Some Kind of Normal (4 page)

I start to take a seat and then go back and ask, "Is
my daughter here yet? She came by Life Flight."

"What's her name again?"

"Ashley Babcock."

There's a lull while she clicks the mouse next to the
computer a few times. "Hmm. . . looks like they took her to PICU."
At my blank stare she adds, "Pediatric Intensive Care Unit." I must
look stricken because she reaches out across the desk to pat my
hands, which is a tremendous effort getting them past that bosom
and equally large stomach and over the desk. "She'll be okay,
honey. The doctors here are the best. Ashley is in great hands. It
will probably be a while before you can see her, though. They need
to get her settled in a room, maybe run tests. Why don't you finish
the paperwork so we can get her completely checked in, and then
I'll find someone to show you where she is."

I nod and take the clipboard to a chair by a
window.

There must be ten pages front and back, all full of
tiny lines and tiny boxes and tiny print, and my head hurts just
looking at it. I fill out Ashley's name and birth date and a bit of
medical history, which isn't much because she's always been a
healthy child and comes from a pretty healthy family, breakfasts
not withstanding. Some of the insurance questions I can fill out
from my card but other information I don't know, so I leave it
blank. I hurry through it mostly so I can find Ashley but even
hurrying, it must take twenty minutes. If I'd thought getting here
would mean sitting alone doing paperwork, I'd've sent Travis and
picked up Logan myself.

When I get up to return the stack, a different girl
is sitting behind the desk, a young, pretty thing, a mountain of
file folders a mile high in front of her. "It takes a lot of
paperwork to get someone healthy, don't it?" I say, handing over
the clipboard and pen. I think she might be sympathetic. She smiles
at me as she takes the papers and looks through them.

"I filled out everything I could. Do you think I
could find my daughter now? They medevaced her in a while ago."

She asks her name, types it into the computer, and
pulls out a map of the hospital from a file drawer under the
desk.

"You are here," she says, circling the open space on
the map that is shaded pink. "Ashley is here." She circles a purple
section marked PICU on a different floor. I like how the people who
work here call Ashley by her name, like she is a friend, or someone
who matters. "You take these elevators here and walk this way.
Here," she marks an X, "is the nurse's station. Ask there for the
room she's in. They may not let you in right away. They're pretty
strict up there about visitors and how many people go in and out of
the rooms." She hands me the map but doesn't let go right away.
"Are you alone? Is this your first visit here?"

Her eyes are sympathetic. I'd thought the sympathy
would be for the paperwork. Turns out it's for me. "My husband's on
his way."

She takes back the map and circles three more places.
"Here is the cafeteria. The food is pretty good. And here's what's
called the Family Resource Center. They have great reference
materials that can help you understand anything the doctor's don't
tell you, or that you're afraid to ask. They also have books and
CDs you can check out. Ashley, too, if she's up for reading or
listening. Lots of parents pass through there, so it's a great
place to meet people, too."

She hands it back to me, and I point at the third
circle. "What's this one?"

"That's the Ronald McDonald house. I don't know how
long you'll have to stay. There are pull out beds in most of the
rooms, but they can be really picky about that in PICU. They like
to keep people to a minimum. If you need to be here for a few
nights, check with getting a room there. It's within walking
distance, and I know they have availability. A family just left
yesterday."

I get the impression it wasn't a happy leaving, but
I'm afraid to ask.

I say thanks and turn to go. I turn back. "Is
everyone here as friendly as you?"

She smiles. "You'll find this is the friendliest
place in Texas," she says. "And the loneliest."

I take a couple wrong turns before I get to the PICU.
Some decorator tried real hard to make this place not look like a
hospital, but it still smells like one. Ammonia and disinfectant.
That smell of being too clean.

For a Children's Hospital, it seems awfully quiet to
me. Creepy quiet. In the PICU I see only one person not in scrubs,
and I think it's someone delivering flowers 'cause it don't look
like they're visiting. They set the flowers on the nurses' station;
the nurse waves without looking up and he leaves.

There are several nurses walking around, mostly
pushing carts with bulky machines or carrying medical supplies. No
one is talking, or laughing.

I'd walk right on through if I knew where Ashley was,
pretending I belonged just in case they tell me I can't be here,
but the nice lady downstairs didn't tell me the room number. How
convenient.

"I'm looking for my daughter. Ashley Babcock. I was
told she'd be here." I feel like I've said this a million times
today.

Gray beehive-hairdo lady looks up. "Yes. She was
brought in about forty-five minutes ago. Let me check to see if she
can have visitors yet." She gets up to leave, and I step in front
of her.

"I'm not trying to be trouble here, but I'm not a
visitor. I'm her mom. And I want to see her now. Can you tell me
what room she's in?"

I thought this might rattle her, but I underestimated
the amount of times she must hear that 'cause she don't even
blink.

"If you're not a patient, you're a visitor. I need to
check first, to make sure she's stable. I'm sure you wouldn't want
your visit to be harmful."

"I'm her mother."

"Yes, well. . ." She trails off.

"Okay. Go check." I give in, since maybe this
argument might last longer than just waiting would take. I look at
my watch. I give her thirty seconds before I'll start poking my
head in every door on the floor. I don't have to, though, because
beehive nurse is back lickity-split and tells me I can follow
her.

When I enter Ashley's room, I'm surprised to find
only one nurse. Ashley is sitting up and her eyes are open, though
tired.

"Hi Mama." She's quiet, but she doesn't seem afraid.
I am afraid. Awake or not, she don't look good.

"Hi baby. Did you like your helicopter ride? That was
something, wasn't it? How many girls in your class get to ride in a
helicopter?" I try to pretend it was something special, that it's
not because she's on death's doorstep that she traveled by medevac.
My voice sounds fake cheery, but Ashley plays along.

"It was louder than I thought it'd be. And bumpy."
She's still for a minute, and I think she is falling asleep. Then
she says, "Am I dying, Mama?"

"Lord a mercy, no! Don't go saying such a thing!" I
look to the nurse for affirmation, and she gives it.

"You're going to be just fine, honey."

"The doctor says she has diabetes," I say, in case
she don't know it and is just playing along with me, too.

"Lots of people have diabetes," she says, tucking in
the blankets tighter around Ashley's legs. "If you take care of
yourself and do what the doctor says, there's no reason you can't
have as healthy a life as any of your friends." She looks out the
doorway to the empty hall and then back to Ashley. "I can't say
that to all my patients. There are lots of kids who come in here
and don't ever go home, or have to keep coming back." She pats
Ashley's legs. "But you can go home in a few days, you'll feel much
better, and hopefully we won't have to see you back here."

I feel relieved by this.

She leaves and I sit next to the bed in an armchair.
The room is nice. There is only one hospital bed, so I figure
Ashley won't have to have a roommate, which also means no other
nosy parents knowing our business. There's also a daybed here,
which I think is awfully thoughtful since when I birthed Logan,
Travis had to sleep upright on a chair. There's a desk in the
corner with a small vase of fake flowers and a postcard telling us
we have free wireless. A little closet and a bathroom are on the
wall across from a large window that looks out over the courtyard.
It's like a little apartment, I think, and then realize it probably
is to some families here. And then I wonder how long we'll be
here.

"So what else did I miss?" I ask, scooting the chair
closer to the bed.

"They made me change clothes," Ashley says, motioning
to the faded blue and white nightgown she is wearing.

I reach out and touch it. "It's soft, anyway."
Softness has always been important to Ashley. Before she'd even
take a shirt off the rack, she'd feel it. I'm glad; if they're
going to make her wear a flappy, breeze-in-your-south-end gown, at
least it's soft.

"They took lots of blood," Ashley says, holding out
her arm that is already bruising. The IV from our home hospital is
still in, clear liquid still dripping down the tube and
disappearing into the back of her hand. I hold it up. It's a
feather in my hands, and I realize how much weight she has lost.
She's swallowed by the bed: a hummingbird in a squirrel's nest.

She lays her head back and closes her eyes. "I'm so
tired."

"You can't go to sleep." I stand and shake her
shoulder. "They said I have to keep you awake. Do you want water?
I'll get you water."

I reach over her small body and ring the buzzer for
the nurse, who comes almost immediately. "She wants to go to sleep.
Can I give her water or something? Doctor Benton told me she could
go into a coma if she sleeps."

The nurse, whose nametag reads "Betsy," reaches
behind the bed and rolls out a tray with a pitcher of ice and a
cup. "Here's some ice chips. They'll help her mouth. She's getting
plenty of fluids through the IV, but if her blood sugar is high it
might take a few days to stop feeling so thirsty all the time."

"Is that what's in the IV? Water?"

She opens Ashley's chart and glances over it. "We're
giving her fluids and insulin, along with a few other supplements
she's probably lost over the last few days due to the
hyperglycemia. I'll check if your blood sugars are back from the
lab yet. If it looks like they're going down, I think it's okay if
she sleeps. We'll check her glucose levels every hour to make sure.
The doctor should be back in a few minutes, too, and he'll have
more information for you."

She smiles at Ashley, laying her hand on her head.
"Is this all wearing you out, sweetie?" Ashley nods. "Then you go
ahead and rest. I'll bet your mom won't leave your side." She looks
at me and I nod, moving the chair closer to the bed so I can hold
Ashley's hand. Ashley lets her eyes close, and the nurse
leaves.

I lay my head on the bed next to her arm and listen
to her breathing in and out, shallow breaths punctuated by rhythmic
sighs, until I know she's asleep. I try to pray again, but praying
has never come easy. "Thank you for letting her live," I say. Then,
thinking about what the nurse said, I add, "Thanks that it isn't
cancer." I consider praying something about what she does have, but
I don't really understand what it is, so I stop there. I realize
the adrenaline that has rushed through me since the minute I saw
Ashley go down on the driveway has begun to ebb, and I'm
exhausted.

Suddenly Travis is patting my arm. "Wake up,
Babs."

I'm groggy. I feel like I've been asleep for hours,
but when I look at the clock only twenty minutes has passed. Ashley
is asleep, and I see the alarm on Travis's face.

"She's just asleep. The nurse said it's okay." I
wonder if the same desperation I see in his eyes is echoed in mine.
Other couples might reach out and hold each other at times like
this, but we've never been that kind of clingy, so we stand in our
spaces, each worried but too stubborn to say it.

He's changed from his work overalls to jeans and a
polo shirt, which is about as fancy as he gets. I notice for the
first time his hair is getting gray around the temples and small
lines are forming around his eyes, which look old right now. I
wonder if he's aged all this today.

"Where's Logan?" I say, and then he shows up in the
doorway. Something flickers in his eyes when he sees his sister and
disappears just as quickly behind the usual glaze. I don't know why
I keep expecting the same kid I raised to show up when I call his
name, but he hasn't been that kid since seventh grade, and it still
takes me a moment to recognize him, especially since I barely see
him these days. He is taller than Travis or me, passing his dad's
six-foot mark his sophomore year, and not a pound heavier than a
twig. His hair is shaved on the sides and the resulting Mohawk is
died pink on the ends and stands straight up. Last month it was
green. He knows I hate it, which is why he does it.

"What's wrong with her?" He tries to be casual, but I
hear the fear.

"She's fine. She's just asleep."

"Don't be obtuse, Mom. She's in a hospital. She's not
fine."

I hate when he uses words like obtuse. He knows I
don't know them. I've taken to sneaking his SAT vocabulary book
when he's at school just to keep from appearing stupid.

"I told you," Travis says, in an effort to smooth the
ruffled feathers. "She has diabetes."

"What's that mean, though?"

"It means her body isn't making any insulin, and
sugar is building up in her blood," I say, one-upping Logan in this
stupid game we play where I am no longer the adult. "She's got the
type 1 kind, not the fat people kind," I add.

"Obviously," he retorts. "She's not fat." I feel like
sticking my tongue out at him, but I resist because I am the adult,
even if I don't know more words than him.

"Truce," Travis says, placing his large, square body
between us. He turns to me. "What did the doctors say?"