We parked and ran to the ambulance where they were unloading our boy. We strode into the hospital behind Errol and his litter of attendants. As we approached the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) we stopped just long enough so that Errol's grandparents, uncles, and aunts could meet him. We were terrified that it might be their only meeting. We had no idea what Errol's problem was, but we knew it was dire.
They wheeled Errol back into the NICU and asked us to wait for the pediatric cardiologist who would talk to us about his fate. I was imagining the worst possible diagnosis (two days to live, hopeless case, vegetable for life, no chance, say goodbye) and was nervous as a cat as we waited for the doctor. The doctor arrived and ushered Cary and I into a consultation room. I was ready for the death sentence.
1 comment:
Dear Jonathan and Cary,
I cannot at all compare Natalya with Errol, but I will never forget the two weeks I sat in our laundry room with papers an inch thick that David had copied from the Science Library at UGA, trying to research what was wrong with Natalya. The doctors would not tell us any real details, and for me not knowing was worse than knowing something.
I chain-smoked one cigarette after another, the phone by my side waiting for it to ring with news. After much reading I learned that what they were testing her for was worse than cancer. I wondered if she would ever climb a tree, kiss a boy, or even if she would live - or if she did live, would we wish she could die? The possibility of a never-ending production of tumors made me really scared.
Love, Marigene
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