by Heidi Willis
I decide on the front doors 'cause I figure no helicopter is getting in those ER doors, and I don't see no landing pad in the parking lot. By the time I get in the lobby, I'm soaked with perspiration from the humidity and heat. Honestly, even though I'm here for my daughter and can barely think about anything but those helo folks zapping her with those charging paddles, the lobby takes my breath away. The AC is blasting, for one, which is a godsend, but nearly sends my system into shock. The entire inside is made of stone, and the ceiling is so high it might reach heaven. It's bright and light and filled with mosaics and art and glass displays. The waiting area's bigger than the entire maternity ward back home, and the chairs are the good kind, with the padded seats and backs and armrests, instead of those metal and plastic ones in ours. A few people are sitting in them, reading newspapers or writing on clipboards, and at first it seems so calm it's freaky.
Then a man comes blasting through the door behind me, fairly knocking me over, a gauze bandage wrapped around his head and fresh blood oozing through it. He brushes past me to the circle desk and begins making a scene that echoes against the rock walls. He's yelling about his kid and an ambulance and some people look up, but most ignore him. Soon the lady at the desk points him towards a hallway and he disappears down it.
He reminds me of the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland, which fits because suddenly I feel I've been dropped down a rabbit hole.
"Can I help you?" The lady at the desk is calling across the room to me. Embarrassed, I dart across the hall before more eyes start looking up.
"I'm looking for my daughter. Her name is Ashley Babcock. They were going to fly her in by helicopter." The words rush out before I can collect myself. Now, I'm just a blabbering idiot.
She gives me a clipboard with a stack of papers and a pen. "We'll need you to fill these out," she says to me, her enormous bosom catching the sweat that is dripping down her neck, even though it's cold as the arctic in here. "You have insurance, right?"
I nod and bite my tongue because my tongue has a way of getting me in trouble in situations like this. I wonder if I didn't have insurance, if Ashley would be left in the hallway to die. I think about the fund-raising table for Saint Jude's in the mall that I always cross sides to avoid. I vow to donate the next time I go.
I hunt through my purse to find the plastic card. I can't remember the last time I used it, so I hope it's here. She shoos me away from the desk saying, "Just bring it when you finish the forms, honey."
I start to take a seat and then go back and ask, "Is my daughter here yet? She came by Life Flight."
"What's her name again?"
"Ashley Babcock."
There's a lull while she clicks the mouse next to the computer a few times. "Hmm. . . looks like they took her to PICU." At my blank stare she adds, "Pediatric Intensive Care Unit." I must look stricken because she reaches out across the desk to pat my hands, which is a tremendous effort getting them past that bosom and equally large stomach and over the desk. "She'll be okay, honey. The doctors here are the best. Ashley is in great hands. It will probably be a while before you can see her, though. They need to get her settled in a room, maybe run tests. Why don't you finish the paperwork so we can get her completely checked in, and then I'll find someone to show you where she is."
I nod and take the clipboard to a chair by a window.
There must be ten pages front and back, all full of tiny lines and tiny boxes and tiny print, and my head hurts just looking at it. I fill out Ashley's name and birth date and a bit of medical history, which isn't much because she's always been a healthy child and comes from a pretty healthy family, breakfasts not withstanding. Some of the insurance questions I can fill out from my card but other information I don't know, so I leave it blank. I hurry through it mostly so I can find Ashley but even hurrying, it must take twenty minutes. If I'd thought getting here would mean sitting alone doing paperwork, I'd've sent Travis and picked up Logan myself.
When I get up to return the stack, a different girl is sitting behind the desk, a young, pretty thing, a mountain of file folders a mile high in front of her. "It takes a lot of paperwork to get someone healthy, don't it?" I say, handing over the clipboard and pen. I think she might be sympathetic. She smiles at me as she takes the papers and looks through them.
"I filled out everything I could. Do you think I could find my daughter now? They medevaced her in a while ago."
She asks her name, types it into the computer, and pulls out a map of the hospital from a file drawer under the desk.
"You are here," she says, circling the open space on the map that is shaded pink. "Ashley is here." She circles a purple section marked PICU on a different floor. I like how the people who work here call Ashley by her name, like she is a friend, or someone who matters. "You take these elevators here and walk this way. Here," she marks an X, "is the nurse's station. Ask there for the room she's in. They may not let you in right away. They're pretty strict up there about visitors and how many people go in and out of the rooms." She hands me the map but doesn't let go right away. "Are you alone? Is this your first visit here?"
Her eyes are sympathetic. I'd thought the sympathy would be for the paperwork. Turns out it's for me. "My husband's on his way."
She takes back the map and circles three more places. "Here is the cafeteria. The food is pretty good. And here's what's called the Family Resource Center. They have great reference materials that can help you understand anything the doctor's don't tell you, or that you're afraid to ask. They also have books and CDs you can check out. Ashley, too, if she's up for reading or listening. Lots of parents pass through there, so it's a great place to meet people, too."
She hands it back to me, and I point at the third circle. "What's this one?"
"That's the Ronald McDonald house. I don't know how long you'll have to stay. There are pull out beds in most of the rooms, but they can be really picky about that in PICU. They like to keep people to a minimum. If you need to be here for a few nights, check with getting a room there. It's within walking distance, and I know they have availability. A family just left yesterday."
I get the impression it wasn't a happy leaving, but I'm afraid to ask.
I say thanks and turn to go. I turn back. "Is everyone here as friendly as you?"
She smiles. "You'll find this is the friendliest place in Texas," she says. "And the loneliest."
I take a couple wrong turns before I get to the PICU. Some decorator tried real hard to make this place not look like a hospital, but it still smells like one. Ammonia and disinfectant. That smell of being too clean.
For a Children's Hospital, it seems awfully quiet to me. Creepy quiet. In the PICU I see only one person not in scrubs, and I think it's someone delivering flowers 'cause it don't look like they're visiting. They set the flowers on the nurses' station; the nurse waves without looking up and he leaves.
There are several nurses walking around, mostly pushing carts with bulky machines or carrying medical supplies. No one is talking, or laughing.
I'd walk right on through if I knew where Ashley was, pretending I belonged just in case they tell me I can't be here, but the nice lady downstairs didn't tell me the room number. How convenient.
"I'm looking for my daughter. Ashley Babcock. I was told she'd be here." I feel like I've said this a million times today.
Gray beehive-hairdo lady looks up. "Yes. She was brought in about forty-five minutes ago. Let me check to see if she can have visitors yet." She gets up to leave, and I step in front of her.
"I'm not trying to be trouble here, but I'm not a visitor. I'm her mom. And I want to see her now. Can you tell me what room she's in?"
I thought this might rattle her, but I underestimated the amount of times she must hear that 'cause she don't even blink.
"If you're not a patient, you're a visitor. I need to check first, to make sure she's stable. I'm sure you wouldn't want your visit to be harmful."
"I'm her mother."
&nbs
p; "Yes, well. . ." She trails off.
"Okay. Go check." I give in, since maybe this argument might last longer than just waiting would take. I look at my watch. I give her thirty seconds before I'll start poking my head in every door on the floor. I don't have to, though, because beehive nurse is back lickity-split and tells me I can follow her.
When I enter Ashley's room, I'm surprised to find only one nurse. Ashley is sitting up and her eyes are open, though tired.
"Hi Mama." She's quiet, but she doesn't seem afraid. I am afraid. Awake or not, she don't look good.
"Hi baby. Did you like your helicopter ride? That was something, wasn't it? How many girls in your class get to ride in a helicopter?" I try to pretend it was something special, that it's not because she's on death's doorstep that she traveled by medevac. My voice sounds fake cheery, but Ashley plays along.
"It was louder than I thought it'd be. And bumpy." She's still for a minute, and I think she is falling asleep. Then she says, "Am I dying, Mama?"
"Lord a mercy, no! Don't go saying such a thing!" I look to the nurse for affirmation, and she gives it.
"You're going to be just fine, honey."
"The doctor says she has diabetes," I say, in case she don't know it and is just playing along with me, too.
"Lots of people have diabetes," she says, tucking in the blankets tighter around Ashley's legs. "If you take care of yourself and do what the doctor says, there's no reason you can't have as healthy a life as any of your friends." She looks out the doorway to the empty hall and then back to Ashley. "I can't say that to all my patients. There are lots of kids who come in here and don't ever go home, or have to keep coming back." She pats Ashley's legs. "But you can go home in a few days, you'll feel much better, and hopefully we won't have to see you back here."
I feel relieved by this.
She leaves and I sit next to the bed in an armchair. The room is nice. There is only one hospital bed, so I figure Ashley won't have to have a roommate, which also means no other nosy parents knowing our business. There's also a daybed here, which I think is awfully thoughtful since when I birthed Logan, Travis had to sleep upright on a chair. There's a desk in the corner with a small vase of fake flowers and a postcard telling us we have free wireless. A little closet and a bathroom are on the wall across from a large window that looks out over the courtyard. It's like a little apartment, I think, and then realize it probably is to some families here. And then I wonder how long we'll be here.
"So what else did I miss?" I ask, scooting the chair closer to the bed.
"They made me change clothes," Ashley says, motioning to the faded blue and white nightgown she is wearing.
I reach out and touch it. "It's soft, anyway." Softness has always been important to Ashley. Before she'd even take a shirt off the rack, she'd feel it. I'm glad; if they're going to make her wear a flappy, breeze-in-your-south-end gown, at least it's soft.
"They took lots of blood," Ashley says, holding out her arm that is already bruising. The IV from our home hospital is still in, clear liquid still dripping down the tube and disappearing into the back of her hand. I hold it up. It's a feather in my hands, and I realize how much weight she has lost. She's swallowed by the bed: a hummingbird in a squirrel's nest.
She lays her head back and closes her eyes. "I'm so tired."
"You can't go to sleep." I stand and shake her shoulder. "They said I have to keep you awake. Do you want water? I'll get you water."
I reach over her small body and ring the buzzer for the nurse, who comes almost immediately. "She wants to go to sleep. Can I give her water or something? Doctor Benton told me she could go into a coma if she sleeps."
The nurse, whose nametag reads "Betsy," reaches behind the bed and rolls out a tray with a pitcher of ice and a cup. "Here's some ice chips. They'll help her mouth. She's getting plenty of fluids through the IV, but if her blood sugar is high it might take a few days to stop feeling so thirsty all the time."
"Is that what's in the IV? Water?"
She opens Ashley's chart and glances over it. "We're giving her fluids and insulin, along with a few other supplements she's probably lost over the last few days due to the hyperglycemia. I'll check if your blood sugars are back from the lab yet. If it looks like they're going down, I think it's okay if she sleeps. We'll check her glucose levels every hour to make sure. The doctor should be back in a few minutes, too, and he'll have more information for you."
She smiles at Ashley, laying her hand on her head. "Is this all wearing you out, sweetie?" Ashley nods. "Then you go ahead and rest. I'll bet your mom won't leave your side." She looks at me and I nod, moving the chair closer to the bed so I can hold Ashley's hand. Ashley lets her eyes close, and the nurse leaves.
I lay my head on the bed next to her arm and listen to her breathing in and out, shallow breaths punctuated by rhythmic sighs, until I know she's asleep. I try to pray again, but praying has never come easy. "Thank you for letting her live," I say. Then, thinking about what the nurse said, I add, "Thanks that it isn't cancer." I consider praying something about what she does have, but I don't really understand what it is, so I stop there. I realize the adrenaline that has rushed through me since the minute I saw Ashley go down on the driveway has begun to ebb, and I'm exhausted.
Suddenly Travis is patting my arm. "Wake up, Babs."
I'm groggy. I feel like I've been asleep for hours, but when I look at the clock only twenty minutes has passed. Ashley is asleep, and I see the alarm on Travis's face.
"She's just asleep. The nurse said it's okay." I wonder if the same desperation I see in his eyes is echoed in mine. Other couples might reach out and hold each other at times like this, but we've never been that kind of clingy, so we stand in our spaces, each worried but too stubborn to say it.
He's changed from his work overalls to jeans and a polo shirt, which is about as fancy as he gets. I notice for the first time his hair is getting gray around the temples and small lines are forming around his eyes, which look old right now. I wonder if he's aged all this today.
"Where's Logan?" I say, and then he shows up in the doorway. Something flickers in his eyes when he sees his sister and disappears just as quickly behind the usual glaze. I don't know why I keep expecting the same kid I raised to show up when I call his name, but he hasn't been that kid since seventh grade, and it still takes me a moment to recognize him, especially since I barely see him these days. He is taller than Travis or me, passing his dad's six-foot mark his sophomore year, and not a pound heavier than a twig. His hair is shaved on the sides and the resulting Mohawk is died pink on the ends and stands straight up. Last month it was green. He knows I hate it, which is why he does it.
"What's wrong with her?" He tries to be casual, but I hear the fear.
"She's fine. She's just asleep."
"Don't be obtuse, Mom. She's in a hospital. She's not fine."
I hate when he uses words like obtuse. He knows I don't know them. I've taken to sneaking his SAT vocabulary book when he's at school just to keep from appearing stupid.
"I told you," Travis says, in an effort to smooth the ruffled feathers. "She has diabetes."
"What's that mean, though?"
"It means her body isn't making any insulin, and sugar is building up in her blood," I say, one-upping Logan in this stupid game we play where I am no longer the adult. "She's got the type 1 kind, not the fat people kind," I add.
"Obviously," he retorts. "She's not fat." I feel like sticking my tongue out at him, but I resist because I am the adult, even if I don't know more words than him.
"Truce," Travis says, placing his large, square body between us. He turns to me. "What did the doctors say?"
"I haven't seen one yet. I spent the first half hour filling out paperwork. When I finally got up here, she was already done with the labs. A doctor is supposed to come back when the test results are in."
"And they are," says Dr. Benton, joining us in what is quickly becoming a crowded room.
/> "What are you doing here?" I ask, surprised.
"I have privileges here. I did my internship in pediatrics here, and I've kept the ties. I called from the hospital and asked if I could come work with Ashley since you live in my town. That way, we can be consistent with treatment, here and at home."
I'm so thankful and relieved I could kiss him. "Let me have the nurse bring in another chair or two, and we can sit down and talk about what's going on with your daughter."
He leaves and Logan slouches over to the daybed and sprawls out, turning the TV on with the remote that's attached to Ashley's bed. I snatch it and turn it off. "Do you mind?"
"Actually, I do," he says. "If you're going to drag me away from school, the least you can do is let me entertain myself."
"This is not about entertaining," I hiss, because the door is still open, and I can't very well shout with a dozen doctors and nurses lurking in the hall. "This is about your sister, who nearly died today. And since when did you care about school?"
"Yeah, well you said she's fine." He yawns and scrunches the pillow behind him.
Travis clears his throat, and I throw him a "stay out of this" look when I see him looking at Ashley. I turn as Ashley's eyes flutter open.
"Daddy!" Her voice is gravely but cheerful, and I'm jealous of the warmth she shows him that I didn't get. For goodness sakes, she threw up on me, and he's the one who gets the smile.
He leans over to kiss her on the cheek. "How's my chickadee?"
"A little better," she says, and Travis and me laugh because this has been her standard answer after being sick since she was three. "I like your hair, Logan. That pink looks good on you."
"It's been pink a week now. Nice you finally noticed."