little hand.
Sometimes the little princess gazed out across the landscape and imagined that all the little glass castles housed her own big family. Brothers and sisters, all hers, spilling down the hill. Sometimes their small sounds reached her ears: a cry, a cough, a shifting in a cot. On rare occasions The Sorcerer would appear in a great white cloak. Then he would poke and prod the little princess. Sometimes he brought other Sorcerers and they stood around her glass castle and talked and argued, as if she were the star of a great drama unfolding beyond her walls, and her observers could not agree on which part she should play. On these days, long into the afternoon, the little princess watched The Sorcerers touring the castles dotting the countryside, pausing to debate at each one, though never conferring with those inside.
Oh, how the little princess longed to venture out into the world beyond the hill of castles.
A stiff north wind blows me through the parking lot, Foothills Hospital rising against a barren landscape. I have the urge to march around the fortress seven times, like Joshua did Jericho, singing âThe Song of the Captives,â and the walls will come tumbling down. A strange mélange of patients cowers against the building, smoking. Two clutch their intravenous poles as though the wind might lift them, a woman with a broken foot, grounded by her cast, two bundles in wheelchairs wrapped against the wind. They stare, flicking their cigarettes and their heads, like horses, to sail the smoke away.
I plunge in the door. The foyer cold. Take a breath to prepare myself for Dr. Martens, Dr. Vanioc, Dr. Whoever. Dr. Norton, whose eyes filled with tears the few times she spoke with me, quit two weeks ago. She wasnât cut out for this, a nurse said. She left to write a book.
Weâre still trying to understand what the babyâs problems entail, the doctors say, shifting from foot to foot.
Itâs too early to tell.
Itâs only been a week, ten days, a month, six weeks, ten weeks.
Isnât this their job?
I take the elevator to the fifth floor, ride it with a man and a sullen child who glowers and sucks his thumb. On the fourth floor, the two exit, the child wailing, Are they gonna hafta kill me?
No one in the scrub room this morning.
I step into the hum of motors and activity. Dr. Vanioc and a doctor I donât recognize step out. They hold the door open for a mother. First-timer. No eye contact. Lowered head. Stunned. Like a caught criminal entering the light of jail. I donât belong here! No words, no parole. I have the urge to slap the womanâs bottom. Youâre IT. Run! Youâre the loser! The way Winnie Peters used to flee the classroom hyperventilating, and hide in the bathroom, her mind a dyslexic nightmare, trying to straighten out the letters of a spelling quiz.
Na na. You birthed a preemie . The power of a label.
Lately life-away-from-the-hospital is a tie for moments of hospital life. Friends, mere acquaintances trying for really nice. Their gusty breaths, their strapped-on smiley faces.
Good thing sheâs just a baby. If she goes, you wonât have had her long enough to get too attached.
I bet youâll be glad when this is over. As if this is a minor irritation, like a traffic tie-up.
Weâre praying. Though weâre not sure what to pray for.
Well, we sure wish we could have seen her. Past tense. Too late now .
Does your baby make strange?
Ha. No, she reaches out. She loves the needle stabs, the hole chopped in her stomach, oozing fluid that shouldnât ooze, the tube stuck up her nose, another jammed down her throat. Tough love. You know? Just part of growing up.
I wind through the crowded aisles, past ragged babies with taped-up noses, tubes disappearing in and out of openings, arms bound against chests, arms flung over heads. So much laboured breathing. Babies on their backs. On stomachs. Drawn knees. Furrowed foreheads. Their
Sometimes the little princess gazed out across the landscape and imagined that all the little glass castles housed her own big family. Brothers and sisters, all hers, spilling down the hill. Sometimes their small sounds reached her ears: a cry, a cough, a shifting in a cot. On rare occasions The Sorcerer would appear in a great white cloak. Then he would poke and prod the little princess. Sometimes he brought other Sorcerers and they stood around her glass castle and talked and argued, as if she were the star of a great drama unfolding beyond her walls, and her observers could not agree on which part she should play. On these days, long into the afternoon, the little princess watched The Sorcerers touring the castles dotting the countryside, pausing to debate at each one, though never conferring with those inside.
Oh, how the little princess longed to venture out into the world beyond the hill of castles.
A stiff north wind blows me through the parking lot, Foothills Hospital rising against a barren landscape. I have the urge to march around the fortress seven times, like Joshua did Jericho, singing âThe Song of the Captives,â and the walls will come tumbling down. A strange mélange of patients cowers against the building, smoking. Two clutch their intravenous poles as though the wind might lift them, a woman with a broken foot, grounded by her cast, two bundles in wheelchairs wrapped against the wind. They stare, flicking their cigarettes and their heads, like horses, to sail the smoke away.
I plunge in the door. The foyer cold. Take a breath to prepare myself for Dr. Martens, Dr. Vanioc, Dr. Whoever. Dr. Norton, whose eyes filled with tears the few times she spoke with me, quit two weeks ago. She wasnât cut out for this, a nurse said. She left to write a book.
Weâre still trying to understand what the babyâs problems entail, the doctors say, shifting from foot to foot.
Itâs too early to tell.
Itâs only been a week, ten days, a month, six weeks, ten weeks.
Isnât this their job?
I take the elevator to the fifth floor, ride it with a man and a sullen child who glowers and sucks his thumb. On the fourth floor, the two exit, the child wailing, Are they gonna hafta kill me?
No one in the scrub room this morning.
I step into the hum of motors and activity. Dr. Vanioc and a doctor I donât recognize step out. They hold the door open for a mother. First-timer. No eye contact. Lowered head. Stunned. Like a caught criminal entering the light of jail. I donât belong here! No words, no parole. I have the urge to slap the womanâs bottom. Youâre IT. Run! Youâre the loser! The way Winnie Peters used to flee the classroom hyperventilating, and hide in the bathroom, her mind a dyslexic nightmare, trying to straighten out the letters of a spelling quiz.
Na na. You birthed a preemie . The power of a label.
Lately life-away-from-the-hospital is a tie for moments of hospital life. Friends, mere acquaintances trying for really nice. Their gusty breaths, their strapped-on smiley faces.
Good thing sheâs just a baby. If she goes, you wonât have had her long enough to get too attached.
I bet youâll be glad when this is over. As if this is a minor irritation, like a traffic tie-up.
Weâre praying. Though weâre not sure what to pray for.
Well, we sure wish we could have seen her. Past tense. Too late now .
Does your baby make strange?
Ha. No, she reaches out. She loves the needle stabs, the hole chopped in her stomach, oozing fluid that shouldnât ooze, the tube stuck up her nose, another jammed down her throat. Tough love. You know? Just part of growing up.
I wind through the crowded aisles, past ragged babies with taped-up noses, tubes disappearing in and out of openings, arms bound against chests, arms flung over heads. So much laboured breathing. Babies on their backs. On stomachs. Drawn knees. Furrowed foreheads. Their
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