As soon as we got to the Neo-natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU-everything has an acronym at the hospital) they wheeled The Little Man (TLM) back to stabilize him and prepare him for who knew what. We were told to stay in the waiting room while the doctors and nurses worked on our boy and that we’d be called back to see our son in a while (the first of many excruciating whiles). It was around 11:00 p.m. and Errol was about nine hours old. Our families were all there (mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters-seven in all) with food and drinks for us, serious looks, and guarded optimism (which they were wise to keep quiet about). There are many heroes in Errol’s life story, and after The Little Man himself, chief amongst them is Cary. Stoic Cary had been awake for two days, in labor for twelve hours, delivered a nine pound son (that’s the size of a watermelon, folks) without a drop of medicine, hoofed it over to the hospital, grieved over her new son, and all without a bite to eat, and nary a complaint. Think about that the next time you are griping about the copy machine not working or the price of gas going through the roof.
We tried to sit down and eat something during this horrible intermission. I kept pacing around and looking at the clock. Our families tried to be upbeat without being too upbeat (it’s a delicate balance when a life’s in the balance). Finally, a resident came out and ushered us into a consulting room. They usually try to prepare you for bad news so that you have a moment to imagine the horrible before you get the knock out punch. I figured she was softening us up for the real doctor who would give us a real battering. The resident told us that we would see a pediatric cardiologist in a minute who would have a diagnosis for us. We didn’t know what we were dealing with (bad heart, bad lungs, bad nervous system, slow start?) so we asked some general questions, to which she gave us some general answers. Then she hustled back to the NICU and told us that the doctor would see us soon.
I was feeling frantic and more than just a little bit guilty for bringing a child into such a painful world (it’s hard enough when you have good health). I was feeling grim. Things must be dire or they wouldn’t send in a highly specialized doctor at midnight. I wasn’t sure if Errol was going to live through the night.
As we pondered all the possibilities we were called back to the NICU. Before we could see our baby or the doctor we had to go through a very strict washing protocol. Under supervision, we took off our rings and scrubbed with surgical soap and hot water up to our elbows. Then, without touching anything, we dried our hands (there isn’t a whole lot of handshaking going on in the NICU). The room was bright (but not cheerful) and full of constant beeps and bings. It was divided into pods, each crowded with very sick babies. We were escorted toward Errol who looked wan and tiny in his hospital bed. He was full of IV lines, tubes, and was attached to a breathing machine. We cried and cried and touched him gingerly, taking care not to unplug him from the machines.
We met Errol’s nurse (each nurse has an average of two babies) and then the doctor walked over. Dr. Cnota held our future in his hands. He was about to tell us the most important news I would get in my whole life. He began by drawing a diagram of the heart. He explained that he had already seen slides they had taken of Errol (they don’t mess around in the NICU), and that his right ventricle had not formed (this sounded bad, but in the haze I was in, I couldn’t tell a heart from an apple, and I certainly couldn’t remember what the right ventricle did). I nodded. Dr. Cnota explained that Errol had a serious heart defect called pulmonary atresia (there is a link to a web site with information about this heart defect on the links list to the top and right of this screen). He drew a diagram of a normal heart and then one of Errol’s. The comparison didn’t look good for Errol. We listened to all the details trying to catch some hope in the web of anatomical data, but it sounded dire. Finally I stopped Dr. Cnota and said, “Doctor, this doesn’t sound good. Is he going to make it? Is there anything you can do?”
Dr. Cnota turned to me and gave me a confident smile I wasn’t expecting. “Oh yeah," he said. "We’ll take care of this.”
After ten hours, I exhaled. “He’s going to live?” I asked.
“We have a surgery for this. You’ll meet Dr. Hines in the morning. He’ll fix this. He does it all the time.”
I couldn’t believe it. Our baby, on the edge of death, wasn’t going to die tonight, maybe not tomorrow. I felt like I had just received a stay of execution. I cried. Cary cried. The doctor didn’t cry. We held each other (just Cary and me). By the time we left Dr. Cnota and touched Errol goodbye (we couldn’t hold him) it was 3:00 am. We had to be back to meet the surgeon in about four hours. We were drained and exhausted and we had just begun the race, but Errol was alive.
1 comment:
Oh. Reading this is a mercy. It takes me back and illumines that night of nights. How can you do this? I am crying and laughing at once. You have the perfect pitch. It is a remarkable account of a remarkable night. I can't imagine being more privileged than reading this account of what you and Cary were feeling as we so carefully watched with and over you, as you say, carefully balancing our responses.
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