A child lies helplessly in the ICU as her mother tries to make sense of her baby's medical reality that is full of needles, seizures, and medicine.
I sang softly
as the nurse searched relentlessly
for an intact vein.
"She’s acting appropriately,"
said the nurse,
excitement oozing through her voice
like molasses over pancakes
as the baby—my seven-month-old baby—
feebly, uselessly kicked.
The words "acting appropriately"
seared my brain.
How could she act appropriately
lying naked to her diaper
amongst so many strangers?
How could she act appropriately
when electrode after electrode
dug into her scalp?
How could she act appropriately
with her tiny limbs tied to her crib
while narcotics and sedatives
flowed into her veins?
How dare the nurse say
this scrap of flesh
was acting appropriately?
A machine breathed for her.
A machine fed her.
A machine kept her from seizing.
A machine recorded her every move,
her every thought.
What could be less appropriate?
The butterfly needle
mercilessly found its mark.
My baby whimpered
softly, briefly, pitifully.
"Yep, she’s acting appropriately,"
the nurse flashed me
a toothy grin
as if I could be happy
about the pitiful sound.
I thought of the horrible,
nasty-tasting medicine
I had to force
into her sweet, innocent mouth.
I though of the beautiful smile
I had not seen in weeks.
I thought of the many times
her brain had attacked her,
sending her to the hospital.
I thought of the hundreds of times
she had been stuck with needles.
I wondered how much blood
she had left.
I wondered when her veins would disintegrate
like tissue-paper flowers
dropped in the rain.
The "appropriate" whimper came again
as the nurse stole
drop after drop
of life-giving blood
into a cold, sterile syringe.
I sang to comfort my baby
who was too exhausted
to even hide
within the shell of a body
that could barely move
yet still feel
pain and loneliness.
My soul wept
as "acting appropriately"
sank in.
She could be lying perfectly still
in daylight and darkness forever
just as she had done the day before
and the day before that.
She could be quiet as a tomb
in a forgotten graveyard
on a cold winter’s night
for the rest of her life.
Instead,
she kicked her leg
in the most slight way.
Instead,
she whimpered
as the pain stabbed her
in her drugged slumber.
My soul wept
as she "acted appropriately"
to this latest assault.
I reigned in my urge
to snatch her up
and hide her far away
across the sands of the desert
and into the forest where no one could go
where she would be far from
seizures, needles, medicine,
and white coats.
I resisted my arms
as they screamed to hold
her delicate body.
Instead,
I held her limp hand
and softly sang
to the little piece
of her mind and soul
that could still fight
and act appropriately.
