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Little Flower
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Little Flower |
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida 
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I sit by your bed. The hour grows late, and it is only now that I realize I can't remember when I last slept or ate. Not that it matters now. I can hear the soft shuffle of orthopedic shoes pass outside your door, quietly carrying their masters about their nightly duties. I hear a head peek in, nothing is said. A phone rings in the distance, at the nurses’ station I assume. “Pediatric Intensive Care Unit?” She answers; a statement more than a question, really. This is no place for asking questions, for in this place there is no time to ask questions. The soft beat of your tiny heart is amplified cruelly by a wheezing machine that sits next to your bed. There are no pictures on these stark white walls. The jaundice glare of the fluorescent lights reflect off the cold linoleum floor, hurting my tired swollen eyes. They keep this place just a little too cold; I can feel chill-bumps raise on my arms. The slow drip of the IV brings a life saving fluid into your small body, this fluid which was one of the things that almost took you away from me. My little flower, your petals crushed by this imperfect world. I find it easy to be angry, any reason I can find suits me well. While anger burns in my veins, guilt washes over me in waves not unlike nausea. My mind is a war zone of ‘what should have’ and ‘I needed to’. You look so tiny in that giant bed, made for an adult. It certainly wasn’t made for you, it is true injustice that you should inhabit it’s cold indifference. What pain does it have in it’s past? Your skin is so very pale, almost translucent. I can hear your steady breathing, and I am grateful for the sleep you are in. A true sleep this time, not the deep sleep of the coma you just came out of. The arm tied to the machines is laid carefully over your blanket, so as not to tangle any wires. I focus on this arm, this tiny once perfect little arm. I can feel the heat of my rage flood my face as my eyes move from the IV port to the black and purple bruises that run from it like a river. It is as if these bruises are the fluid coming from the IV instead of the insulin. All of your arms and legs are covered with these dreadful marks; the marks of the beginning of your new disease. I got you to the hospital just in time. Guilt is my companion as I remember the words spoken by the person in the white coat. He only said them in passing, but my already sensitive ears picked them up. “If only she would have been brought in an hour ago, her veins would not be collapsed. We would be able to get the port in her.” I relish in the memory of that statement. I open my arms to the guilt and pain that it brings. For now, it is my only repentance. I truly met your new doctor only thirty minutes ago, although we had been working side by side for the last 24 hours to save your life. He gave me words of explanation, encouragement, and things to come. You would be in the hospital for at least a week, but thankfully, out of the ICU in the morning. The initial terror had passed, we were on our way towards the true struggle. The learning of your new disease, and how to take care of you now. And hardest of all, how to explain why it happened to you. Truly, there is no real answer to that question. I sit in reflection of the last day, and how I came to sit here by your bed. It all seems so unreal, hazy even, remembering is like trying to remember a dream. Not 4 days ago, you were playing so happily outside. All bundled up in your new coat and hat, squealing in excitement at everything you saw. Your favorite being the brilliant color of October’s leaves lying on the ground. I still have the bouquet of them you picked, sitting in a vase of water on the dining room table. Two days ago, you woke up feeling bad. I could tell you were coming down with something, maybe the flu. I still can’t believe I thought it was the flu. And then yesterday when you woke up with a fever, and not an ounce of liveliness in you, I decided to take you to the doctor. It was at that dreadful office when my world shattered. “She has Diabetes, and she needs to go to the hospital right now.” “No, there’s no time to go home first, we’ll call ahead for you.” The drive to the hospital was a blur, not only due to the hurry that I was in but also because I cried all the way there. I cried for what you would have to endure, and because I couldn’t make it all better this time. Oh how I wanted to make the disease mine instead of yours! I swept you into my arms and into the hospital. We were rushed up to the pediatric ward, and amidst all the stuffed animals and gaily painted walls they performed tests on you. At first, the consensus was that you would stay there for a week, that we had caught it in time. It all changed when the test results came back. Your life was truly on the line. Up in the ‘special’ elevator we went, to the pediatric ICU. You were so lax in my arms, I could almost feel the life draining from you. I remember quite clearly asking God over and over again, “please don’t take her, please don’t take my baby away!” They let me put you on a bed, and talk to you while they tried to get an insulin IV going. Your veins had collapsed, and they were having so much trouble. I tried my best to shield you from their urgency, to hide from you the fear that was coursing through every part of my being. Only a month away from your third birthday, and not a scream did you let out at what they were doing to you. What happened next, tore my heart out completely. I was talking to you, trying to get you to look at me. And when you finally did, you let out a big sigh that was almost a moan and said “Mommy, no more pokes. Please mommy.” And then you were gone, you slipped quietly into a deep sleep, later to be described to me as a coma. Days went by, it seemed, and then finally they succeeded in providing your body with insulin. Alas, it was too much…it coursed through your veins too quickly. Your blood sugar dropped too low too fast, and your brain began to swell. Sugar was added to the IV, and then a true miracle happened. Right at the moment I was thinking ‘too little, too late’, and contemplating the horrid possibility that I might outlive my only child…you stabilized…and woke up. “Mommy, I tirsy.” The water, you drank with fervor. You so very sweetly handed me the cup, thanked me, and then fell asleep. A good sleep this time, one that you could wake up from. I sit by your bed. Watching your sleeping body. I know this is hardly the end of the trials ahead, but you are alive and doing better, and with that thought I am finally able to start on the road to understanding and healing. Both yours and my own. **My daughter Taylor is well and thriving now at the fruitful age of 5 (going on 25!). She has a better understanding of her disease, and has found great comfort in the other diabetic children she has come to know. The strength that she exhibits every single day inspires me, and makes me so very proud. [This message has been edited by Satiate (edited 07-27-99).] |
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| © Copyright 1999 Nicole Williams - All Rights Reserved | |||
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hoot_owl_rn Member Patricius
since 1999-07-05
Posts 10750Glen Hope, PA USA |
As a Registered Nurse and a mother...this story had a profound inpact on me. It was very well written and sometimes the view is quite different from the other side of the bed. God Bless you and your daughter both. ------------------ "Nobody has measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold" ~Zelda Fitzgerald |
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DreamEvil Member Elite
since 1999-06-22
Posts 2396 |
I'm glad that you chose to join us here with this piece. Well done and well said. Welcome to Passions in Prose.  ------------------ Shall I indulge in flights of fancy hampered by clipped wings? DreamEvil© |
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fjones Member
since 1999-06-07
Posts 98MS |
I am so glad your child is doing better! You posted a very good READ- Thanks for a very moving account of your painful experince. |
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida |
hoot_owl_rn: Thank you, sincerely, for your kind words. DreamEvil: Your welcom is very well received. Thank you for your kind words as well. fjones: She is doing much better now, and it does my heart good to know that. Thank you for reading my piece. |
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Ron
Administrator
Member Rara Avis
since 1999-05-19
Posts 8669Michigan, US |
It's terribly difficult to really effect the emotions in so few words. You - and your wonderful daughter - succeeded admirably. This is beautifully written, with an honesty that is rare. I truly hope to see more of your work soon. [This message has been edited by Ron (edited 07-28-99).] |
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida |
Ron, thank you very much! I have a couple of pieces in the works now, with hopes of posting them soon. |
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Balladeer
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-05
Posts 25505Ft. Lauderdale, Fl USA |
Satiate, this is truly a wonderful piece. I know of two people very lucky to have one another. Thank you very, very much for sharing you courageous story. |
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida |
Thank you Balladeer! Truly, it is and has been her strength and courage that has inspired me in so many ways. I am very lucky indeed to have been blessed with her in my life. |
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leelew Member
since 1999-07-10
Posts 89highmount,ny,usa |
Beautifully written! Thank-You for sharing.With understanding to battle is almost won. |
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Nicole Senior Member
since 1999-06-23
Posts 1835Florida |
leelew, thank you very much! And you are correct, knowledge is power. One of the most helpful things I did shortly after she got out of the hospital was to visit the library and read everything they had on the disease. |
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Michael II Junior Member
since 1999-12-11
Posts 21Here, there, everywhere |
Well being a type one diabetic myself, I can certainly relate to a little of what you've written here. My biggest fear in life is that one of my two children would ever have it too. I know I'm a little late on the reply here, (apologies for that), but I am so glad that all has turned out o.k. for you and your little flower. May God bless you both. Michael |
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