After midnight in the pulsing electric

To live here is to live inside a hive of bees. Constant vibration, unresting urgency.

Breastfeeding in bed in the middle of the night, the wall literally shakes at my back. In this living place, this dying place, systems and ducts and fans and machines groan and heave, mechanical innards inhaling and exhaling.

The single, long alarm rings across the paging system. NEONATAL TEAM TO ROOM 311, STAT. NEONATAL TEAM TO ROOM 311, STAT. NEONATAL TEAM TO ROOM 311, STAT.

Said once I could pretend not to hear, drift back into uneasy sleep. But echoing three times in the space of my own private darkness, I’m left boggle-eyed. They said that for us, once. Strength to that mama, to that dada and baby. Strength.

Ten minutes later a familiar thrum approaches in the skies, grows louder. The helicopter lands on the roof above my head, deafening then slowing, and I imagine the running footsteps and stretcher wheels and yelled instructions, and bewilderment, and fear. Another family, another test of mettle.

I am buried in this maze like the smallest of solid centres in a Russian nesting doll. Surrounded by people like me, keeping our eyes on our shoes, thrown together to unwillingly witness one another’s heartbreak.

Religious or not, you resort to almost constant prayer in here. The humanity of it all just runs so impossibly thick.

The air is both stale and stirred up, pulsing electric like the blades of the medivac.

Comments

[OvaGirl]

Strength, yes. And prayers yes, even when it's not within one's vocabulary or beliefs.

Your writing is beautiful. I hope you gain strength from it and from the prayers and best wishes of people who care.

xxx

[Bon]

how vividly you bring it back. i wondered what it would be like, going back, for you. obviously not terribly peaceful.

i lived in there for months, waiting, both for Finn and for O. every time the helicopters came in, i was brought back, full-body response, to my own first arrival, the heart-in-my-mouth panic. and every time, i said a silent prayer for grace for those inside, landing.

i shudder now just writing that.

on a lighter note, you have my deepest sympathies on the food.

[Nancy]

And I pray for you. I pray very soon Ben and Mama will begin a life of normalcy, with Papa and Evan. I pray for continued strength for your family. I pray Ben will get to go home soon, to big brother Evan. And always, I give thanks for Liam's story you have given us. It won't be much longer Kate, and you will wake up in your house with your boys and Justin. Keep on keeping on!

[ashley in SC]

I pray for you too. It is so ironic that it is impossible to rest in hospitals, isn't it? I too pray you will get to take Ben home soon. I suspect you will all rest easier once you are under your roof with all your familiar things -- smells, sounds, etc. Stay strong.

I have changed my name (from twinchronicles)....each time I have written and seen it on the screen I have imagined it as a knife in your heart. I don't want to add to your pain...

much love,ashley

[Tricia]

Oh the memories you bring back for me. The "Code Blue"'s I remember as if it were yesterday.

My prayers are with you and your family AND the other baby's family. It's all so sad. :(

[slouching mom]

"I am buried in this maze like the smallest of solid centres in a Russian nesting doll."

What a beautiful image.

[Karla]

Your imagery is so extraordinarily beautiful.

[keri]

my dad spent a month and a half at the mayo clinic prior to his leukemia death. and all that you say in this post rings so true. i have to walk through a hospital to get to my office, and still, everytime i hear a call for code blue, or see the med chopper land on the roof, or see a family hunkered together with/without a doctor holding hands and whispering to each other, i remember. everything. and in a strange way, it's good.

[Kathie]

I admire you for how you are dealing with this, and I'm praying for you and your family. And I can't comment on flickr, but just wanted to say this about your self-portrait - you see knotted hair and bags under your eyes. I see a beatiful woman, a strong woman...

[Kristin]

I'm sure this means nothing right now, but you are an impossibly beautiful writer. I would hold you up against the best of the best, the great poets of the ages. Sadly, I know that the best writing often comes from a place of great pain. I am hoping all the best for you.

[Mad Hatter]

Your writing is astonishing. Important, articulate, present, and vibrant.

[Phoenix]

And in that smallest centre, nestled in a bed near thrumming walls, is a tiny baby who doesn't notice or care about all the hubbub that is so near. He's got a boob and his mama and that is all he needs at that moment. I love that even in a hospital, where life is nearly always moving along at the speed of a train, there are moments of stillness in your own bed.

[Eve]

Oh, God. Strength to you, beautiful mama, there in the trenches, surrounded by life in its most extreme state.Just know that you and Ben, while cocooned in your Russian doll, are surrounded by an infinite number of friends, sending you love and support.

xo

[Ashley]

those pictures of ben? just so beautiful kate. thinking of all of you.

[angie]

Your writing is amazing, especially in such a difficult time for you and your family. I hope Ben is doing well...

[angie]

I also just visited your flicker site and the pictures are beyond touching...I love the one of the boys on your chest and the one of the boys so close together. You have a beautiful family!

[bubandpie]

I'm just speechless, and in tears.

[m]

I guess that's what's both fantastic and tragic about the NICU is that it is so vital, that there will always be families who need it, who will fill the spaces of those who go away.

And you, the solid centre of the Russian nesting doll, with babe to your breast, passing on all the strength and love possible to dear little Ben.

[Emmie (Better Make It A Double)]

Your writing is so utterly beautiful, and brings me right back to our own (not too scary) NICU days. I still cannot walk by that hospital without my heart residing in my throat. May you be home together soon.

[Lisa George]

Your imagery is so vivid. Your descriptions have captured the tension and hope that reside together in the scary place called the NICU. As always, I am amazed at how your writing makes it all seem somehow beautiful ... how is that possible? It's pure poetry. I don't know you, but you seem to possess both earthly and spiritual qualities. You are so in touch with reality, yet your artistic spirit just soars. Thanks again for letting us all be a part of this. I'm sorry it took a tragedy to bring us to your writing. Not long now before you're out of that Russian nesting doll.

[HMFT]

When can you go home. I cannot wait for that day.

[Karen]

This is a beautiful post, and while my heart aches for all of the families in the NICU, my heart also lifts for you. Your beautiful imagery paints your family as so strong - a solid, unbreakable piece surrounded by fractures. You are in a maze, but every maze has an exit. You are separating from it, beginning to make your way home.

[shauna]

I am awed by your strength and the beautiful way you express yourself. May you all go home together soon. Very soon.

[Joanna]

To one who has never experienced the constancy of life in a hospital, you allow empathy. Wow, Kate. It must be blood-pressure raising to just listen. This, while bonding with your baby - how not easy. I am sure it leads you to thinking, over and over. I would love to know when you are able to go home. Any word? Hug that little blessing of yours and remember how lucky you are. Your vibes of strength will resonate in the place and hopefully, good things will happen to the others behind closed doors. Hugs to you; continued peace. XO

[Melanie]

A moment of recognition. Although my preemies are now three, those early moments of terror stay with me. I work in a restaurant, and a Mom with an infant sat in my station with another Mom and baby. I asked how old the kiddos were, and they nervously giggled, "Our due dates were the same, but Sam came early. He's 8 weeks old, and 6.5 pounds." I shared that my kiddos were also early, and there was that moment. A shared second with a stranger - you know what each other have been through, and what you have each seen and done with and for your children.You are an amazing Mom, and you and your family are strong. Thank you for sharing and inspiring...

[Alison (in OH)]

Oh. My. Without warning, your words took me back to endless nights in the PICU with my severely asthmatic son. Like a kick in the stomach, it was. I'd managed to forget all the hospital sounds and the avoiding eye contact with other parents bearing their own private wounds and the sleeplessness of it all. But dang, just like that, I'm there again.

You have a remarkable gift, Kate. Thank you for sharing. (I say that every time I post here, am beginning to sound like a broken record, but I surely do mean it however redundant I am.)

[Karen Smithey]

I never know what to say, but I want to let you know that I'm here every day, reading your beautiful words and thinking of you and your family.

[Yvette]

I can almost feel myself sitting by you in that room--your description was so vivid, haunting, and human.

[carrie]

The hospital is such a surreal place. I hope you and Ben get to go home soon and hear the sounds of your home instead.

[bubli]

Dear kate,

I am a nurse but I confess that I hate the hospital too. The noises, the atmosphere, the smells....I don't go near cardiac care since that is where my father nearly died when I was 12 - (he recovered but with a severe disability, 20 years later I can barely remember who he was before but I still mourn that person.)

I work in the community but when I go to the hospital I always say a prayer when I hear codes being called.

As for some of the hospital food...that just requires a miracle.

Bubli

[andrea]

Your writing continues to astonish me, so vivid and clear, I can almost hear the alarms myself.

I wait eagerly for the day that you can all be home together as a family.

[daniela]

hi,not sure how I found your blog.you're a very nice writer, indeed, and I'm as picky as hell!thankyou for sharing your thoughts and feelings.it's been ... real (sweet and salty).

d

[whymommy]

"I am buried in this maze like the smallest of solid centres in a Russian nesting doll." And surrounded by layer upon layer of people who love you. Some of whom have never met you. But who love you and your family through your writing.

Hang in there.

[MamaMichelsBabies]

Speechless, again. Some more.

He's beautiful, as are you.

Your so strong...

[Nana Annie]

You continue to teach us how to be, even when it's so hard we plough along as if in a blizzard.What lucky lads your Evan and Ben are; you are just the Mama they need. And Liam . . . he's so proud of his Mama and Dada.Thanks for the lessons.