My only thoughts at the time were:
What's wrong with my child?
Why can't they figure it out?
Where is the doctor?
Why is it taking so long?
Can't they see how much pain she is in?
And so forth...
An emergency room full of other sick human beings who were suffering as well as my daughter but I effectively blocked them out, angry that my child wasn't being attended to first.
(A lesson in patience.)
At another point, she was lucky enough to be given a bed in a room with several other patients. The hallway was lined with patients on stretchers, exposed to the scrutiny of whoever walked by. So a bed and a privacy curtain was certainly a lot more than some had.
Was I grateful? No.
I was angry because the woman in the bed across from my daughter was violently throwing up. I hadn't slept or eaten in hours and I was extremely emotional and irritable. Every time she started to heave I would leave the room in disgust.
Later that night, Justine told me that the "throwing up lady" had someone sitting with her named Sylvia. She couldn't help but overhear the conversation.
"Sylvia, I threw up brown."
"Sylvia, I threw up green."
Justine thought this was hysterically funny.
Other times the woman would cry out in misery...
"Doctor help me please..."
"Sylvia, don't leave me Sylvia..."
She thought this was heart breaking and sad.
Sylvia never left her side.
(A lesson in compassion.)
The following day we ended up back in the emergency room again. This time waiting for hours in a waiting room full of people before my daughter was finally given a stretcher.
In the hall.
Exposed to every passerby.
And I was grateful.
The nurse inserted yet another IV into her already sore and bruised hand and gave her morphine for the pain. She looked so pale and so very small.
(Do they ever stop being your baby?)
She reached out for me and said,
"Mom"
"Yes"
"You're my Sylvia."
The following day we ended up back in the emergency room again. This time waiting for hours in a waiting room full of people before my daughter was finally given a stretcher.
In the hall.
Exposed to every passerby.
And I was grateful.
The nurse inserted yet another IV into her already sore and bruised hand and gave her morphine for the pain. She looked so pale and so very small.
(Do they ever stop being your baby?)
She reached out for me and said,
"Mom"
"Yes"
"You're my Sylvia."
(A lesson in humility.)