I wrote this story as it played out before my eyes during my shift at the hospital last night. I do not claim to be a writer (of any caliber), so take it for what you will. Just know that it is the truth... as I saw it. ********** It's three-fifteen am when a mother asks for a pillow in the Intensive Care Unit. She has just returned from pacing the hallway while her seventeen year old daughter rid herself of the charcoal she'd been given in the Emergency Room. She refuses a more comfortable chair to lie in because she's "too restless". She's a mom... and this is love. She talks about giving birth to the lovely young woman who lies before her in this hospital bed, tubes and wires making her look more like a lab rat than the daughter she labored for in this very hospital only four floors down. She tries to contort her body to lie her head near her daughter's lap, but she instinctively recoils no more than a minute or two later. She can't sleep while her child is in pain. She's a mom... and this is love. She seems to have a new inquiry for the nurse every time she enters the room. She asks about meds, about the numbers on the screen, about test results... but all she really wants to know is: Is my baby going to be okay? She stares at the wall, as if it holds the answers she seeks. Noticeably uncomfortable, she foregoes sleep seemingly as a measure of chastisement. Her mind wonders, 'Where did I go wrong? Oh, God... not my child!' She's a mom... and this is love. I suspect she will be here every waking moment, as sleep for her will not come. She is paying penance for a mistake that was not hers. She won't eat (much); she won't sleep (much). The nurses will care for her just as they care for all of their patients. She will be bedside on the ninth floor, room ten, long after her body relinquishes its longing for her own bed. Wherever her daughter is, that is where she will be. After all, home is where the heart is. She's a mom... and this is love. It's almost four am. "Is that Sudoku?" She asks, as the nurse begins yet another IV. Motioning to the child in the bed, she adds, "She just taught me to do that last week." With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she looks over at her daughter. A sigh escapes with a piqued prayer, "Oh, God." The nurse finishes her work (for now) and mom returns bedside to kiss her daughter's forehead. "I love you, my baby girl." Mom pulls the blanket up to her daughter's chin, always putting thoughts of her baby's comfort ahead of her own. She's a mom... and this is love. Mom says she is going to try to get some sleep. She heads to the family room after being reassured that she will be the first to know if anything changes. Somehow I know it won't be long before we see her again. Truth be told, she returned before I had found the next number in my puzzle. Peeking in past the curtain, she asks intrepidly, "Is she okay?" Sensing fear at the response, I quickly assure her that she is just fine. Nonetheless, it seems impossible for her to remain where she cannot see as such for herself. She's a mom... and this is love. The nurse returns and mom begins anew with questions. She shares her new-found information with the child lying, now awake, in the hospital bed. "It's neutralizing your liver toxins." With her next breath, Mom continues to assuage her pangs of guilt, revealing her only thoughts of comfort -- if you could call it that. “I'm just glad you have friends." Mom sighs (again) as she silently reaches for the Kleenex box. "Does your stomach hurt, honey?" She's a mom... and this is love. She knows the charcoal is coming back up; it must be the fifth time since arriving in room ten. Mom is a mother, indeed, but she still cannot stand the sight. she hurries from the room as I hold an emesis basin in one hand and long brown hair back with the other. The nurse hears and enters; "You're having a rough night, aren't you?" Sick, but quick of wit, the child replies, "Not as bad as if I wouldn't have been here!" A seemingly endless moment is taken to ponder the child's response. The silence is only broken by a request for her mom to come back into the room. As if she could sense the cue, Mom returns to her place at her daughter's side. She lays her head, once again, near her child's feet as they both close their eyes. It's nearly five am, yet sleep will not come. She's a mom... and this is love. Mom is overwhelmed... or at least that is what she confides, bedside, to her dearest little one. She relays plans to call-in to work; to call relatives; to take care of life as she takes care of her baby girl. She tells this all to the child, who does not hear her, as she is quietly sleeping. No harm, though, as she says these things not for the girl, but for herself; seemingly thinking it all may make more sense if spoken aloud. Mom is interrupted by the nurse, who has brought in more medication. "Is that the Potassium and Magnesium?... Will her liver function test get better?... What more will you be doing her for tonight?... Good -- her dad will be here by then." You can see it in her eyes; hear it in the pleading tone of her inquest. I just want you to tell me she'll be okay... that it's not my fault... that I'm a good mom. She is a mom... and this is love. Overcome by sleep, mom faithfully relinquishes her daughter to my watch and takes one more try at the family room. I see her there as I run for another hit of caffeine. Eyes still open, she seems to be begging the dawn for forgiveness. It is early morning and her child remains lying in a bed in the ICU. She manages an hour away before returning. She looks at her daughter, still sleeping, before searching my eyes for comfort. I nod affirmingly and she sighs once more. She's a mom... and this is love. If only her daughter knew... love changes things.
-- She makes me want to be a nurse.
-- She makes me want to be a mom.
-- Mostly, she makes me grateful to be a daughter.
...and I thank God for the opportunity.
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