![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
LJ Idol 6.25: Punchable face...
May. 5th, 2010 08:10 am"Honey, my water broke," said Galina's voice from somewhere in the darkness of our apartment, "we need to get to the hospital." I switched on a lamp as she came out of the bathroom and leaned against the door jamb.
It was 3:05 am, but Galina's words roused me instantly. I made sure Galina was okay, then got dressed with the deliberate haste one learns only in boot camp and scrambled out the door of our fourth-floor walkup with a tee shirt still in my hand. As I went down the steps, snippets of Lucy Goes to the Hospital (one of the more memorable episodes of I Love Lucy) played in the back of my mind. I recalled the comedic chaos that erupted when Lucy said "This is it!"
As I went out the apartment's front door, I knew I wouldn't do the Ricky-Ricardo-in-a-panic routine and forget my own name and address, but hints of chaos were making themselves apparent. I was acutely aware that it was the middle of the night, near the intersection of 84th Street and Northern Boulevard in Jackson Heights, and that I had to get my wife to the New York Infirmary (on the lower East side of Manhattan, if memory serves) with the least amount of delay.
As a typical carless New Yorker, the only feasible mode of transportation under the circumstances was a taxicab, which is why I ended up standing in the middle of a desolate Northern Boulevard early on a Friday morning in May, bare-chested, waving my tee shirt for all I was worth, hoping to flag down a cab. There was not a lit pair of headlights in sight. In moments, however, a cab did come into view, headed in the right direction along Northern Boulevard. I flagged it down, explained the situation, pointed to the entrance of the apartment building, and as the driver turned down 84th Street, I trotted back to the apartment to see if I could help Galina in any way.
Fourth-floor walkups are, by the same token, fourth-floor walkdowns, and getting down four long flights of stairs wasn't the easiest task in the world for Galina. Eventually, though, we made it to the waiting cab, which proceeded to hightail it through an empty arterial route into Manhattan. We arrived at the Infirmary without incident. Galina was admitted and I was shown the waiting room.
Around 7:30 am or so, I was told that Galina was still in labor and that there was no telling when she would actually give birth. As I was on the verge of literally bouncing off the walls of the waiting room at that point, I decided to walk over to where I worked, over on 8th Avenue and up a couple of blocks, and put in an appearance at the office. I bought a box of cigars along the way.
About two hours later, I was drinking coffee when the phone rang. I was a father, said the voice at the other end. The baby was a boy. "Your wife is fine," said the voice, "but the baby is having trouble breathing." I said I'd be right over and hung up the phone.
You know that cliché involving a cold feeling around your heart? Over several blocks, all the hopes and dreams I had nurtured for our child collapsed like a castle made of toy blocks and I shouldered my way through that icy grip, my mind going back to the time Galina had called to tell me our first baby had miscarried. By the time I got to the hospital, I had calmed myself down, convincing myself that the doctors were being overly cautious in their language.
When I got to the maternity ward, the information that had been given to me over the phone was repeated as I strained to look through two panes of chicken-wire glass at a crib wa-a-ay over there - two rooms over - with what appeared to be a huddled blanket inside it. I was told that arrangements were being made to transfer the baby to St. Vincent's Hospital, where there was a neonatal intensive care unit. It took me a moment to realize that "having trouble breathing" was way more serious than I could imagine.
Galina was sedated and sleeping, so I set off for St. Vincent's. As I made my way, I worked to again punch through the cold, oppressive weight that had resumed its station around my soul. I did so by sublimating my fear into a desire to lash out at the source of my fear and destroy it. While waiting for the light to change at one corner, I felt a strong, almost overwhelming urge to pit myself against whatever it is that causes babies to be born sick or afflicts them in childhood with deadly diseases.
I looked around and my eye caught sight of a face, and thinking back, I could not tell you if it was on an advertising poster or over the entrance to a church. It was a face that, ordinarily, would be considered an inoffensive, if not benevolent face, but I focused my wrath on it anyway.
Hey! You want to get to my kid? Well, why don't you go through me first, huh? C'mon, man! You and me, mano-a-mano, right here, right now! I will not let you pass! I will smash your smug face, rip out your heart, and send you back to hell!
The light changed and I was swept across the street in a tide of swarming pedestrians.
I got to St. Vincent's in time to stand around outside the building for what seemed like forever until the ambulance carrying Andrew arrived. He was in an incubator-like contraption that looked like an aquarium on top of a gurney, and he was whisked into the building before I could get a good look at him. I was strangely happy that things went as fast as they did, as I figured the faster the paramedics got our baby into intensive care, the better.
Upstairs, I introduced myself to the staff and was walked through the procedure that would enable me to see my child. Scrubbing - for a long time - with a disposable brush soaked in iodine, or something similar. A small price. Then a mask, a gown, and booties. If the kid was going to catch something, it wasn't going to be from me or any other visitor.
My first sight of our boy was of a tiny infant almost hidden by all of the stuff he was hooked up to. An IV drip. An oxygen monitor. ECG leads. A positive-pressure, oxygen-enriched air feed. I forget what else. Tubes all over the place; more plastic than child. On my way out of the facility, I caught sight of a bulletin board with pictures of kids who had "graduated" from the neonatal unit, and it caused me to take a huge gulp of air. I was among those who daily faced the thing I had seen on the street corner and who had, from time to time, come away from the beast victorious. The thought comforted me.
The next day, if memory serves, Andrew's lungs collapsed. By the time I found out about that, a surgeon had been called and had already done what was necessary to snatch our son back from the threshold of death. The next time I saw our boy, he was hooked up to even more technology, which I found pretty amazing.
Galina and I visited Andrew often during his stay at St. Vincent's; I made it a point to come by during my lunch hour, as the hospital was very near where I worked. I learned that Andrew suffered from "Respiratory Distress Syndrome," and a further question clarified what, exactly, a "syndrome" is (basically, "we've seen this before"). Day by day, however, there were fewer connections between Andrew and the medical technology that monitored his well-being. Eventually, the day came when we took him home.
Andrew just turned 31.
It was 3:05 am, but Galina's words roused me instantly. I made sure Galina was okay, then got dressed with the deliberate haste one learns only in boot camp and scrambled out the door of our fourth-floor walkup with a tee shirt still in my hand. As I went down the steps, snippets of Lucy Goes to the Hospital (one of the more memorable episodes of I Love Lucy) played in the back of my mind. I recalled the comedic chaos that erupted when Lucy said "This is it!"
As I went out the apartment's front door, I knew I wouldn't do the Ricky-Ricardo-in-a-panic routine and forget my own name and address, but hints of chaos were making themselves apparent. I was acutely aware that it was the middle of the night, near the intersection of 84th Street and Northern Boulevard in Jackson Heights, and that I had to get my wife to the New York Infirmary (on the lower East side of Manhattan, if memory serves) with the least amount of delay.
As a typical carless New Yorker, the only feasible mode of transportation under the circumstances was a taxicab, which is why I ended up standing in the middle of a desolate Northern Boulevard early on a Friday morning in May, bare-chested, waving my tee shirt for all I was worth, hoping to flag down a cab. There was not a lit pair of headlights in sight. In moments, however, a cab did come into view, headed in the right direction along Northern Boulevard. I flagged it down, explained the situation, pointed to the entrance of the apartment building, and as the driver turned down 84th Street, I trotted back to the apartment to see if I could help Galina in any way.
Fourth-floor walkups are, by the same token, fourth-floor walkdowns, and getting down four long flights of stairs wasn't the easiest task in the world for Galina. Eventually, though, we made it to the waiting cab, which proceeded to hightail it through an empty arterial route into Manhattan. We arrived at the Infirmary without incident. Galina was admitted and I was shown the waiting room.
Around 7:30 am or so, I was told that Galina was still in labor and that there was no telling when she would actually give birth. As I was on the verge of literally bouncing off the walls of the waiting room at that point, I decided to walk over to where I worked, over on 8th Avenue and up a couple of blocks, and put in an appearance at the office. I bought a box of cigars along the way.
About two hours later, I was drinking coffee when the phone rang. I was a father, said the voice at the other end. The baby was a boy. "Your wife is fine," said the voice, "but the baby is having trouble breathing." I said I'd be right over and hung up the phone.
You know that cliché involving a cold feeling around your heart? Over several blocks, all the hopes and dreams I had nurtured for our child collapsed like a castle made of toy blocks and I shouldered my way through that icy grip, my mind going back to the time Galina had called to tell me our first baby had miscarried. By the time I got to the hospital, I had calmed myself down, convincing myself that the doctors were being overly cautious in their language.
When I got to the maternity ward, the information that had been given to me over the phone was repeated as I strained to look through two panes of chicken-wire glass at a crib wa-a-ay over there - two rooms over - with what appeared to be a huddled blanket inside it. I was told that arrangements were being made to transfer the baby to St. Vincent's Hospital, where there was a neonatal intensive care unit. It took me a moment to realize that "having trouble breathing" was way more serious than I could imagine.
Galina was sedated and sleeping, so I set off for St. Vincent's. As I made my way, I worked to again punch through the cold, oppressive weight that had resumed its station around my soul. I did so by sublimating my fear into a desire to lash out at the source of my fear and destroy it. While waiting for the light to change at one corner, I felt a strong, almost overwhelming urge to pit myself against whatever it is that causes babies to be born sick or afflicts them in childhood with deadly diseases.
I looked around and my eye caught sight of a face, and thinking back, I could not tell you if it was on an advertising poster or over the entrance to a church. It was a face that, ordinarily, would be considered an inoffensive, if not benevolent face, but I focused my wrath on it anyway.
Hey! You want to get to my kid? Well, why don't you go through me first, huh? C'mon, man! You and me, mano-a-mano, right here, right now! I will not let you pass! I will smash your smug face, rip out your heart, and send you back to hell!
The light changed and I was swept across the street in a tide of swarming pedestrians.
I got to St. Vincent's in time to stand around outside the building for what seemed like forever until the ambulance carrying Andrew arrived. He was in an incubator-like contraption that looked like an aquarium on top of a gurney, and he was whisked into the building before I could get a good look at him. I was strangely happy that things went as fast as they did, as I figured the faster the paramedics got our baby into intensive care, the better.
Upstairs, I introduced myself to the staff and was walked through the procedure that would enable me to see my child. Scrubbing - for a long time - with a disposable brush soaked in iodine, or something similar. A small price. Then a mask, a gown, and booties. If the kid was going to catch something, it wasn't going to be from me or any other visitor.
My first sight of our boy was of a tiny infant almost hidden by all of the stuff he was hooked up to. An IV drip. An oxygen monitor. ECG leads. A positive-pressure, oxygen-enriched air feed. I forget what else. Tubes all over the place; more plastic than child. On my way out of the facility, I caught sight of a bulletin board with pictures of kids who had "graduated" from the neonatal unit, and it caused me to take a huge gulp of air. I was among those who daily faced the thing I had seen on the street corner and who had, from time to time, come away from the beast victorious. The thought comforted me.
The next day, if memory serves, Andrew's lungs collapsed. By the time I found out about that, a surgeon had been called and had already done what was necessary to snatch our son back from the threshold of death. The next time I saw our boy, he was hooked up to even more technology, which I found pretty amazing.
Galina and I visited Andrew often during his stay at St. Vincent's; I made it a point to come by during my lunch hour, as the hospital was very near where I worked. I learned that Andrew suffered from "Respiratory Distress Syndrome," and a further question clarified what, exactly, a "syndrome" is (basically, "we've seen this before"). Day by day, however, there were fewer connections between Andrew and the medical technology that monitored his well-being. Eventually, the day came when we took him home.
Andrew just turned 31.
