Waiting rooms

If you’ve seen cable tv I’m sure you have come across a medical drama or two. I’m a huge Grey’s Anatomy fan and grew up with my parents watching George Clooney in ER. I always thought the family members sitting in the perfectly lit waiting areas were a dramatization. I too, just like everyone else watching bit when the camera would flip between the family member and the doctor’s face trying to guess what the outcome was. I always thought it was so incredible that humans can talk without words and with the simplest look on a doctor’s face, a parent or loved one could instantly understand the worst that had happened.  

I thought it was ‘made for tv’ moments.  

I thought I would never be the parent sitting in the waiting room.  

TV has it almost accurate. The lighting is much worse in person and the terror sitting in the pit of your stomach waiting to hear the outcome lasts much longer than 90 seconds.  

I don’t know if it was arrogance or naivety that had me when I passed a mother sitting in this horribly dim waiting area. She was on the phone talking in a frantic manner to someone. I had to walk past to get to the doors of the PICU (pediatric intensive care unit) where my 4-month-old baby lay in a huge bed hooked up to a ventilator and too many cords to count. We had just completed surgery to try and correct Cooper’s Laryngomalacia. They were waiting to take him off the ventilator due to some breathing issues during the surgery.  

I distinctly remember over 9 months later what went through my head when I saw that mom. I remember hoping her phone call was just another frustrated parent trying to achieve something in the medical world for their kid (appointments, equipment, prescriptions, etc). I had been there so many times working so hard just to get the system to do what it needed to take care of my baby. As I reached the door and punched in my code I also remember distinctly thinking there was no way anything terrible would happen to my baby, that was a thing that happened to other people. (The irony is this thought still happened after experiencing an incredibly rare pregnancy complication and almost losing him twice already).  

I spent the rest of that day sitting by Cooper’s bed, watching tv, talking to doctors, and just hoping over and over again he would turn a corner. They had taken him off the ventilator but he was struggling and they were having to use machines too much to keep him breathing. He was so unstable they wouldn’t let anyone hold him – or even touch him for that matter. The nurses only messed with him when they absolutely had to. Every time it would lead to another drop in all his stats. I sat there terrified but somehow convinced this was the worst of it.  

My husband went home that evening to take care of our other 4 children and it was sometime after he left that I heard a sound I will never in my life forget. It was the sound of pure agony. The sound of a parent losing their baby. The mom I had seen earlier in those shitty chairs was now in the hallway screaming that he was gone. This precious little baby boy was in the room immediately next door. It was at that moment, hearing that mom, that I realized just how real this all is. I’m sure it sounds stupid but it was at that moment that it finally hit me how serious the PICU is, how this wasn’t the only child to lose their fight. It hit me that this unit saw more of it than any other. It hit me just how poorly Cooper was doing and just how hard his little life had already been.  

I begged them to let me crawl in bed with him. I needed to feel his chest rise. I needed to feel his warmth. I needed to feel him. It was a no-go. So I sat as close as I could and I stared at my baby for hours. I prayed.  

For those that don’t know me that’s a pretty big deal. I wouldn’t say I’m the most religious. I’m spiritual and believe there is absolutely something bigger than us but I don’t know that it’s a “god”. That night I gave it all up and I begged whatever is out there to not put me in the same spot as that mom. I promised whatever trades I could think of to spare my son the same fate.  

At some point, I gave in and laid on the couch/bed to try and get a little sleep before the parade of doctors came in the morning.  

About 3 am I awoke not to alarms going off but to 7 people rushing into the room. It took me a second to understand what was happening and it was only then that I heard the alarms. They had his bed surrounded and nothing felt safe or good at that moment. Fear on a level that I have never understood came crushing over me. I stood and tried to see what was happening. I tried to read the monitors but before I could make sense of anything the doctor in charge standing at the head of his bed got my attention and told me it was best if I waited in the waiting area. “You don’t want to see this.”  

Just like I will never forget the sound of that mom’s pain, I will never forget the look on that doctor’s face as she said those words.  

Do I kiss him? Could I touch him? Do I really just leave and leave him here alone?

All of that ran through my head instantly. No one was able to leave, they were all critical so I was instructed to leave the room and wait in the waiting area outside the PICU doors, someone would be out as soon as they could to get me.  

I found myself sitting in the dim waiting area on hard plastic chairs so lost at what to do. Should I call my husband? What about our other kids? I texted my husband and sat there and spoke to whatever is out in the universe. I pleaded and begged. I thought about my tiny baby I didn’t even really know yet. Mostly, I just thought about how badly I wanted to hold him.  

I have no idea how long it took for them to come to get me. It felt like days. What I do know is that I am forever grateful for the doctor that came to get me and her understanding that all I wanted to hear from her was one thing – “He’s ok.”  

I wasn’t going to be able to listen or comprehend anything until she told me that and clearly, she understood that. She guided me back to the room as she explained that they had to reintubate him and that with the help of machines he was stable again. They were going to run more tests to try and understand what was going on.  

Life changed for me in those moments. I thought I had already gained this perspective given the number of times he almost didn’t make it during the pregnancy but this was different. When you face something like that (whatever that means to you) the way the rest of the problems we face every day all of a sudden change. They take on a different color. They feel different.  

It’s the kind of impact that isn’t just a change for a few weeks. It’s been over 9 months since that night and Cooper is a “healthy”, happy, and developing baby. He is hitting milestones and in such a different place. Even with all that true, I still get a tightness in my chest every single morning when I go into the nursery for the first time. I hold my breath until I see him move, feel his heat, or see his chest rise. One day I know I will feel safe again. Or maybe I will never feel truly safe (the way I did when I was single with no children) but maybe one day I will process these feelings in a less impactful way.  

My heart will forever go out to that mom that night. I know nothing about you and I can still feel your pain.  

Everyone’s trauma is different. Everyone processes differently. The key, I have come to realize, is that we at least keep moving forward. One step at a time, one day at a time, and when we are ready to do whatever we need to with that trauma we will.