Doctors and Sparrows

I wake to my 7:00 am alarm. I notoriously miss morning doctor visits and rounds by sleeping through them. Why do they have to come by so early? These early birds; these eager beavers. 

I sit cross legged on my recliner-bed, propped against plastic sterile pillows hospitals like to use, and wrapped in one of those hospital blankets that seem like they are going to be too light weight, yet always provide just enough warmth, sometimes too much. 

I go over the last few days in my mind; and then narrow in on the last 24 hours. Stubborn pride to fix him on my own, the determination that “I got this” along with my internal recent commitment not to spiral kept me going and trying things probably longer than I should have. 

As I reflect now, with the adrenaline of yesterday having worn off, I realize how sick I let Austin get before I threw in the towel and called for help: the amount of infection in his little tummy; his shunt catheter that leads straight out of his brain, the end floating in a pool of puss; the strenuous act of vomiting dark green bile every time I tried to give him just a few drips of water; the fact that he can’t tell me where it hurts or tell me “mom, that’s not helping”. 

So just when I am finally allowing myself to have a quiet little boo hoo over my part in all this, and absorb what Austin had endured and is enduring, of course, the doctor I’d woken up early for pops in for a quick update, positive energy oozing from him.

I try to smile (hoping my eyes reflect that because, you know...masks) and sniffle-ly ask him if he can see a box of tissue anywhere as I press the tears from my eyes with the heels of my hands. 

He steps outside the room and comes back with one. 

I receive it gratefully and wonder if "getting blubbering moms tissue boxes" is in his job description.

WHITE CHEDDAR POPCORN AND GRAPE JUICE

I sit in the hospital cafeteria courtyard; my back to the sun. I feel it’s warm hug while a cool breeze teases my face and hands, preventing me from actually shedding my sweater. 

No one else is in the courtyard; perhaps too cold for them? It IS winter (in Arizona though - can you really call that winter?) 

For whatever reason, I’ve had the whole space to myself for about an hour. Maybe the crazy girl with the frizzy, 'messy bun' hunkered in the courtyard reading on her kindle, pounding down white cheddar popcorn like she’s watching a Netflix movie, and gulping grape juice like a third grader is a little off-putting. 

God, I love sitting in the sun; and sitting in it while straddling that threshold of being too warm or too cold - ah...what's the word for it -  perfect? Glorious?

At first all I hear are incessantly chirping birds. I watch little sparrows sunning themselves on the courtyard wall, fluffy and adorable; eyeing me to see if I’ll drop a cheesy popcorn kernel. 

I switch my attention for a second, and all I hear are the overwhelming sounds of highway traffic and construction truck back-up beeps. And once I hear it, I can't un-hear it. 

I take a deep breath; ahh, fresh air. Or is it? I am literally sitting in the middle of downtown Phoenix; a layer of smog can usually be viewed in the distance on the drive from my home in the desert outskirts into the local suburb.

But traffic noises and smog don't matter today; to be outside is all there is at this moment. 

I listen and breathe; relishing and leaning into this sensation of hope and survival.