A Long Night

The hospital room is dark, but not quiet. There's the nurses chatting in the hall, the hum of central air, and the constant rushing of the oxygen mask forcing air into my son's mouth and tired little lungs. A mask that, on any other day Darren might have found kind of cool, as it whooshes rhythmically, in and out with every breath. Very Darth Vader-esque. An IV in one arm, bandages up and down the other arm from blood being drawn, and many failed IV attempts, while nurses tried to distract him with stickers as he gritted his teeth and cried on the inside. His big toe glows red with the attached O2 monitor, that occasionally goes off in an alarmingly loud way, causing a nurse to scurry in an adjust his oxygen levels or monitor.
So that's 3. Three wires running to my baby boy, keeping him stable, keeping him o.k. That's also 3 more than I'm comfortable seeing on my baby. I'm supposed to be able to fix him with hugs, magical cure-all kisses, and the occasional tylenol. This, this is way out of my league. Way out of my control.
An entire day behind us of x-rays, blood tests, playing medical musical chairs room to room, pin pricks, all while telling him 'just a little longer' when he clearly couldn't take it another second. A day of watching my son not being able to breathe without pain, and a hundred different faces telling me 'just a little longer', when I clearly wanted to explode and cry out 'FIX my SON dammit!' Thank God, my mother came to be with us, to support us, and to give me the chance to just leave the room and cry, because I didn't want him to see how scared I was.
When they finally got that IV in, when they finally made it work, I cried and cried, we all cried. It reminded me of when Darren was born, and he wouldn't breathe at first and we all held our breath. None of us could do anything, we had no control as the nurses worked and worked. Then he cried out, and the floodgates of relief opened. It was the same feeling of relief, knowing he wouldn't have to have another attempt made, and finally, finally, the 'fixing' could begin.
And now, here we are, after this 12 hours of panic and emotionally exhausting ordeal, just he and I, and the whirring of his Darth Vader oxygen machine. He has such tired, heavy eyes, but he doesn't want to give in. A few rounds of "You Are My Sunshine" and some gentle caresses help things along. His eyelids droop, as my hand finds a sweet spot, a gentle figure eight over his brow and hair....I suddenly flashback as if it were yesterday, to a crystal clear memoryof when this tall 6 year old who now takes up an entire pediatric bed was just 6 pounds, a tiny, fragile infant. He would cry and cry some nights, and I would search for the magical cure. The right song, the right motion, the right caress; the sweet spot. The thing that would make the crying stop and the calm deep breaths of sleep begin. I would stand by his crib, crib rail jammed up under my armpit, tracing a magical figure 8 at 3 in the morning, for what seemed like hours, just to let him sleep. Whatever it takes.
The nurse brings in a pillow and blankets for me, well intentioned, but yea, right, thanks but no thanks...and I ask for a pen and this paper instead. Much more useful tonight. No, no sleep tonight, tonight I will sit here in loving vigil, alternating this writing therapy with magical figure eights when need be. With this hospital bed rail jammed up under my armpit so he can feel my presence and get some well needed and deserved rest. Whatever it takes.