I know that I’ve put up a lot of posts about my son and his disabilities, and I appreciate the indulgence of all our readers as I work through my struggles.  This post however, is more of a writing exercise than an analysis of my current situation.  Brittney Carman gave an excellent writing workshop at the most recent Segullah retreat, and this is what came out of it. Thanks Brittney!

I doze in the sleeper chair next to my son’s bed in the pediatric critical care unit, my mind monitoring the room:  the beeping of the IV pump, my son’s ragged, labored breathing, the bubbling of the humidifier to his oxygen mask, the periodic hum of the blood pressure cuff around his leg taking its regular measurements.  Caught in the limbo of his latest brush with death, I wonder if he’ll be coming home this time.  I shift in the seat, my legs stiff from lack of movement, my back, head, and heart aching.  Suddenly, a clatter of ID tags and claws on the linoleum floor rouse me from my reverie – the therapy dogs have come to the floor.  From my corner in the room I crane my neck to see a small fluffy furball followed by a larger, older lab mix, their tails wagging in frenetic anticipation.  Immediately I straighten in my chair.

Veterans of the PCU, we have seen the therapy dogs before – wiggling balls of fur and happiness, allowing themselves to be held, stroked, and loved by arms covered with IV lines and bandages.  I hear them in the rooms next to E’s – happy panting accompanied by squeals of delight.  Patients with cancer, HIV, or other diseases and disabilities are once again children rather than cases and conditions.  I see the nurses in the corridor, smiling and talking animatedly to each other, nodding in approval.

At last, I look up to see the therapy dogs’ handlers pausing at our door.  “Can E have a visit?”  I immediately jump out of my seat, my inert legs welcoming movement.  “Yes!  E would love to have a visit!”  Then turning to my son, I exclaim, “E!  The puppies are here to see you!  Look at the fluffy puppies!  They want to play with you!” in the crooning sing-song voice only used for talking to small, furry mammals or babies.  E turns his head and lets out a long Chewbaca-like howl – his sign of happiness and approval.  I nod at the worker and the smaller furball jumps up on the bed, stepping over E’s legs, tubes, wires, and equipment, sniffing, waiting for the onslaught of love and affection.  “E!”  I squeal, “The puppy loooooves you!”  E lies in the bed quietly, his body still, but his eyes dance back and forth with new sensory input.  “Can he see the dogs?” the worker asks.  “No, but he can hear them and feel them,” I respond.  I can see her reviewing E’s medical record in her mind. “Hypoxic brain injury…cerebral palsy… epilepsy… developmental delay… no purposeful movement…”  The furball looks confused at the lack of effusive affection and jumps down off of the bed.  “Maybe we should come back another time,” she says, “when E is feeling better.”  My heart sinks as I look over to my son.  It is only then that I notice the lab – his nose has nudged its way under E’s immobile hand so that it is now resting on his head.  He stands next to the bed patiently waiting.  Hand over hand, we stroke the curly brown fur together.

Related posts:

1. Not Taking Offense From Across The Fence (a catchy title no doubt)
2. Helpless
3. An Epistle to my Good Senses