Chapter 9

The Dorm Room

The blondie stepped behind me and took the wheelchair off the brake position. “Here, let me.” She wheeled me passed the double doors, into the unit and down a long hallway.

Ed and my mom loaded up with my stuff. Each grabbed as much as they could, leaving one suitcase behind.

“Maybe they have a bellboy,” said my mom.

“You’re looking at him” Ed laughed.

“And a cute one, too,” I added.

As we walked down to the end of the hallway, we passed several nurses’ stations, a conference room and an operating room. We turned the corner and entered the wing, or pod as the nurses called them. My room was right across from the nurses’ station. It was tiny, had one small window along the back wall, a door to the bathroom and a bed in the middle of the room. This is it? I’ve been waiting all morning for a coat closet?

“Welcome to your new room, hon,” said the nurse. “I can help you get settled in.”

“Oh no,” my mom said, shaking her head in disapproval. “This room is awful, it‘s way too small. My daughter will be staying here for several weeks. We need a bigger room. I want her to be comfortable.” She paused, eyes still scanning the room.

“Can you swap our room for a bigger one?” My mom looked directly at blondie.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” blondie said, tilting her head slightly. Her blue eyes widened so much that you could see the black eyeliner smudged under her eyelashes. “I was told this was an extremely high-risk case, and I wanted to make sure her room was near our station. I wanted her to be in close proximity to the OR in case of an emergency.”

“Well dear, I appreciate your thought and safety concern, but because she‘s staying such a long time, we would like a bigger room. I’m happy to speak with your supervisor if that helps.”

“She,” “her,” “this patient.” It was so awkward with me standing right there. I was glad to have my mom as my advocate but couldn’t stand feeling like a helpless patient.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll take you to the charge nurse and you can discuss the room assignment with her.” Blondie left, my mom following behind.

Before she was out of sight, she said, “Don’t worry, mija. I’ll be right back. Don’t unpack anything. We are moving to a different room.”

“Oh man,” I said to Ed. “I haven’t even been here five hours, and she‘s already talking to the supervisor.” I giggled and shook my head. “I hope the nurse doesn’t get the wrong impression or think I’m going to be a problem patient.” I giggled.

We looked at each other.

“I’m going miss you, Crys,” Ed said quietly, the way he got when he tried to hold back emotion.

“It‘s going to be really depressing going home to an empty house. Without you or Abby, there‘s no reason to go home early,” he paused, looking down at his cell phone. “There will probably be lots of late nights at the office.”

“Or you can come here and hang out after work,” I said. “It will be like junior and senior year all over again,” I joked. “We can watch movies on Netflix and order late night pepperoni and jalapeño pizza from Domino‘s.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, perking up. “My plan is to come straight to the hospital after work a few nights a week. I won’t even have to drive or worry about parking; I can just take the Metrorail. It picks up in front of my building and drops off at the hospital.”

“It stops right across the street near the entrance to the zoo,” I said.

“I know,” he said, nodding his head. “I’m going to take Abby there all the time. Oh, and I can take your clothes home and do your laundry too,” he offered.

“That’ll be the first time you’ve ever done my laundry,” I said and giggled. “Do you even know how?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly capable,” he replied, playing at sounding annoyed.

The door flung open. My mom poked her head into the doorway. “Guess what?” She had a huge grin on her face. “We’ve got you a room down the hall that is literally twice the size! Come on, baby girl.”

She was very proud of her victory. She helped me out of bed and back into the wheelchair. I double-checked the paperwork at check-in regarding the wheelchair assistance. It was in there plain and clear—every time I took a step on the floor, or really any other floor of the hospital, I had to use the wheelchair for assistance. It was a safety and liability thing. But, for me it was a pride thing. There we go again with the helpless patient act. I’m fine people, really. I’m pregnant not handicapped.

As my mom wheeled me back down the hall, we passed the nurses’ station and turned right going past a few more rooms until we reached the corner of the hallway. We opened the door to room 582—my new home—for the next few weeks. It wasn’t the Ritz by any means, but my new big, bright room made me feel like everything would be okay. It came equipped with a small refrigerator and a scale. In the back were three big windows that let a generous amount of sunlight through. Beneath the windows, there was a long bench with pull-out drawers for my clothes. The room smelled of Lysol, and the floors shined liked new appliances at the store. On the other side of the room were two sinks and lots of counter space on top of which there were a couple of hospital gowns folded neatly inside their plastic wrapping. The cabinets overhead came fully stocked with medical supplies. If anyone needed bandages, gauze or medical tape, I had them covered. On the far-right side, there was a desk, chair and small coat closet. A corkboard above the desk made the perfect spot for my countdown calendar. The bed was positioned in the middle of the room—there were no upgrades there, it was the same hospital-grade bed all patients used—with the various reclining positions and a remote control. The sheets were bleached white and stiff, in desperate need of scented fabric softener. There was a TV mounted on the wall opposite the bed. I’d be caught up on the Bachelor and Real Housewives—and just about every reality TV show—another plus. A small nightstand beside the bed had a little drawer with my own copy of the Bible and a prayer book. I was going to need those. Behind the bed was the monitor I had heard so much about—the one we would use to keep tabs on Katie and Lauren around the clock. It was an oversized, gray machine that rested on top of a wooden table. Big and bulky, it had lots of wires protruding in all different directions. A printer attachment would print the reports from the monitoring throughout the day. There was a tray where all the reports would be stacked neatly—making it easy for the doctors look at them when they did their rounds.

After I finished surveying my temporary home, I realized I was exhausted from being shuffled around. I just wanted to lie down and close my eyes.

Blondie entered the room. “I hope you like this room better.” She winked at me. “Lunch is just about over, make sure you call down and place your order so they can bring it up to you. I’ll give you a few minutes to eat, and then I’ll come back and do your monitoring. Okay?” She was about to walk out the door when she turned around and stuck out her hand. “Oh, by the way, I’m Jenny.” She smiled sweetly. I had never seen anyone look so glamorous in scrubs; her light blue scrubs accentuated her full-figured body. She wasn’t big, but she wasn’t petite either. The perfect in-between. She had a small waist and gigantic breasts, the kind that you just couldn’t help but stare at, even as a woman. Her soft, curly blonde hair fell down to her shoulders, and she had full face of makeup.

“It‘s really nice to meet you, Jenny. Thanks for taking care of me today.”

“It‘s nice to meet you too, sugar. And of course,” she turned around, her curls bouncing off her shoulders as she walked out the door.

“She‘s sweet,” I said as I turned to face Ed and my mom. “Marilyn Monroe meets Sweet Home Alabama. And gorgeous.” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t notice,” Ed said sarcastically and shot me a guilty grin.

My mom looked down at her phone, then slipped it into her purse.

“Well, I’m gonna go, sweetie. Glad you are all checked in. Don’t worry about Abby—she‘s fine. Very happy to be with her Gigi and Papa.

She bent down and hugged me.

“We’ll come visit you in a couple of days,” she said as she wiped a small tear trickling from the corner of her eye.

“Ok. Don’t forget your crochet bag. You have to finish that blanket,” I reminded her.

“Yup, I got it,” she said and walked out, blowing me a kiss.

I turned to look at Ed, who was staring down at his phone, no doubt worried about the time—but also feeling guilty about having to leave me.

“All right babe, let‘s get you out of this wheelchair and into bed,” he said.

“I’m fine. I can do it myself,” I told him, and moved into the bed, even though I really just wanted to walk out with him. “I can’t believe it‘s already noon.” I gazed up at the clock on the wall. I had been so distracted by the logistics and the check-in process, I had forgotten about my sadness. As Ed slipped his phone in his pocket and started to say goodbye, it all hit me again. I’d soon be alone in this hospital room—without my family, without my baby girl—and trying not to constantly freak out about potentially dangerous cord entanglement.

“Don’t leave me here, please,” I told him. I started to sob.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll come back this evening and pick up whatever you want for dinner. Then we can watch a movie together. It will just be a few hours. You’re doing the best thing for the babies.” he said, rubbing my belly and then bending down to kiss it. “We have to keep an eye on these two so they don’t get into any more trouble.”

Ed always had a way of phrasing things so that they weren’t doom and gloom. He lacked theatrics, but in our relationship, I certainly made up for it.

We held each other so close; I never wanted to let go, much like with Abby that morning. Ed had been alongside me every step of this pregnancy. Each day after the diagnosis, he was by my side. His strength bolstered me and mine buoyed him. Would I be able to maintain my strength without him there with me? Reminding me that what I was doing was the best thing?

“Love you so much, my brave, strong girl. You are the most amazing mommy,” he said, pulling away from me gently.

“I love you too, Ed.”

And just like that, I was left alone. Alone in my room riding the wave of many intense feelings. It was all so emotionally draining and exhausting. But then it hit me—I’m not actually alone. I placed my arms around my belly, embracing it tight.

I’m not alone, I told my babies, I have you two girls with me. Every step of the way. Our journey together. And then, I realized that this would be the perfect time to tell the babies more about me and my life. What better way to pass the time then by chatting and getting to know one another? And so I settled on my bed and started to talk to them.

Being a mommy was a lifelong dream of mine, I started. I had yearned for it for as long as I could remember—long before I had even met Daddy. In preschool, I always chose the playing house center. I gallivanted in pearls and high heels, carting my baby doll in a stroller wherever I went. I spent my younger years babysitting my younger sister Melissa, and helping my Grandma Ita1 babysit my younger cousins, Melanie and Caroline. Our family was very close; I saw my relatives daily. We spent every summer (even during the five years we lived abroad in England) at Ita‘s house escaping the sweltering Texas heat in the backyard pool—days of endless popsicles, splashes and laughter. Years before that, when my parents—you will know them as Gigi and Papa—went back to work after I was born, my grandparents took care of me every day. They were head-over-heels in love with their first little granddaughter and called me Cristalita. They took me everywhere on playdates and outings with their friends. The summer after I turned two, my Grandpa Ubaldo died tragically. It was utterly heartbreaking and so incredibly unfair—something that, over time, everyone in the family had to learn to grieve and accept in their own way. My Ita—while grieving—never let her shocking loss interfere with her endless love for her children and grandchildren. I absolutely adored her—in my eyes everything she did and said was perfect. I thought her life was both fascinating and inspiring.

Ita had grown up without her parents. Having lost her own mother in childbirth, she was raised by her grandparents in a small rural town in Northern Mexico. She was kind, generous, an extremely hard worker, a woman of strong faith and prayer and a firm believer in education. I remember she used to tell me to, “Earn all the degrees you can because no one could ever take that away from you.” A degree, a prized possession that could never be lost. I learned everything I knew about cooking, cleaning and raising kiddos from Ita—all of the fast-paced multi-tasking involved. I’m not as great of a cook as she was, but, oh well. She could take care of us, cook, and clean all in one seamless effort. She was confident, strong and fierce, but utterly melted at any requests by her beloved angelitos,2 her grandchildren. And these are only the surface details of all that made up my Ita, Micaela Martinez. She was a beautiful person inside and out—not a day goes by since her death back in 2008 that I don’t think of her.

I yawned, suddenly overcome by an overwhelming urge to lie down. I will spend my lifetime telling you girls all about her, I promise, I told the babies. But right now, Mama needs to snooze.

 

I pulled my blanket out from my suitcase and lied back on the bed; I rolled over to my left side, my back to the door. I closed my eyes. I was almost fast asleep when a knock on the door awakened me.