“Itmeans,” she shrugged helplessly, hesitating before saying, “he just had a moment.But he’s okay now.”
Shespoke of it like it was nothing, and like it was par for the course, but thatmoment had left me shaken. As I stared at him and his tiny nose and every oneof his tiny fingers, tears filled my eyes, while I struggled to get the soundof his alarming monitors out of my head. All of that beeping. The monotonous,shrill drone. I couldn’t listen to it without being transported back there, tothe night he was born. To the week I spent hooked up to my own machines, notknowing what was going to happen to me or if I’d ever make it out of that room.
Panichad my blood racing through my veins, and I felt my heart repeatedly slamagainst the walls of its boney cage. Before I could cry, I made the splitdecision to leave. Alex didn’t need to see me like this. He didn’t need to wakeup and find me crying, when I should just be happy to be there with him, andso, I called Elle over to help me get him back in hisisolette.
Asshe fed his countless wires through the holes in the incubator, she took aglance at me and asked, “You okay, Mama?”
Wipinga hand over my sweaty brow, I nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just hot, I guess.”
“Areyou sure?”
Ilied and said I was fine and that I just needed some air. I told Alex I lovedhim and that I would see him againtomorrow, beforeIheaded out into the hall to leave. But before I could make it to the elevator,Elle ran after me and told me to wait.
“Areyou talking to anybody?” she asked, eyeing me with concern.
“Whatdo you mean?”
“Imean, are you talking to a counselor or therapist?”
Ishook my head. “No. But I’m okay, really.”
Shedidn’t look convinced. “It’s okay to admit that you’re not okay. So manyparents who go through something like this suffer from post-traumatic stressdisorder, did you know that?”
Ishook my head in reply. I hadn’t been aware of that, but after she said it, itmade sense to me how it could happen. And then, it immediately made sense ofwhat had been happening tome.
“Youhave been through a horrible ordeal,” she said gently. “Pregnancy and having ababy are supposed to be these beautiful, natural experiences, but it almostkilled you and your baby. And now, you are dealing with this, coming here everysingledayand never knowing what to expect. All ofthat is bound to take its toll on you. Ithasto.You’re only human, Mama, and it’s okay to admit when things are hard.”
Thetears fell faster than I could stopthemand I brokedown in the hallway, right outside the room I had stayed in just a couple ofmonths ago. Elle wrapped me tightly in herarmsbut Ididn’t know what to say to her. I didn’t know how to verbalize that she wasright and that this was hard. So, she just hugged me quietly until the tearsfinally dwindled and I could breathe without sobbing.
“Youokay?”
Ishook my head and replied with a humorless laugh, “No.”
“Well,listen,” she said, taking out her phone. “I know it can be hard to find theballs to talk to a therapist. So, even if you just want to talk to me, you cantext me whenever. I’m always here.”
Weexchanged numbers and I knew in that moment that I had made more than just asolid connection in the medical field. I had made a friend, one I would knowforever, and I wished so badly I could think of a way to thank her foreverything she had already done for me. But knowing I could never possess thepower to do that, I simply said thank you, as I pocketed my phone.
“Ofcourse, that’s what I’m here for. Now, go home and get your mindoff ofeverything here. Do R-rated things with your gorgeousboyfriend. Watch a movie, eat your weight in ice cream. We’re with your littleboy, so don’t you dare worry about a thing. He’s going to be fine, and Ipromise, one day, you will be, too.”
***
“So,how did the hospital go today?” Goose asked, as I climbed onto a barstool,carrying a pint of Ben & Jerry’s finest that I’d picked up at a conveniencestore down the block.
TheThirsty Goose was crowded for a Thursday night, and I wished he didn’t have towork. He had a few staff members he could rely on to give him a day off everyso often, but for the most part, he preferred to oversee things. It was his barand he liked to be the boss, and as someone who also made the choice to beself-employed, I understood it entirely. But today, I wished he’d call it anearly night, tell his cook to cover until closing, and come home with me, whereI could talk to him without the crowd and “Sweet Home Alabama” vibrating in myears.
“Itwas okay,” I replied hesitantly, glancing behind me at a gaggle of singing,drunk girls.
“Oh,yeah, I’m convinced. What’s up? Is Alex okay?”
Imagesof Elle rubbing and patting his back came rushing back, along with the shrillsound of his panicking monitors. After living through that experience,especially when it was still so fresh and vivid in my mind, it certainly didn’tfeel like he was okay. But Elle would have told me if he wasn’t, so I nodded.
“He’sfine,” I said, before worrying my bottom lip. Then, I added, “But Elle talkedto me and she thinks I might have PTSD.”
ImmediatelyI hated that I’d brought it up, knowing the horrible trauma he himself hadexperienced all those years ago overseas. Saying out loud that I could besuffering from the same condition as someone who had been to war felt like aninsult to the veterans. It felt like an insult tohim.
ButGoose didn’t seem at all shocked or taken aback. He just nodded and said, “Itmakes sense.”
“Really?”
