She's having some minor rehydration issues - sodium levels and feedings.... They're not sending her home as soon as we'd hoped. She'll be in the hospital atleast 3 more days.
Time crawls when she's gone. She's bloated and feels yucky. When she sees me, she bursts into tears - telling mommy all about it. They draw blood every few hours. She is unhappy. No happy feet. No smile. No blowing kisses. Her best moments are chewing on various cords that are too attached to hide from her.
Heart beat - strong. Oxygen levels - low side of normal on room air. Temp - normal. Respiratory rate - normal for her. She's OK. She's OK.
I want to give her comfort. I hold her. I rock her. I show her videos on my phone's tiny screen. "It's Jake's Birthday Party!! Everyone say Hi....." She watches ...but from a fog. Remember your family. She remembers. Your family loves you. She knows.
She still likes songs and resting in mommy's arms. She rests her head on my shoulder - collapsing into me in depression or exhaustion or both. She likes examining her hand. She sucks on her thumb. (wow - that's new!)
The nurses give her Tylenol because she's agitated. Mommy tells them to cut off the tape holding her IV. It is too tight now that she is bloated. She doesn't need the Tylenol now.
I want to hold her forever, but need to go. She's asleep. I gently put her back in her crib. She wakes...knows I'm leaving...screams. I'll be back, sweetie. I'll come see you again. Mommy loves you.
Home. It's late. The kids are in bed. It's quiet. Really quiet. No hum from the oxygen compressor. No slurping on toys. No blowing kisses. No grunting to reach a cool toy. No rattle, no giggle, no coo. No happy feet thumping the floor. No cry for help.
Empty med syringes from 2 days ago (the last time I gave her meds) lie in her crib. I should wash them out. I don't. Cords from her feeding pump drag on the floor. Useless. Her crib looks wrong. Too empty, too cold. I feel anger. Odd. Shouldn't I be sad?
I become busy. Email. Bills. Straightening clutter.
Midnight. I stop myself half-way to the sink. Oh. I'd been on my way to draw up her 12 o'clock meds. I'll call her. 15 rings later, the nurse answers. "I forgot to tell you...." The nurse pretends no detail is too small to be important. I ramble. She needs classical music to sleep. No purple blankets. Ear thermometers instead of underarm ones. Saline drops in her nose. Mint balm on her lips. Pat her tummy. Don't touch her head...
I run out of questions. I have no more advice. Seraph is asleep. I thank the nurse. She says, "I'll be up all night. If you remember something else or can't sleep or just want to check, please call me again." Always please - like I'd be doing her a favor.
Sometimes I call again.
I miss Seraph. Our hearts are connected.