| |
So Jake thinks I haven’t cried, but he didn’t see me that afternoon. You remember I told you about that scream after the delivery when I thought my baby was dead? This was different. This was completely silent. Natalie was in her own room, but there were glass windows all around, and the HUC hadn’t shut us in or anything, and I didn’t have the energy to close the door.
I didn’t even know if I was allowed to close the door. I knew my nurse would be bustling in any minute (have you ever known a hospital nurse who doesn’t bustle?), and I didn’t want her to catch me in the middle of my hysterics.
So I cried, but it was totally soundless. I read this thing online, how some scientist once put tears under a microscope and found that there are like a dozen kinds. I mean, I guess we all know that there’s happy tears and angry tears and squinting-at-the-sun-too-long tears, but this guy actually proved they’re different on a microscopic level. And these tears in the NICU, all I can think to call them is hot tears. I mean, lots of tears are hot, but these were different. Almost burning, which sounds clichéd except it isn’t because they literally did burn.
Well, almost.
That’s the state I was in when the nurse bustled in (I told you she’d be bustling), and she closed this cloth curtain so I had a little privacy and pulled up a chair so I could sit down. I’ll probably bless her for it until the day that I die, but she didn’t even say anything. Didn’t touch me, didn’t pat me on the shoulder and lie about how everything would be ok. She just gave me my space, showed me the button to press if I needed anything, and said she could see all the monitors from her station so I didn’t have to worry about my daughter.
Then she left me alone. Bless her bustling little heart.
So Jake’s wrong about me not crying, but he’s right that I don’t do it very much. What’s the point? It’s not like I felt any better when it was over. I knew there were a ton of things I had to do. Get a room at the Ronald McDonald house. Find a pharmacy to get those iron pills the doctor ordered because I’d lost so much blood on the flight over. Take myself someplace where I could buy underwear and new pants, although with my wallet still in Orchard Grove I had no idea how I was going to manage that one.
So that’s why I called Sandy. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I still had her number in my phone even though I hadn’t talked to her in three years. Yes, I felt horribly guilty for ignoring her for so long only to ring her up when I was in so much trouble. But even though I felt like the biggest brat in the history of foster brats, I knew Sandy wouldn’t see it that way.
And she didn’t.
“Oh, sweetie,” she gushed as soon as I told her who it was, “you have no idea how glad I am to hear from you. God brought you to mind during my morning prayer time, and I just couldn’t get you out of my head all day. I looked you up online. Saw that you’re expecting a precious little baby, and I told Carl there’s no way I’d be able to get a good night sleep until I found a way to get in touch with you. I’ve been praying for you all day. How are you, little darling?”
Sandy’s the only person in the world who could call me little darling without getting a black eye or a whole mouthful of curses.
“I’m ok,” I lied. I didn’t expect it to be so hard to hear that worry in Sandy’s voice. That love. Why hadn’t I stayed in touch after high school?
“Now, I saw you post something about being in the hospital on bed rest. Is that where you’re calling from?”
My throat hurt so bad it felt like I had swallowed a spoonful of glass. I promised myself not to cry and told Sandy, “Yeah, I’m calling from the hospital, except I’m in Seattle now.” I had to stop there or I would have turned into a blubbering mess.
“Uh-oh.” Sandy’s the type of person who can’t hide a single emotion. Maybe that’s why I fell out of touch. I didn’t want to let her down. Didn’t want to hear the disappointment in her voice when she learned how much I was messing up my life. “Do they think the baby’s coming too soon? Is that why they sent you there?”
I never knew until then how your heart could be torn in half like that until your lungs hardly have any room to expand at all. “Actually, she was born this morning. Everything was ok at first, and then something ...”
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not with my child right there with all those breathing tubes and an IV the flight nurses had to put in her forehead because the veins in her arms were so stinking small. And without asking any other questions, Sandy began to pray for me. Right there on the phone.
I wish I had it recorded or written out so I could remember exactly what she said. What I do remember is the peace, this big tidal wave of warmth that swelled over me. Of course, it vanished as soon as she said amen, but I wasn’t surprised. I knew enough about church things by then to realize that’s the way it always works. Like how I felt so alive, so loved and cherished and wanted at that youth retreat when I knelt in front of the entire St. Margaret’s youth group like some kind of deranged martyr. That feeling stayed with me a day and a half. Exactly. I remember because that altar experience was on a Saturday night, and by Monday at lunch Lincoln Grant and I were making out in his dad’s truck in the parking lot at school, and once fifth period started I realized the feeling was gone for good.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
Just like that song from Top Gun.
Woah, woah, woah.
Still, I was glad when Sandy prayed for me, and she called me every day after that to keep in touch, except it wasn’t the sort of smothering attention like Patricia gives. It was nice. Sometimes if I was busy, I’d let it go to voicemail, and she’d just say something sweet like, “Hey, honey. It’s me, just calling to see how everything’s going. I wanted you to know I’m praying for you. Call me any time.”
That’s the kind of person Sandy is, and if you don’t have someone like her in your life — even if it’s way in the past like mine — I truly hope you find someone like that soon.