From my old blog. To carry it into the new one,
and to give you a little more perspective on where my 'baby thing'
comes from. For those of you that have been with me since then, you'll
know it. But I feel strongly enough about it now -- and then -- to
bring it forward.
There are children languishing in care around the
world right now for various reasons, and they don't know why they're
there, or how they got there, or when they might go home -- or what
home even is.
I was the kind of kid who got sick all the time when I was little -- I
think my parents should have renamed me Ear, Nose, And Throat -- but I
was never caught up in the mystery of ill health that so many of these
families know. We always knew what was wrong and that it would go away.
Katrina left many, many more waiting on a dose of hope. But there
are people in these hospitals who become 'home' for kids, including
many of my own girlfriends -- the best nurses that ever were! So here
is to Lorelei, Teresa, Nola, and all the rest of you. You inspire me.
they lie with you when you're asleep.
When I was 18, I spent some time volunteering at the Children's
Hospital, in the pastoral care department. I went with a few friends,
all of us "wanting to make a difference'....we were naive, I think; we
hadn't known enough disappointment in our lives to think twice about
trying to change the world. We never really questioned our motives for
doing what we did, because how could hospital visitation be a bad
thing? But I think we were trying too hard to be "noble"....and I don't
know that nobility should be such an effort.
Still, we went once a week, and I fell in love with it.
Two of my friends went to visit on the floor that housed all the
post-op kids. Those patients were usually fairly restless, having been
webbed with tubes and set in casts for weeks on end. But the girls I
came with were naturally gregarious, and would entertain their charges
with dumb jokes and wheelchair tours down to the cafeteria.
I loved watching them coax smiles from the frustrated patients they
came to know by "name and game" (usually Nintendo, in the teen lounge).
Another friend and I chose a different spot for our Wednesday
nights; we went to the floor that housed the infant ICU and oncology
units. I would inevitably end up spending most of my time on the
nursery side...my pro-nanny skills at getting babies to stop crying
were well-used there. When I would arrive, the nurses would find me the
most fussy, lonely soul among the pale green rooms, and let me go to
work. I think it did as much for me as it did for them....I could feel
my whole week fade away in the soft breathing of the one swaddled in my
arms.
Some of the babies were well attended by parents and relatives, who
would hover close to their incubators and will them with nervous smiles
to get better. Most of them would; I'd come in every week to note the
new 'grad' pictures on the nursing station wall.
Some would return for further operations, or because of some relapse
or other....but I was amazed again and again by their resilience and
capacity to heal.
But I remember other circumstances as well.
Jenny was eight or nine months, and had a disorder I didn't
understand in the least. The nurses tried to explain it to me...some
sort of rare cancer-related blood sickness. I didn't know how someone
so small ended up with such a huge problem, but she seemed totally
fine.
Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were huge and blue, and she had the
same dark hair I did. Parents coming in to see their kids would see me
holding her, and assume she was mine. I would usually correct them, but
sometimes I would just smile. That girl was a glorious break from my
usual wailing patients...a cherubic, wiggling treat.
One of the doctors called her 'Little Miss Flirt', since she was
easy with a smile, and would go to almost anyone. She was used to
strangers, having been in CH care since she was only a couple months
old. Her parents were in every day, sometimes accompanied by their
three year old, who would tear up the place, running and yelling and
causing havoc. He was completely healthy, and eager to have his sister
join him at home.
From what I understood, that possibility looked pretty solid, and
when I went home for my Christmas holidays, I thought for sure I'd come
back to find Baby Jen on the grad wall. I knew I'd miss her, but that
was always the goal.
The first Wednesday of the New Year, we were back at our duties, and
I was greeted warmly by the nurses, who handed off a little guy named
Jacob, bright red and screaming from a shot he'd received. I held him
close, rocking gently and humming, and walked slowly over to the
pictures on the wall. No Jenny.
I caught one of the nurses on my way back to Jacob's room, and asked after my girl. She cringed a little.
"Yeah....Jenny. She's still here, but she's in the ICU. Not doing so
well." I was a little startled, and went to find her across the hall,
as soon as I laid Jacob down for his nap. Three weeks had made more
difference than I could have believed possible.
She was in one of the rooms outfitted with a sliding glass door, and
a marker-written list of regulations labeled "Before You Enter". I put
on the yellow smock, mask, and bonnet given to me by a stern senior
nurse, and headed into the dimly-lit space. She'd explained why Jenny's
condition had gone downhill, but I wasn't really listening. My stomach
hurt, and my ears were pounding.
There were needles and tubes everywhere on her little body, and the
pink circles that usually framed her smile were gone, replaced by pale,
flaky skin. It was Jenny, but her eyes were shut tight; she didn't
greet me at all. I was allowed to hold her, but I was nervous to
navigate all the feeding apparatus and IV drips. I'm glad she wasn't
awake, because the look on my face might have made her cry; it was more
indignation than anything, brewing deep in my mind.
What the hell had happened? I couldn't believe it -- that this baby
was the one I'd bee-lined for every week, the one that was always about
to go home. When my friend came to collect me, he could see that I was
upset, but he let me be. I was not one to voice sadness, and I hadn't
really managed to process what I'd seen yet, anyway.
Babies had died between my visits before. I'd always gotten choked
up, but there would quickly be another one that needed me -- I'd have
to put aside feeling sorry for myself. Why was this any different?
I came back twice a week from then on, finding rides to the CH, and
staying longer than usual. Jenny's parents weren't there very often
anymore, having decided, as one of the nurses told me, to "focus on the
boy for a while". I yelled about this on the phone to a friend, and she
shared my disdain. How could you not be there every minute?
But my mother urged compassion, as always. How did I know what they
were going through? Could I imagine for a second what they were
feeling? I'd mumble agreement, then hang up and damn them in my heart.
My 18 year-old soul was all black and white, and it had no room for
grieving parents.
She still wasn't responsive at all, even after I'd been back a few
weeks. I'd rock her and talk to her just the same, waiting for the
movieland moment when she would open her pretty eyes and drink me in. I
really believed things would improve, despite the fact that no one had
ever indicated to me that positive change was possible for this little
one.
They would just tell me what a "good thing" it was that I was doing,
and smile sadly when they closed the sliding door on Jenny and I,
sitting in the chair. I sang my way through the whole Beatles catalog
(this is what I do), and into Simon and Garfunkel (babies dig sixties
folk-pop, it's a proven fact):
I hear the drizzle of the rain
Like a memory it falls
Soft and warm continuing
Tapping on my roof and walls
My mind's distracted and confused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
Kiss you when you start the day
And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There before the grace of you go I.
Jenny didn't wake up, but I kept going. Maybe my endless singing
would bug her so much she would cry. But she slept on, breathing in
fits and starts, quiet in the midst of beeping machines, soft noises
beyond the glass, and my shaking voice.
One Wednesday, I came in, and headed anxiously for her room. She was
there, silent, impossibly still. I went to get on the yellow scrubs,
since I now knew where they were kept without asking. As I slid back
the door, I heard one of the nurses greet me. I didn't even respond; I
just headed over and picked her up.
The audacity of my feelings of ownership are obvious to me now, but
they seemed righteous, at the time. I sat down to rock her, thinking of
a song, and cooing softly to her little face.
April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again.
June, she'll change her tune,
In restless walks she'll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.
August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I'll remember
A love once new has now grown old.
I don't know if the words were audible, this time...just whispers,
sometimes moans. I was blinking furiously, and smiling with abject
determination beneath my mask. One of the nurses came in to check on
us, and she reached and pulled down the yellow cloth from over my face,
so my trembling lips were in view.
"It's okay, " she said. "Let her see you sing." She left us alone again. And then the song was gone.
Instead my noises became a prayer, a prayer of two angry words, uttered over and over. Nothing else came into my head.
"Please, Jesus. Please, Jesus." I don't know what that meant. It may
have been a request for mercy, or an incredulous query of some sort.
But I must have said it a hundred times, adjusting her blankets,
watching tiny dots appear, falling wet from my face.
I kept glancing up at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. Then my eyes grew too blurry to see.
My friend knocked gently on the glass door that it was time to go.
When I set Jenny back in her bed after a few moments, I told her I
would be back, that she was beautiful, and that things would be fine.
According to the nurses, she died a few hours later.
I don't believe that babies become angels when they go to
Heaven...it doesn't make sense. It's a typically lame Hallmark idea
that I cannot abide. The work of an angel seems to be that of protector
and servant, and I don't see God burdening little ones with such a job,
no matter what we adults want to believe. I think babies just get to
smile at everyone, to lie in warm arms, and to hear songs that send
them to good, good rest.
11:52:32 PM 
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