Expect the Unexpected

Over the last two and a half years my husband has been slowly building (in his “ample” spare time) a built-in in our study. Yeah, two and a half years. His work on it is almost done. Done enough that we can start putting things away at any rate.

Last night we finally started unpacking some (well, many) home office boxes that were stashed up in the loft. We opened up boxes of family photo albums, kids’ artwork, loved novels, general paperwork, knickknacks, and more.

I thought I mostly knew what was in each of the boxes, but one box surprised me. It was a box I hadn’t intended to open just yet, and especially not now. It was a box of items related to C’s illness. Among other things, I found:

• Notes from various people, including a note from the PICU fellow, to whom we had sent a small gift after C came home. In it she thanks us for the gift, and thanks us for the opportunity to learn from C and his case.
  
• Pictures from the PICU. Someone had suggested that a take just a few pictures during the process because C might want/need to see them one day. They are extremely difficult to look at, even though I agree that it was in important thing to do.
  
• Cards from C’s 1st grade classmates. Words and drawings from 6 and 7 year old hands who probably did not understand how dire a situation it was.
  
• My notebook from the stay in the PICU with scribbles about the staff that was treating him, who needed to be called, lists of things we needed to remember about life outside the hospital (who was feeding the cats?), and some writing I did in the midst of it.

Early in the crisis – probably within about a day - my husband and I figured out something of a schedule to keep one of us with C at all times. We alternated sleep and awake times, overlapping mostly mid-day and early evening. I would sleep about 7PM to midnight, he would sleep midnight to 6AM, I would sleep 6AM until about 10 or 11AM, and he would sleep about 2PM to 5PM. We’d usually have a visit with M around dinnertime.

Although it was hard to sleep at all the first couple of days, we quickly were exhausted, emotionally and physically, and sleep was welcome, especially when we knew that the other was with our boy.

This schedule meant that he, the one with the medical knowledge, would be up and about while the PICU team was rounding in the morning. He knew what questions to ask, and it was easier for the staff to talk to him. They could speak their language.

It also meant that I was the one up during the wee hours. I didn’t mind that. It was quieter. Even with the beeps of the ventilator and other equipment, it was quieter.

I spent the time reading to C, talking with whatever nurse was on duty, or whatever friend was there with us that night. Sometimes I flipped in vain through the TV channels looking for something, anything to watch. Sometimes I just held C’s hand and looked at him.

I also wrote. Whatever came into my head, I would write.

When I found this notebook last night, it disarmed me. I knew it was up in the loft, in a box, but I didn’t expect to see it. I figured I’d find it later, read it when I was really ready, maybe even transcribe a bit of it here.

The notebook was at the top of the box. A plain white binder. I didn’t realize at first what it all was – we have plenty of other white binders in other boxes. I opened the notebook, and a glance at the words brought so much of the raw emotion flooding back.

It was already too late to close it up and forget about it until another day.

So I looked through the box. The notes, the cards, the pictures.

It was just an hour after I’d kissed that same boy goodnight. On his 11th birthday. After he’d said thank you to me for a great birthday.