Only this time, I didn’t get dispatched to never-never land. No, this time I seemed to be placed in a state of otherworldly immobility. I felt as if I were suspended directly above this room, looking down on the comings and goings of patients and medical staff. I had the benign disinterest of an accidental tourist who had somehow managed to end up in this curious quartier, and would certainly prefer to be elsewhere, but had imbibed so much cheap French fizz that she was paralytically incapable of knowing the time of day, and so she was perfectly happy to keep floating overhead. Neither sleeping nor fully conscious . . . just there.
I remained in this narcotic, blissed-out state until the following morning—when hard shafts of sunlight streaked through the windows, and my brain was as shadowy as a film noir, and I felt curiously rested, even though I didn’t know if I had slept.
In fact, for the first ten seconds of consciousness, I luxuriated in that state of nowheresville, where there is no such thing as a past or a present . . . let alone a future.
Then the world crashed in on me. I scrambled for the call bell. The same tight-faced Northern Irish nurse was on duty—only now, after Tony’s dressing-down, she was sweetness itself.
“Good morning there, Ms. Goodchild. You seemed to be sleeping awfully well. And have you seen what’s arrived while you were sleeping?”
It took a moment or so for my eyes to focus on the three large floral arrangements that adorned various corners of the room. The nurse gathered up the gift cards and handed them to me. One bouquet from the editor of the Chronicle. One from Tony’s team on the foreign pages. One from Margaret and Alexander.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Nurse Dowling said.
I stared at the arrangements, having absolutely no opinion about them whatsoever. They were flowers, that’s all.
“Could I get you a cup of tea now?” Nurse Dowling asked. “Perhaps a little breakfast?”
“Any idea how my son is doing?”
“I don’t honestly know, but I could find out straightaway for you.”
“That would be very kind. And if I could . . . uh . . .”
Nurse Dowling knew exactly what I was talking about. Approaching the bed, she removed the bedpan from the cabinet in the side table, helped me straddle it, and removed it after I filled it with yet another half gallon of malodorous urine.
“God, what a stink,” I said as Nurse Dowling settled me back on the pillows.
“The drugs do that,” she said. “But once you’re off them, you’ll lose that bad smell. How do the stitches feel today?”
“The pain’s still there.”
“That’ll take at least a week to go away. Meantime, why don’t I bring you a basin of water, so you can freshen up and brush your teeth?”
Talk about five-star service. I thanked the nurse, and asked her again if she could find out how Jack was doing.
“Oh, you’ve already chosen a name for him,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Jack Edward.”
“Good strong name,” she said. “And I’ll be right back with the tea and any news of Jack.”
Jack. Jack. Jack.
Suddenly I felt the worst wave of shame imaginable.
“He is dying—and I don’t care. You get that? I don’t care.”
How could I have said that? Had I so completely lost it that I actually expressed indifference about whether or not my son lived? Instead of making excuses for myself—telling myself it was all postoperative stress, and an out-of-body reaction to all the drugs they’d been pumping into me—I immediately began to engage in a serious course of self-flagellation. I was unfit to be a mother, a wife, a member of the human race. I had jettisoned all that was important to me—my newborn child and my husband—through one deranged outbreak of rage. I deserved everything bad that would now happen to me.
But, most of all, yesterday’s bizarre, out-of-kilter rage had vanished. All I could now think was: I need to be with Jack.
Nurse Dowling returned with a breakfast tray and some news.
“I gather your little one’s doing just fine. They’re really pleased with the progress he’s making, and he can probably be moved out of ICU in a couple of days.”
“Can I see him this morning?”
“No problem.”
I picked at my breakfast—largely because whatever appetite I had was tempered by an equally urgent need to speak with Tony. I wanted to utter a vast mea culpa for my insane behavior yesterday, to beg his forgiveness, and also tell him that he and Jack were the best things that had ever happened to me. And, of course, I’d sign the registration document naming him Jack Edward. Because . . . because . . . be . . .
Oh fuck, not this . . .
The crying had started again. Another extended bout of loud, insufferable keening. Come on, knock it off, I told myself. But as I quickly discovered, this was an absurd idea because I fell apart once more. Only this time I was cognizant enough of this sudden breakdown to be genuinely spooked by it. Especially as I worried that the medical staff might start writing me off as mentally askew and worthy of more intensive chemical treatment. So I stuffed the pillow back into my mouth, clutched it against me like a life preserver, and started counting backward from one hundred inside my head, telling myself that I had to have myself under control by the time I reached zero. But during this countdown, I could feel my voice growing louder and louder—even though I wasn’t speaking at all. The strain against my eyes became intolerable. There was such compression behind them that I was certain they’d explode out of my head at any moment. But just when I thought I was about to let go entirely, Nurse Dowling showed up accompanied by the orderly. I felt her hand against my shoulder, calling my name, asking me what was wrong. When I couldn’t answer, I heard her turn to the orderly and mention something about getting the head nurse. At which point I had just reached the number thirty-nine, and suddenly heard myself shout, “Thirty-nine!”
This threw everybody—most especially Nurse Dowling, who looked at me wide-eyed, as if I had completely abandoned all reason. Which was very close to the truth.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
I didn’t know the answer to that question—so all I said was, “Bad dream.”
“But you were awake.”
“No,” I lied. “I fell asleep again.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” I said, touching my very wet face and attempting to wipe away the remnants of all that crying. “Just a little nightmare.”
The head nurse arrived at my bedside just in time to hear that last comment. She was a formidable Afro-Caribbean woman in her early forties—and I could tell that she wasn’t buying a word of it.
“Perhaps you need another sedative, Sally.”
“I am completely fine,” I said, my voice nervous. Because the last thing I wanted right now was a further trip into an opiated never-never. Which is why it was critical that I bring myself under control.
“I’d like to believe that,” the head nurse said, “but your chart shows that you’ve already had two such incidents. Which, I must tell you, is not at all unusual after a physically traumatic delivery. But it is a cause for concern. And if it persists . . .”
“It won’t persist,” I said, sounding very definitive.
“Sally, I am not at all trying to threaten you. Rather, I just want to point out that you have a legitimate medical problem which we will treat if . . .”
“Like I said—it was just a little nightmare. I promise it won’t happen again. I really, really do promise.”
A quick glance between the head nurse and Nurse Dowling.
The head nurse shrugged. “All right,” she said, “we’ll forgo medication right now. But if you have another incident . . .”
“I won’t be having another incident.”
My voice had jumped an edgy octave or two. Another telling glance between the head nurse and Nurse Dowling. Defuse the situation, defuse it now.
&n
bsp; “But I would desperately like to see my son, Jack,” I said, my voice back in reasonable territory.
“That should be possible after Mr. Hughes comes by on his rounds this morning.”
“I have to wait until then?”
“It’s just another hour or so . . .”
“Oh come on . . .” I said, my voice going loud again. When I saw another telling glance between the head nurse and Nurse Dowling, I knew that I should cut my losses and wait the hour.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, a little too rapidly. “You’re right, of course. I’ll wait until Mr. Hughes shows up.”
“Good,” the head nurse said, looking me straight in the eye. “And you mustn’t worry too much about what’s going on right now. You’ve been through a great deal.”
She smiled and touched my arm, then left. Nurse Dowling said, “Anything else I can get you?”
“If you could just hand me the phone, please.”
She brought it over to the bed, then left. I dialed home. I received no answer . . . which bothered me just a little, as it was only eight-thirty in the morning, and Tony was a notoriously late sleeper. Then I called his cell phone and got him immediately. I was relieved to hear him in traffic.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so damn sorry about . . .”
“It’s all right, Sally,” Tony said.
“No—it’s not. What I said yesterday . . .”
“Meant nothing.”
“I was horrible.”
“You were in shock. It happens.”
“It still doesn’t excuse what I said about Jack . . .”
A telling pause. “So you like the name now?”
“Yes, I do. And I like you too. More than I can say.”
“Now there’s no need to go all soppy on me. What’s the latest word on our boy?”
“I won’t know anything until Hughes does his rounds. When will you be in?”
“Around tea time.”
“Tony . . .”
“I have pages to get out . . .”
“And you also have a deputy. Surely the editor was most sympathetic . . .”
“Did you get his flowers?”
“Yes—and a bouquet from Margaret too. You called her?”
“Well, she is your best friend.”
“Thank you.”
“And I also spoke with Sandy. Explained that it had been a complicated delivery, that you were a bit under the weather, and told her it was best if she didn’t ring you for a few days. Naturally, she’s phoned me three times since then to see how you’re doing.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were making steady progress.”
Sandy being Sandy, I was certain that she didn’t believe a word of his reassurances—and was now frantically worried about my condition. She knew damn well that if she couldn’t talk to me, something rather serious was going on. But I was grateful to Tony for keeping her at bay. Much as I adored my sister, I didn’t want her to hear how fragile I was right now.
“That was the right thing to tell her,” I said.
“Listen, I have to run now,” Tony said. “I’ll try to be in by early evening, all right?”
“Fine,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it—as I really wanted him at my bedside right now for some necessary emotional support.
But who in their right mind would want to be with me at the moment? I had turned into a crazy woman, who’d lost all sense of proportion, and spat bile every time she opened her mouth. No wonder Tony wanted to dodge me.
For the next hour, I sat and stared upward at the ceiling. One thought kept obsessing my head: Jack, brain damaged? I couldn’t even conceive of what motherhood was going to be like if that was the case. How would we cope? What fathomless, inexhaustible hell would await us?
Mr. Hughes arrived promptly at ten. He was accompanied by the head nurse. As always, he wore a beautifully cut pinstripe suit, a spread-collar pink shirt, and a black polka-dot tie. He deported himself like a cardinal visiting a poor parish. He nodded hello but said nothing until he had perused the notes hanging on the bedstead clipboard.
“So, Mrs. . . .”
He glanced back at the clipboard.
“. . . Goodchild. Not the most pleasant few days I’d imagine?”
“How is my son?”
Hughes cleared his throat. He hated being interrupted. And he showed his displeasure by staring down at the chart while speaking with me.
“I’ve just been looking in on him at ICU. All vital signs are good. And I spoke to the attending pediatrician, Dr. Reynolds. He told me that an EEG performed this morning indicated no neurological disturbance. But, of course, to make certain that everything is functioning properly, an MRI will be conducted around lunchtime today. He should have results by evening time—and I know he’ll want to see you then.”
“Do you think that brain damage did occur?”
“Mrs. Goodchild . . . though I can fully understand your worry—what mother wouldn’t be worried under the circumstances?—I am simply not in a position to speculate about such matters. Because that is Dr. Reynolds’s territory.”
“But do you think that the EEG results . . . ?”
“Yes, they do give one cause for optimism. Now, would you mind if I looked at Mr. Kerr’s handiwork?”
The head nurse drew the curtains around my bed, and helped me raise my nightgown and lower my underwear. Then she pulled away the bandages. I hadn’t seen my wounds since the delivery, and they shocked me: a criss-crossing sequence of railroad tracks, bold in their delineation and barbaric in execution.
Though I was trying my best to stifle all emotion, I couldn’t help but emit a small sharp cry. Mr. Hughes favored me with an avuncular smile, and said, “I know it looks pretty grim right now—a real war wound—but once the stitches are removed, I promise you that your husband won’t have anything to complain about.”
I wanted to say, “To hell with my husband. It’s me who’s going to have to live with the disfigurement.” But I kept my mouth shut. I couldn’t afford to deepen my problems.
“Now I gather you’ve been having a bit of, uh, shall we say, emotional disquiet.”
“Yes—but it’s over with.”
“Even though you had to be sedated yesterday?”
“But that was yesterday. I’m just fine now.”
The head nurse leaned over and whispered something in Hughes’s ear. He pursed his lips, then turned back to me and said, “According to the staff here, you had a bit of a turn this morning.”
“It was nothing.”
“You know, there’s absolutely no shame in going a little wonky after giving birth. Quite commonplace, actually, given that one’s hormones are just a little all over the place. And I do think that a course of antidepressants . . .”
“I need nothing, doctor—except to see my son.”
“Yes, yes—I do understand. And I’m sure nurse here can arrange to have you brought upstairs once we’re done. Oh—and you do know that you will be with us for at least another six to seven days. We want to make certain you’re right as rain before sending you out into the world again.”
He scribbled some notes onto my chart, spoke quickly to the head nurse, then turned back to me with a farewell nod.
“Good day, Mrs. Goodchild—and try not to worry.”
That’s easy for you to say, pal.
A half hour later—after having my surgical dressings changed—I was up in pediatric ICU. Once again, I followed the advice of that benevolent porter and I kept my eyes firmly focused on the linoleum as I was wheeled in. When I finally looked up, the sight of Jack made my eyes sting. Not that there was any change in his condition. He was still enveloped in medical tubes, still dwarfed by the Plexiglas incubator. Only now I had a desperate need to hold him, to cradle him. Just as I had a despondent fear that I might just lose him. Or that he would have to go through life with a terrible mental disability. Suddenly, I knew that whatever happened to hi
m—whatever horrors were revealed by the MRI—I’d handle it. Or, at least, I’d deal with it—the way you deal with life’s most unexpected, fiendish cards. But, oh God, how I didn’t want that to come to pass; how I’d do anything now to make certain he was going to be all right . . . and how I knew just how powerless I was to change anything now. What had happened happened. We were now nothing more than fortune’s fools—and hostages to whatever came our way.
I started to weep again. This time, however, I didn’t feel the undertow of emotional hollowness that had so characterized the past few days. This time, I simply wept for Jack—and for what might become of him.
The orderly kept his distance while I cried. But after a minute or so, he approached me with a box of Kleenex and said, “It might be best if we head back now.”
And he returned me to my room.
“Good news,” Nurse Dowling said after I was helped back into bed. “Mr. Hughes says you can come off those nasty drips—so it looks like you’re tube free. First steps toward freedom, eh? How’s the little one doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said quietly.
“I’m sure he’s going to be just fine,” she said, her sing-song platitudinous voice now sounding like fingernails on a blackboard. “Now what can I get you for lunch?”
But I refused all food, refused a rental television, refused the offer of a sponge bath. All I wanted was to be left alone—to lie in bed with the blankets pulled up to my chin, shutting out the cacophony of the world.
That’s how I passed my day—counting down the hours until Tony finally arrived and the pediatrician presented us with the empirical proof of our son’s condition. I was conscious but purposely detached from everything around me. Or, at least, I thought it was a deliberate detachment on my part. But, at times, I really did feel as if an occupying power had taken up residence in my brain, encouraging me to push away the world and all its complexities.
Then it was six o’clock. Much to my surprise, Tony showed up exactly when he said he would, bearing a bouquet of flowers and a nervousness which I found immediately endearing.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and kissing my forehead.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 76
