K. Randis - Spilled Milk

“Dad? Can I go to the hospital?”

He shifted the glasses on his face. “Well, I um, I’d really rather you didn’t.”

I locked eyes with Grandma and pleaded with her. She shook her head.

“David,” she started, “I think Adam and Brooke are old enough to make this decision, and I think, considering the circumstances, that if they feel they need to go… then they should.”

Grandma was afraid that if Mom died I would need to say goodbye. Dad was afraid that if mom was on her death bed, I would make it a point to tell her everything. Absolutely everything. They were both right.

He shifted his weight and looked down at his watch. My aunts and uncles nodded in agreement with Grandma and left him little choice. “Well, if you want to go.”

Dad insisted I ride with him, Adam and Grandma. “Dad, I don’t want to ask, but…”

“You should.”

“What are the chances mom’s going to die?”

“Right now, about eighty five percent is what the doctor said.”

Dad hustled us down long hallways to a door marked Waiting Room . He waited until everyone was inside and looked at the packed room of family. “Who wants to go first?”

I wanted to scream out that I did, but I was scared. Since only two people were allowed in at a time with my dad, Grandma and Grandpa claimed the first visit. I settled into a leather chair instead. One unimpressive light buzzed overhead and nobody bothered to put on more lights. The soda machine hummed in one corner and I turned my nose up at the smell of latex that floated through the room. I hated that everyone sat in silence, heads hung low. It reminded me of a funeral home and we weren’t even there yet.

The door opened and Grandma needed help getting to a chair to sit down because she was crying so hard. My stomach twisted to see her like that because I had never seen her cry before. Adam remained motionless in one corner of the room and my stomach flipped every time the door opened and someone else came in from seeing her. Adam and I were next to go in.

“Now, before I take you in,” Dad said, “I want you to know that mom doesn’t look like herself. She’s very swollen because of all the medication.”

I’m not a child; I can handle this, stop talking to me like I don’t understand.

We pushed through the ICU doors and I tried to calm my heart. She was in the second room on the right and after shutting the door, Dad led us around a curtain.

I wish I hadn’t gone inside. I wish I never went into that room to see her like that. She was lying on the bed, motionless. This wasn’t my mom at all. Tubes emerged from her neck, mouth, nose, her hands… anywhere they could stick her. Her face was so swollen I didn’t recognize her and her skin and eyes sloshed off to the side. Her mouth was partially open, and a thick blue tube stuck out of it. A pump next to her bed pushed air in and out of her lungs.

I couldn’t see through my tears to make it over to her bedside so Adam took my hand and led me to her. I reached out for her hand, careful not to touch any I.V’s.

“Ohhhh,” I cried, and I couldn’t talk. An orchestra of monitors drowned out my sobs as I tried to make sense of the beeping and zig-zagging lines.

A doctor pushed past the curtain and whispered to my Dad for a minute before asking if Adam and I had any questions.

“Why won’t she wake up?” I asked, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

He looked at my dad. “We have to keep her sedated, sweetheart. It means asleep. We have to keep her asleep with medicine that way she can rest and heal. She would be in too much pain if she were awake.”

My Aunt Nikki arrived when Adam and I made our way into the waiting room. “I got on the first flight I could.” She hugged me briefly before being whisked away into the ICU. The afternoon went on like that. Family coming in and out, crying, falling asleep in the stiff leather seats in the waiting room, and then doing it all over again.

“Dad, can I see the baby?” I asked.

He shook his head and we walked down to the NICU where he was staying. I had never seen a baby so fragile looking and he had just as many tubes sticking out of his skin as mom did. ‘BOY NOLAN’ was printed on the side of his bassinet. A nurse appeared and asked my dad if he knew the name yet. He rubbed his chin and turned to walk out of the room. “I don’t care. Brooke, you name it.”

I looked at him to make sure I had heard right and when I looked at the nurse she was smiling at me, pen poised waiting to write down a name. Mom and I talked about a few names here and there but nothing really jumped out at us.

“Ethan,” I said. “His name will be Ethan.”

Sometime after six someone mentioned something about a shower and food and it seemed like a good idea, so a few of us packed into cars and made our way back to the house. Uncle Bruce started up the grill and I passed out on the couch. I didn’t realize I slept so late and when I woke up dinner was over and everyone was hustling to get back to the hospital. Mentally exhausted, I stayed behind with Aunt Nikki.

The crying and running around didn’t stop for weeks. My aunts and uncles took turns feeding the kids, keeping us entertained and visiting the hospital. Aunt Jean came home with news that the respirator had come out.

Not even two days later Uncle Jake walked into the waiting room where everyone was sitting with a smile. “Well, she’s awake. She must be feeling better because she’s cursing at the doctor and asking for a cigarette.”

I wanted to see her right away so I was led back into her room. Mom’s eyes were slits of space, but she was awake. I needed to see her awake with my own eyes. My instinct was to breakdown and cry and scream but I couldn’t and I found myself slumped over the rail of her bed pressing my face into her shoulder.

She seemed out of it, and kept crying out over tubes that were coming from her groin area. When they started to wean her off the drugs she realized who I was for the first time and broke down crying. She was propped up on a pillow and was able to get her arms around me for the first time in over a month.

I fell back into a chair that was sitting next to her bed and sighed. A doctor came in briefly and mentioned something about a lung surgery to clear up an infection she had from being laid up so long. They scheduled it for two weeks later when they felt she would be strong enough to withstand the anesthesia. The doctor shook his head at my mom. “I don’t know how you’re alive, never mind awake and talking. What a miracle.”

Dad looked at me while he held Mom’s hand. He winked.

I felt defeated. There were ample opportunities to talk to one of my aunts these past couple of weeks and I didn’t. I didn’t think it would be fair to Mom. She was the one suffering and trying to get better. My family was in turmoil, an emotional mess, the last thing I wanted to do to them was ask them to deal with another crisis. I felt like the timing would never be right.

I pushed those thoughts to the back of my head as Mom reached out and motioned for me to take her hand. Her hand encased mine and I brought her hand up to my lips. “Welcome back, Mom.”

I thought it was a miracle baby Ethan was born in the beginning of summer. Mom eventually came home with visiting nurses that stopped by once or twice a week. Dad returned to his normal work schedule and most of the family that had been staying with us was long gone. The majority of Ethan’s care became my responsibility.

The first night Ethan was home I got up every two hours to feed and change him. Dad wanted little to do with him, mom couldn’t, and my other siblings didn’t want the responsibility. In a little over a month I was a diaper guru and bottle warmer extraordinaire. It was impossible to situate him on my non-existent hips while I cooked dinner, but I could bathe, change and clothe him before he realized he hit the water.