedays lost, but I smile with those tears thinking of the somedays yet to be. Ah, this endless tangle of sweet and bitter.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Cemetery
I stopped at the cemetery today on my way out of town. So many times I pass by without stopping, but always I like to visit before I leave town for a few days, and if I can, stop on my way back in.
On Sunday, I planted mums, dark red ones, in front of the family stone. Henry’s name is not on this stone because we want to get him a stone of his own. But I’ve found that plants left directly on his grave, whether in a basket or planted directly in the ground get stolen or dug up.
It’s hard enough to go to the cemetery to visit my baby boy. I don’t need to find the little things I leave for him damaged or gone. It disheartens me every time. Brian gets enraged. I mostly just get weary and sad.
Today there was a huge chunk out of the front of the mum. Perhaps from a mower; perhaps from somebody plucking it off. I’ve never been sure if it was an act of malice or not caring. Either way it upsets me.
It bothered me for a long time as I sat in traffic at the beginning of my trip. I was on the verge of tears and trying to stay focused on the road. So I tried to let the frustration go, and I focused on this.
On Sunday, I planted mums, dark red ones, in front of the family stone. Henry’s name is not on this stone because we want to get him a stone of his own. But I’ve found that plants left directly on his grave, whether in a basket or planted directly in the ground get stolen or dug up.
It’s hard enough to go to the cemetery to visit my baby boy. I don’t need to find the little things I leave for him damaged or gone. It disheartens me every time. Brian gets enraged. I mostly just get weary and sad.
Today there was a huge chunk out of the front of the mum. Perhaps from a mower; perhaps from somebody plucking it off. I’ve never been sure if it was an act of malice or not caring. Either way it upsets me.
It bothered me for a long time as I sat in traffic at the beginning of my trip. I was on the verge of tears and trying to stay focused on the road. So I tried to let the frustration go, and I focused on this.
Henry was buried in December when the ground was hard and frozen. Soon his grave was covered with snow. Then the snow retreated and we could see the bare earth, his tiny grave. As the ground warmed, they prepared to reseed it. Brian and I would pick up little stones each time we visited, stones that would sit on a shelf or in our pockets, a token from Henry’s place. One of the last days before they seeded, we were at the cemetery and I just started making a heart for Henry out of the stones. Brian helped, and then together we pieced out his name. It was the only marker we had for his grave at that point.
We went away, knowing we wouldn’t see our marker again, for the seed was to be planted the next day. Weeks later I got an envelope in the mail, somebody in town, but I name I only recognized from a card when Henry died. Inside I found pictures of Henry’s stone heart.
Brian ran into the cemetery caretaker, who told him that he had hated to cover it up. But, he said, I put the first layer down carefully. It’s still there underneath.
So I hold on to this. If somebody chooses to steal flowers off my baby’s grave or the cemetery staff can’t be bothered to not cut down what I plant for him, one day somebody cared enough to preserve—in pictures and in reality—Henry’s stone heart. Flowers may go missing, but his name and his symbol are just a few inches down. Knowing they are there is a slight comfort; knowing somebody took the time for that kindness, much more of one.
I’m still upset, and will be, when I think of the flowers, but there is a slight redemption to hold onto.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Sick Visit
We took Kathleen in for a sick visit today. She has Coxackie virus. We were told to give her Tylenol and expect her to have a fever for a couple more days and then a rash. No big deal. They've been seeing a lot of it.
***
Kathleen has been fussy and clingy for the past few days. I thought maybe it was just the cold she's had lingering. Then yesterday, she was hot. I took her temperature under her arm and it was a little high, so I got a rectal and it was normal. Odd, but I checked it twice. No fever. But I knew she wasn't herself.
She woke up all smiles this morning, but wouldn't eat most of her breakfast or most of her lunch. Brian took her for a walk in the afternoon and noticed she was quite warm again. This time, the underarm thermometer clearly picked up a fever, and the rectal agreed—102.6.
So I called the pediatrician's office, while Brian got our screeching baby dressed. Despite the dread in my stomach, I half expected them to tell me to give her some Tylenol and call back if the fever didn't go down, but the nurse said they better see her. So I gave Kathleen some Tylenol and a bottle and sat and rocked with her hot head on my chest for the hour and a half before we could go.
Maybe I should bring a change of clothes with me.
This is the irrational part of my brain talking. The part of my brain that reminds me that the last time I brought my baby in for a sick visit in September, he just seemed to have a cold. And then I was in an ambulance and then my baby was on a ventilator and then . . .
Wait!
My rational brain says.
He was really sick. He had just had surgery, had a bad heart, lung problems. It wasn't really the cold.
This part of my brain has let me go through my day for the last week as Kathleen sniffled and coughed and otherwise seemed just fine. But with this sick visit, the irrational tried to take over.
I had been struggling with September already, knowing that the day that was the beginning of the long-drawn out end was approaching, that day when the pediatrician put oxygen on Henry and called an ambulance, thus beginning a three-month hospitalization. That memory has been bubbling around under the surface, and it boiled over today when we carried Kathleen in to see the doctor.
***
In another world, I would simply be wishing Kathleen would feel better and lamenting that I had to cancel a visit from friend Alexa. No tapas and sangria for me tomorrow.
But here I am in babylost world, where everything looks different. I do hope my baby girl feels better. I am probably more patient as I sit with her feverish body snuggled into me, poor thing, than I would be in that other world. But I am more scared too, because I know what the inside of an ambulance looks like, I know how the PICU sounds, and I know just how quickly things can change from okay to unbelievably not okay. I believe she will be fine, I do, but I can't banish the anxiety.
So tonight, I'll give her Tylenol and sleep with her close and take deep breaths and tell myself she will be okay. In the next few days, I'll try to stay calm as I wait for her fever to clear, her fussiness to pass, my smiley girl to come back. And over the next few months, I'll face those memories again, the ones from September to December 2007. They've started, with a vengeance, today.
***
Kathleen has been fussy and clingy for the past few days. I thought maybe it was just the cold she's had lingering. Then yesterday, she was hot. I took her temperature under her arm and it was a little high, so I got a rectal and it was normal. Odd, but I checked it twice. No fever. But I knew she wasn't herself.
She woke up all smiles this morning, but wouldn't eat most of her breakfast or most of her lunch. Brian took her for a walk in the afternoon and noticed she was quite warm again. This time, the underarm thermometer clearly picked up a fever, and the rectal agreed—102.6.
So I called the pediatrician's office, while Brian got our screeching baby dressed. Despite the dread in my stomach, I half expected them to tell me to give her some Tylenol and call back if the fever didn't go down, but the nurse said they better see her. So I gave Kathleen some Tylenol and a bottle and sat and rocked with her hot head on my chest for the hour and a half before we could go.
Maybe I should bring a change of clothes with me.
This is the irrational part of my brain talking. The part of my brain that reminds me that the last time I brought my baby in for a sick visit in September, he just seemed to have a cold. And then I was in an ambulance and then my baby was on a ventilator and then . . .
Wait!
My rational brain says.
He was really sick. He had just had surgery, had a bad heart, lung problems. It wasn't really the cold.
This part of my brain has let me go through my day for the last week as Kathleen sniffled and coughed and otherwise seemed just fine. But with this sick visit, the irrational tried to take over.
I had been struggling with September already, knowing that the day that was the beginning of the long-drawn out end was approaching, that day when the pediatrician put oxygen on Henry and called an ambulance, thus beginning a three-month hospitalization. That memory has been bubbling around under the surface, and it boiled over today when we carried Kathleen in to see the doctor.
***
In another world, I would simply be wishing Kathleen would feel better and lamenting that I had to cancel a visit from friend Alexa. No tapas and sangria for me tomorrow.
But here I am in babylost world, where everything looks different. I do hope my baby girl feels better. I am probably more patient as I sit with her feverish body snuggled into me, poor thing, than I would be in that other world. But I am more scared too, because I know what the inside of an ambulance looks like, I know how the PICU sounds, and I know just how quickly things can change from okay to unbelievably not okay. I believe she will be fine, I do, but I can't banish the anxiety.
So tonight, I'll give her Tylenol and sleep with her close and take deep breaths and tell myself she will be okay. In the next few days, I'll try to stay calm as I wait for her fever to clear, her fussiness to pass, my smiley girl to come back. And over the next few months, I'll face those memories again, the ones from September to December 2007. They've started, with a vengeance, today.
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