to be a long way off, his voice tinny and low as he explains thereâs a problem with Kittyâs EKG. The electrical impulses that initiate each heartbeat are coming from the wrong part of her heart, a sign that her body is stressed. Sheâs also dehydrated, and her heart rate is too low, only thirty-five beats per minute. The number penetrates the gray fog thatâs descending over my whole body. Kittyâs heart rate has dropped since our visit with Dr. Beth two weeks earlier. This isnât good.
âIâm going to admit her,â says the doctor. He rubs his eyes as he speaks, as if the very sight of us makes him weary. I suppress the urge to apologize, barely, but it persists as I fill out the paperwork, as we wait for a bed to open upstairs, Kitty shivering in my arms now, fear shining from her huge brown eyes.
By the time weâre ushered upstairs to the pediatrics ward, the sun is rising, lightening the pale green walls, the hospital bed, the chair beside it. A nurse opens the door, taking us in with a professional flick of her eyesâKitty, curled in a ball on the bed, her eyes closed; me pacing, my hair uncombed, my eyes red, literally wringing my hands. She sets to work, helping Kitty into a hospital gown and into bed, talking to her in a soothing voice as she inserts the IV line that will help rehydrate my daughter. Normally Kitty would put up a fuss; needles are the one thing sheâs scared of. But this morning she lies listlessly in bed, eyes closed. Sheâs asleep by the time the line is in.
The nurse tidies up and leaves, the hospital door closing soundlessly behind her. I sit in the chair beside Kittyâs bed and watch clear liquid drip into her arm. Her face is chalk-white; her jaw is clenched in sleep. I take one of her freezing hands between mine and hold it, trying to warm her with my own heat.
Thereâs relief in being in the hospital, after the weeks of going it on our own. Itâs cool and clean, and, best of all, someone else is in charge. My job is to sit at Kittyâs bedside and talk to the endless parade of residents and interns, who want to hear her history over and over: How tall is she, how much does she weigh, when did you notice a change in her eating, when did she lose weight? I tell them she lost only a couple of pounds. I tell them she was fine until two months ago. I tell them our family is not dysfunctional, that we are reasonably happy, that Kitty has never been abused.
Actually I donât tell them that. I want them to believe it, but I see that they donât. I watch their young, transparent faces as they make notes in Kittyâs chart, notes I am not allowed to read but that no doubt say things like Mother in denial . I donât care. Iâll accept any judgment they want to offer, if they will make my daughter well.
I donât get it yet. I still think someone can make my daughter well. That this is a process that will take days, that thereâs some incantation that will reverse the damage, turn back the clock, remove the curse, and that, like Sleeping Beauty, Kitty will open her eyes and be magically healed.
If only.
After twenty-four hours with the IV, Kitty is rehydrated, but her heart rate is still too low. Sheâs too dizzy to sit up by herself; it takes two of us to help her to the bathroom. She hates the hospital meals, and I donât blame her. The kitchen sends up mountains of steamed broccoli, little cups of Jell-O, bowls of consommé, all of it unappetizing, none of it with enough calories to sustain a caterpillar.
Although sheâs not on call, Dr. Beth turns up at the hospital that first day, a Sunday, and spends hours talking to the doctors on the ward and sitting with Jamie and me. She is our lifeline, our reminder of the world of sanity and light. And so, late the next afternoon, when the resident tells me that Kittyâs heart rate isnât coming up and he wants to transfer her to the ICU,
âIâm going to admit her,â says the doctor. He rubs his eyes as he speaks, as if the very sight of us makes him weary. I suppress the urge to apologize, barely, but it persists as I fill out the paperwork, as we wait for a bed to open upstairs, Kitty shivering in my arms now, fear shining from her huge brown eyes.
By the time weâre ushered upstairs to the pediatrics ward, the sun is rising, lightening the pale green walls, the hospital bed, the chair beside it. A nurse opens the door, taking us in with a professional flick of her eyesâKitty, curled in a ball on the bed, her eyes closed; me pacing, my hair uncombed, my eyes red, literally wringing my hands. She sets to work, helping Kitty into a hospital gown and into bed, talking to her in a soothing voice as she inserts the IV line that will help rehydrate my daughter. Normally Kitty would put up a fuss; needles are the one thing sheâs scared of. But this morning she lies listlessly in bed, eyes closed. Sheâs asleep by the time the line is in.
The nurse tidies up and leaves, the hospital door closing soundlessly behind her. I sit in the chair beside Kittyâs bed and watch clear liquid drip into her arm. Her face is chalk-white; her jaw is clenched in sleep. I take one of her freezing hands between mine and hold it, trying to warm her with my own heat.
Thereâs relief in being in the hospital, after the weeks of going it on our own. Itâs cool and clean, and, best of all, someone else is in charge. My job is to sit at Kittyâs bedside and talk to the endless parade of residents and interns, who want to hear her history over and over: How tall is she, how much does she weigh, when did you notice a change in her eating, when did she lose weight? I tell them she lost only a couple of pounds. I tell them she was fine until two months ago. I tell them our family is not dysfunctional, that we are reasonably happy, that Kitty has never been abused.
Actually I donât tell them that. I want them to believe it, but I see that they donât. I watch their young, transparent faces as they make notes in Kittyâs chart, notes I am not allowed to read but that no doubt say things like Mother in denial . I donât care. Iâll accept any judgment they want to offer, if they will make my daughter well.
I donât get it yet. I still think someone can make my daughter well. That this is a process that will take days, that thereâs some incantation that will reverse the damage, turn back the clock, remove the curse, and that, like Sleeping Beauty, Kitty will open her eyes and be magically healed.
If only.
After twenty-four hours with the IV, Kitty is rehydrated, but her heart rate is still too low. Sheâs too dizzy to sit up by herself; it takes two of us to help her to the bathroom. She hates the hospital meals, and I donât blame her. The kitchen sends up mountains of steamed broccoli, little cups of Jell-O, bowls of consommé, all of it unappetizing, none of it with enough calories to sustain a caterpillar.
Although sheâs not on call, Dr. Beth turns up at the hospital that first day, a Sunday, and spends hours talking to the doctors on the ward and sitting with Jamie and me. She is our lifeline, our reminder of the world of sanity and light. And so, late the next afternoon, when the resident tells me that Kittyâs heart rate isnât coming up and he wants to transfer her to the ICU,
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