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I haven’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. It was almost three in the morning by the time Natalie got situated at the Seattle Children’s Hospital. The rooms are bigger than when she was in the NICU. We’re in the pediatric intensive care floor now. Moving up in the world, aren’t we? I hate the fact that I’m spending the week before Christmas in the hospital, but something feels right about the entire thing. Like maybe my brain knew we’d be here all along. Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.
God knows I deserve this and so much worse. But does he have to take it out on my daughter?
I think I dozed for a little bit around four. I remember waking up as a technician came in with a giant rolling machine. “Just getting some x-rays on your daughter,” he told me, and I zoned right out again after that.
Now that it’s morning, I’m not even sure I’ll book a room at the Ronald McDonald house. They’ve got a couch chair here that’s plenty big enough for me to sleep in. Sure, it’s kind of loud with monitors beeping and nurses coming in every few hours to change Natalie’s meds or check her stats, but it’s not like I’d manage any better in a room by myself.
As soon as I answer a few questions from the day-shift worker coming on duty, I go to the nursing station and request a meal card. I’m one of those veteran parents, I guess, the kind who know the ropes already. Know how to get things done. Five minutes later, I’m on my way to the hospital cafeteria. It’s like time held still between now and when Natalie was discharged from the NICU last fall. All that’s changed is the hospital decorations. There’s paper Christmas ornaments taped to the walls and a big fancy tree by the main entrance. The music’s different, too. Julie Andrews and Frank Sinatra instead of that dumb piano stuff. I’m sure I’ll be sick of this soundtrack in another day or two, but right now it’s a welcomed change from that idiotic elevator music I listened to during our first stay here.
The cafeteria’s not quite as crowded as I expected. I must have missed the big surge of night workers coming off duty and the day shift arriving in time to pick up their bagels and coffee. I grab a cinnamon roll and stand in line to get a cappuccino. If there ever was a day for caffeine, this was it.
I’m already anxious about abandoning Natalie in her room. It’s not like it was when she was in the NICU. I could leave her there for hours at a time and not worry about it. But something’s changed. She’s my daughter now. It sounds stupid, because she was my daughter even in the NICU, but it feels different since I’m the one who took care of her for the past two months.
I haven’t called Jake yet. I don’t know why I’m avoiding him. I sent him a text to let him know when we got into Seattle, but I haven’t responded to his half a dozen questions. Maybe I’m just tired. Or maybe I’m starting to pull away because I know.
Jake’s never going to leave Orchard Grove, and Natalie’s too sick to be that far away from the city. Some things just weren’t meant to be, I guess.
Once I get my caffeine for the day, I stand behind a doctor who’s paying for a fruit salad and side of cottage cheese. Maybe I’ll feel better if I start eating healthier. It might give me more energy, I don’t know. I’m focusing so hard on his cantaloupe and honeydew I don’t even notice him turn around to stare at me.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” he asks.
I squint my eyes. There’s something vaguely familiar. Was he one of Natalie’s specialists from the NICU, maybe?
He’s sticking out his hand. “Dr. Jamison.”
I’m sure my eyes are about to bug out of their sockets. “Wait a minute. Are you from Massachusetts?” But I see his nametag now and already know.
I’m laughing and pumping his hand like he’s just offered me a million bucks. “Eliot Jamison. It’s me. Tiffany Franklin. We went to school together, remember?”
Before I know it, he’s offering me an awkward hug and telling the cashier to put my coffee and cinnamon roll on his tab. “Tiff,” he says, and I’m glad he remembers that’s what I’ve always gone by. “I knew I recognized you. What are the chances?” He hands me my cappuccino. “I have a few minutes before I need to start making my rounds. Care to take a seat with me?”
I want to stay. Man, I want to stay. I don’t care that it’s Eliot Jamison, the kid I pestered to death because of his inhaler. It’s nice to have someone — anyone — who seems genuinely happy to see me.
“I can’t.” I hate myself as soon as I say the words. Hate the way Eliot’s eyes immediately cloud over with disappointment. “My daughter’s here in the PICU. I really have to get back.”
He’s looking at me like it literally hurts him to know I have a child that sick. For once, I don’t mind having someone feel a little sorry for me.
He sets down his fruit and pulls a business card out of his wallet. “Listen, if you ever want someone to talk to about ...”
I glance at the card. Eliot Jamison, Oncology Resident. “It’s not cancer.” I want to add thank God but figure that might not be the best move. I don’t want to offend him or any of his patients, and I certainly don’t want to jinx my daughter. After all the x-rays and procedures she’s gone through these past four months, it’ll be a miracle if she doesn’t end up needing an oncologist at some point in her future. “She had a brain bleed when she was born ...” I realize I’m about to give Eliot an entire rundown of her medical history, but I don’t want to bore him to death or act like I’m out for a free consultation. “It’s a long story, and I know you’ve got to be busy.” Aren’t medical residents notoriously overworked?
He’s all smiles. I feel awful that I used to tease him so horribly. “We’re in room 205 in the PICU,” I tell him. “Stop by any time.”
Once Natalie and I get out of here, I’m going to be sick of people looking at me with so much sympathy, but right now, I want to hug Eliot for how kind his eyes are. He promises to come by and visit soon. I actually believe him, and we part ways.
I get a text from Jake as I take the elevator back up to the peds floor. How’s she doing?
I tell Jake what the night nurse told me before she clocked out, which wasn’t much, and return to my room. Natalie hasn’t woken up yet. She’s got an oxygen cannula taped to her cheeks. She looks a little ashen, but her oxygen levels are mid-nineties today. Maybe she’s already getting better.
I count down the days until Christmas, hoping to God we’re out of here by then.