Ten Days

by Janet Gilsdorf

  “Eddie,” she whispered again. “You made it.” She lifted him from the crib and lowered herself into the rocking chair. The IV tubing looped over her shoulder; she curled it in her lap so it wouldn’t pull from his arm.

  This was not unlike the very first time she held him. The uncertainty, the caution, the apprehension were the same. Then his tiny face, now pale and waxy, was red and wrinkled. “You’re a new little person, with the big, wide world ahead of you,” she had said to her newborn son. Now he had traveled a very bumpy road and was, once again, a new person. She had wondered back then what kind of child he would become, what secrets—and interests, and talents, and habits—would unfurl from him and bloom as he grew up. Would he be lively? Sedate? An artist? A scientist? Adaptable? Committed to routine? Curious? Dull? No, not dull. She knew she wouldn’t have a dull child.

  Now, looking into his quiet face, she wondered the same things. What would he be like after all this?

  He seemed lighter than she remembered, as buoyant as a hollow-boned lark. He lay still on her lap, his head nestled into the crook of her left elbow. He didn’t squirm against her as he used to, didn’t nuzzle into her breast, now dry from not nursing him for more than a week. Should she start nursing him again? She closed her eyes and shook her head. So many things to figure out.

  “Hi. Anna?” The voice sounded tentative.

  She opened her eyes and looked into the massive garden of cut flowers that filled the doorway of Eddie’s room. “Yes?”

  “Are you awake? I don’t want to bother you if you’re sleeping,” said the voice. The flowers moved through the doorway, followed by Elizabeth.

  “Where’d you get those?” Anna asked. “They’re huge . . . and beautiful.”

  “Gilroy’s. Since they wouldn’t let you have flowers in the ICU, I decided to make up for it now. Aren’t they lovely?”

  Anna agreed. White and maroon oriental lilies. Dusty yellow mums. Sprays of laurel leaves and plum-colored rosebuds just beginning to open. Three branches of contorted hazel twisted like corkscrews from the top of the vase.

  “Where do you want them?” Elizabeth turned 180 degrees as she surveyed the room. “How about on this thing here?” She set them on the tray table.

  “They’re amazing. Are little animals hidden in there?”

  “I hope not,” Elizabeth said.

  She felt Elizabeth’s arm slide around her shoulders.

  Elizabeth kept talking. “It’s good to see you make a joke. What’s that loveable bundle in your arms?”

  She felt her face relax into a smile. “That’s my son, Edward. He just graduated from the ICU.”

  “Congratulations, Sir Edward.” Elizabeth spoke in her most formal voice. She reached for Eddie’s right hand and gave it a gentle shake.

  Eddie’s new room had a real bed. At least a better bed than the lounge chair in the ICU waiting room. She stretched out on the narrow mattress and stared at the ceiling, at nothing in particular. The room also had a phone. No more standing in the telephone closet where everyone in the waiting room could overhear the conversation. It was like playing house. A place of her own.

  Elizabeth had told her about her class, about how much the students missed her, how worried they were about her and Eddie. Elizabeth had brought a stack of letters written by her students—in English.

  Mis Campbell. I hop youre son gets better real soon. Sinserly, Ming.

  Dear Mrs. Campbell; We miss you a lot. Please come back now.

  I hope your baby will come home from the hospital.

  Love, Consuella.

  The letters had been a moment from her real life, a step through the clouds of the past week. It felt as if she might be moving back to the real Anna, afloat on a raft edging toward the shore, toward the safety and comfort and familiarity of a dock whose posts were solidly sunk in the lake bottom.

  A doctor walked into the room and introduced herself. “Hello, Mrs. Campbell. I’m Ruby Sherman, one of the third-year residents.”

  She had seen her before. Was it in the ER? In the ICU? She couldn’t remember but she recognized the scar. Harelip. Bilateral. She listened carefully to the doctor’s speech, heard the minimal nasality. It was a good cosmetic repair with excellent palatal function.

  “I’ve been reviewing Eddie’s hospital records and trying to sort out what’s next,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, what is next?” Anna asked.

  “We generally treat Strep pneumo meningitis for ten days and Eddie’s ten days are up tonight. That means we need to start thinking about discharge.”

  She caught her breath. Discharge. Going home. With Eddie. So soon. Too soon?

  “Before he leaves, we’ll need to test his hearing and be sure he feeds well. As you know, he’s had a serious infection and we can’t predict exactly how things will go for him.”

  “How about testing his vision?” She felt herself begging. “Do you think he can see?” This doctor had had a cleft-lip repair, had been a patient herself as a little girl. She would make sure Eddie could see. And hear. And be normal in every way.

  “Yes, we’ll do both VERs and BAERs—um, that’s the vision and hearing testing we do with babies. And he needs to stay on an antibiotic a little longer to complete treatment of his urinary tract infection. We’ll use cipro. We can give it by mouth as soon as he can swallow. Are you planning to return to nursing him? Have you maintained your milk? Has he tried nursing since he’s been extubated?”

  The doctor slipped on a latex glove and stuck a rubber finger into Eddie’s mouth. He didn’t move. She pulled out her finger and touched each corner of his lips. “Well, he’s not sucking very well yet. You can try to breast feed him if you’d like, but we’ll have the nurses give him tube feedings for a while.”

  “He sucked for me.” Anna scrambled to the crib. “Really, he did. Here, watch.”

  She stuck her finger between Eddie’s lips. His tongue brushed against the tip of her finger, but he didn’t suck. She moved her finger inside his mouth. Still no sucking.

  “Well, maybe he’s tired. Honestly, he sucked on my finger a few minutes ago.”

  Her shriveled breasts were limp inside the cups of her bra. He couldn’t suck? Couldn’t nurse? He was only six months old. He needed her milk for a while longer. She remembered weaning Chris, remembered the day she gave him the sippy cup. At first he waved it around his head and then flung it to the floor, watching in fascination as it rolled across the linoleum, a trail of milk in its wake. Eventually he came to understand it was fun to drink from the cup. After that, he nursed less and less, sometimes picking up the pace of nursing again when he was sick or hurt. Then he stopped. Just quit—refused to put her nipple in his mouth ever again. It would be different with Eddie. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. Eddie would be different.

  Just as the nurse pulled the plastic tube out of its paper sheath, Jake walked into Eddie’s room.

  “Dr. Campbell,” the nurse said. “We’re having a lesson here. Mrs. Campbell’s learning how to insert the feeding tube.”

  “They want to send him home,” Anna said.

  “Great,” Jake said.

  “Eddie’s a little lazy with sucking, so we’re going to continue the tube feeds until his suck gets stronger. Mrs. Campbell is learning how to insert it, so at home she can do it herself. I demonstrated what to do and now it’s her turn.”

  “I don’t think I can do that. I can’t stick a tube into my baby’s nose.”

  “Sure you can, honey. The nurse will teach you how.”

  She held the tube while the nurse positioned Eddie’s head. She set the tube’s tip inside his left nostril. It fell back out again. “See, I can’t do it.”

  “Here, let me help you.” Jake held her hand while she tried to insert the tube again.

  His fingers gripped hers. His sense of confidence steadied her hand, made her less afraid. She glanced at his face. His even, kind eyes told her he wanted to make this as easy for her as possible.


  “Hold it steady . . .” he said. “Make it a fluid motion . . . Flex your wrist and let the tube slide into his nose. Remember, his nasal cavity is shaped like a comma so the tube will follow the arc of the comma.”

  The tube did what he said it would do, slid into his nose easily. It worked well with Jake’s help. She wasn’t at all sure she could do it without him.

  He moved her hand forward while the tube went deeper inside Eddie’s nose. Eddie shook his head against the nurse’s hand and sneezed. “There, you’ve got the gist of it. Try it yourself.”

  She did it again. By herself this time. Again the tube slid easily into Eddie’s nose.

  “Good. Keep threading it,” he said. “There, that’s far enough. To the blue mark on the tube.” He showed her how to pull back on the syringe, how to push air into Eddie’s stomach, how to listen for the air gurgles.

  When they finished, Jake hugged her. “Nice job. That was great.”

  She leaned into him, felt his warmth through her blouse. Would she get through the rest of this?

  Chapter 34

  Jake

  Eddie was about to be discharged from the hospital. That meant Anna’s parents would return to Baltimore, and the four of them—Anna, himself, Chris, Eddie—would be together again at home. He and Chris would play horse and rider or read kid books, as before. Chris would build LEGO towns, would learn to put his right cowboy boot on his right foot and the left on the left. Eddie would be a baby, whatever kind of baby he was now destined to be.

  He sipped his coffee, room temperature and scum coated after sitting near his elbow for a half hour. Anna had paged him. He downed the last swallow and dialed the number to Eddie’s room.

  Anna’s words quivered as she explained that Ruby had written Eddie’s discharge orders. “I don’t think he’s ready to go home.”

  “Ruby knows what she’s doing. She’s a great pediatrician.” What worried Anna now? “Maybe you’re not ready for him to go, but Eddie’s ready.” She should be thrilled their baby was well enough to leave the hospital. It was her pathologic worry rearing its nervous head, again. He could understand her fears while their baby was so terribly sick, but now Eddie was stable and ready to leave.

  He was irritated by Anna’s sigh, a long, quiet inhalation followed by a louder, exasperated exhalation that blew like a blast of anxious wind through the phone. She would have struck her dug-in posture; if he were in Eddie’s room right now, he would see her lips pressed into a line across the bottom of her face, would see her rigid back and straight shoulders, her elevated chin.

  “Look, Anna, it’s great that Eddie’s being discharged. I’ll arrange someone to cover for me so I can drive you home. Start packing. It’ll take about an hour for the discharge paperwork to run through the system.”

  “He’s not ready to go home.”

  “Sure he is. You’ll see.”

  With that, he said good-bye and set the receiver on the phone console. Eddie’s discharge meant they could return to their old way of living. Except, of course, it wouldn’t be as it had been. It would never be as it had been.

  Outside, the noontime sun was tucked behind the clouds; fingers of light struggled to shine through but, in the end, failed as they drowned in the mist. Beneath the blurry sun, buds on the maple tree swayed in the breeze. As he watched, one branch stuttered as it moved. A squirrel? A bird? No . . . Something was odd about the way those twigs flitted. He blinked. Maybe a fleck of dust had blurred his vision. He blinked again. No change. He closed one eye and then closed the other. Still no change. He looked closer at the jerky branch and then spotted it—a warble in the glass, a defect in its surface.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Betsy Bloom looked up from across the table. Those were her Monica eyes, slate blue with yellow dots sprinkled over the irises as if dusted with powdered gold. “That’s what?” she asked.

  He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “A warble in the glass.”

  “Huh?” she asked.

  Now he understood. Eddie being sick, Anna being nuts, Betsy being Monica. Through it all, he had stood outside and looked in at the world through the rippled glass of a disfigured window.

  He still hadn’t mentioned the Monica visit to Anna, still thought she didn’t need to know. She might not want to know. Monica was over. And nothing of significance had happened.

  Eddie’s hospital room seemed like a party—bouquets of flowers covered every horizontal surface, fuchsia and violet blooms sagged from potted plants, stuffed monkeys and fuzzy bears peeked from behind the foliage, helium balloons bobbed in the air currents.

  He stood in the doorway, incredulous. “Anna,” he said. “You aren’t packed.”

  She was slumped in a chair, her back toward him. He couldn’t see her face.

  “Are you going to leave all this stuff here? We need to hit the road.” He set one foot into the room. “I’ve arranged for Martin to cover for me while I drive you and Eddie home.”

  Slowly, she turned. First her hips, then her shoulders, and finally her face moved toward him. Her cheeks were blotchy, her eyes pink and puffy. Her lips quivered like raspberry Jell-O.

  “We can’t go home,” she sobbed, her voice a whisper.

  He crossed the room and hugged her. “Why not?” Maybe his touch would hurry her along.

  “I can’t take care of him at home. He gurgles and chokes when he breathes. He’s going to gag and stop breathing and we don’t have the suction machine to clear it out.” She was breathless, as if, in listing her worries, she was running a race she could never win. “We can’t put the breathing tube back in him at home. We don’t have a ventilator.”

  What’s wrong with her? he wondered. He didn’t have time for all this. Martin could cover for only two hours.

  “Anna, we have to get going.”

  He watched her shoulders tremble as she turned back toward Eddie. While she sobbed, he could see, through her thin, white T-shirt, the outline of her bra. It was dark—black or navy blue. A fold of her skin bulged along the top of its elastic edges. Before, she would never have worn dark underwear beneath a see-through shirt. He liked her as she had been—coordinated, unjarring, easy on the eye. Would the capable, organized, well-put-together wife he used to have return?

  Now she seemed utterly helpless. And yet . . . He stared at the woman he thought he knew so well and thought of his patients, those with bone cancer or multiple fractures or new amputations. Sometimes they needed a buffer against the storm that roared around them, and they needed it from him. At least for a little while. Then, usually, they would rally and find the strength to do whatever had seemed totally overwhelming and impossible. Maybe she, too, needed some kind of protection. Maybe she, too, would rally.

  “Honey, you’ll do fine. Eddie will do fine. He’s a tough little guy who has come through a lot. We need to let him show us how well he will do at home.”

  She slouched in her chair like a lost kitten, weary and exhausted. He kneeled at her side. “I know you’re scared.” He took a deep breath. “Honey, I’m scared, too. We don’t know what’s ahead and that’s scary. But, we have to let Eddie prove himself. I know you can do it. And, I’m here to help you. We’ll get through the rest of this together, just as we got through the past ten days.”

  He stroked her hair and ran his fingers across her tear-stained cheek. “Do you want to keep these plants and things? If so, I’ll get a box from the trash bin.”

  She nodded and uttered a muffled sob. Then the room was quiet and she said, “That stuff is Eddie’s. He’ll probably want it at home.”

  He was loading the plants and flowers and plushy toy animals into a Pampers carton when Ruby walked into Eddie’s room.

  “Looks like you’re about to leave. Everything’s set.” She handed Anna a stack of papers. “Here’re your discharge instructions—if Eddie develops a fever or, God forbid, a seizure . . .” Her voice trailed off. Surely the young doctor saw the fear that darke
ned his wife’s eyes. “Basically, if you’re worried about anything, give us a call or talk to your regular pediatrician. Here’s the prescription for the cipro Eddie will take at home. It’s to finish treatment for his urinary tract infection. You can get it filled at your neighborhood drug store if you’d like—the pharmacy here takes hours to fill a script.

  “And this . . .” Ruby hesitated and then sat in a chair, her eyes level with Anna’s. “This’s another appointment for the vision and hearing assessments. The tests we did yesterday were inconclusive, so we want to repeat them in about a month.” She looked uneasy, avoided Anna’s stare. “You don’t want to delay that too long, because if, ultimately, they’re abnormal, we’ll want to get Eddie into a special educational program soon. The sooner the better.”

  Okay, he thought, Eddie didn’t pass either of them. Most likely he’s deaf and blind and they’ll need to confirm those results. He tapped his fingers against his breastbone, felt as if all the juices had been squeezed out of him.

  “Ruby,” he said. He glanced at Anna; her eyes were focused on the floor. “You can be honest with us. Eddie can’t hear and can’t see, right?”

  “Well,” Ruby began. Her upper lip, bearing the scars from her cleft repair, twitched as she spoke. “It’s not as simple as that. The testing couldn’t confirm that Eddie can hear or see. It really needs to be repeated. Definitely, children may have hearing deficits after meningitis that improve over time. That’s not as likely to happen with visual deficits.” She stopped, took a deep breath, and continued. “Look, Jake, I understand that waiting for the final results is tough. Real tough. But we simply can’t be absolutely sure yet.” She paused, then continued. “In the meanwhile, take him home and love him and talk to him and play with him, and we’ll continue our assessment over the next couple months.”