The Balance of Life

The Balance of Life
We walked through the hospital together without speaking. I held my dad’s hand, feeling younger than the eighteen years I was, but at the same time, the immensity of the situation flooded me, and I knew I could no longer be the young girl I wanted to be. My brother, Dan, walked a few paces behind my dad and me. Slowly, we made our way through the bustle of the hospital to elevator H. Elevator H really only went to two floors, the maternity unit, floor five, and the Intensive Care Unit, floor four. As far as hospitals go, pretty much the furthest ends of the spectrum, a floor where life begins, and a floor where many, many lives come to an end. We were going to the fourth floor.
Our feet dragged as we got off the elevator and walked down the cold, sterile corridor. We were tired; none of us got much sleep last night. In twelve hours, our entire lives had changed. The walk down the hallway was at the same time endless and all too short. We reached the dreaded door and waited. It was 9:58. As the seconds ticked by, none of us spoke to each other or to the other small huddles of people who stood nearby. The sun shone through the large windows. Tension choked the air, choked all of us. 10:00. A nurse opened the door; visiting hours had begun.
I followed my brother and dad into the intensive care unit as docile as a lamb. I ignored the others around me. Normally, I would want to know their stories, I would want to help them. But on that day, I could barely help myself and my family, let alone carry the burden of someone else’s sorrow. My dad led our procession, taking long, purposeful strides toward bed seven. Dan followed him obediently, like a soldier headed for war, with grace and courage on the outside, fear and turmoil on the inside. I lagged behind, silently telling myself that I could do this, I could handle this. As I reached the foot of the bed, I stopped and stared. I was afraid to move any closer.
On the bed lay the shell of a human, reduced to merely being a vessel that contained all the elements of a living creature. The lungs still drawing in oxygen and forcing out carbon dioxide. The heart still beating, pumping blood throughout the body. Under the skin, all the vital organs were still functioning, still performing their jobs.
“Hi Mom,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. All around me, quiet chaos swarmed. Nurses moved between patients, checking IVs, taking vitals and making notes. The intercom of the hospital sounded every now and then. Beside the bed, monitors beeped in steady, comforting rhythms as lines squiggled across the screen. The smell of disinfectant seared my nostrils; the stench of human excrement was the only scent powerful enough to rise above the disinfectant. In front of me, lay the shell of my mother. The soft hiss of the ventilator forced a comforting rise and fall of her chest. All around me, people, including my mom, hovered between life and death.
“You can move closer dear. Go ahead, touch her hand, she might be able to tell that you’re here,” the nurse urged me quietly. Bile and stomach acid surged from the depths of my stomach, lingering bitterly in my throat and mouth. How I wanted to run, to escape, but my legs carried my unwilling body forward, as if controlled by unseen strings manipulated by a cruel, uncaring puppeteer.
All of the sudden, I was overwhelmed. Every person lying in the beds around me were fighting for his or her life. Death was near, it was in every crevice and shadow, waiting to pounce and take forever. I stumbled backwards, and started to hyperventilate. Cool hands touched my arms and pulled me away from the bed, out of the overwhelming warmth of the ICU and into the icy hallway. I slumped to the floor, hands on my face, head on my knees. Again, the cool hands were there, rubbing my back in a soothing way, just like my mom always did. The tears came harder, faster, more furiously.
Eventually the tears began to recede and I looked at the person who had rescued me. It was my mom’s doctor, and for a second, our eyes connected. My eyes, red-rimmed and full of fear and sadness, hers filled with compassion, assurance and knowledge. Without saying a word, she handed me a tissue and offered a hand to help me stand up. It was then that I knew everything would be ok. Somewhere, in the depths of her cocoa brown eyes, I received some peace of mind.
“She’s still your mother. She’s still there, she’ll be back soon. Look past the tubes and machines and you’ll see her. You have to be strong for your father and brother. They need you as much as you need them.”
I took the first step back towards the door to the ICU. For a second, I faltered. The doctor quietly put her hand on my elbow, gently urging me to continue. She and I walked back into the ICU, back to bed seven. My brother and my dad looked at me, noticing for the first time that I had left. They sent questioning looks my way. Before I could begin to speak, the doctor answered for me.
“We needed a little bit of fresh air.”
She continued to talk, updating us on mom’s condition. I tuned her out and turned my gaze to the hospital bed. Everywhere I looked, there were tubes, machines, bags and monitors. Suddenly the bile rose again and I began to waver. I closed my eyes and in my mind I heard my mom reading our favorite book, (“Mama, Do You Love Me?” Barbara LaVallee) “I’ll love you until the umiak flies into the darkness, till the stars turn to fish in the sky and the puffins howl at the moon.”
I opened my eyes again and instead of seeing the broken shell of a human, I saw my mom. I saw her chest rise and fall as she breathed, and heard her heart beat inside of her chest. I reached out and touched her hand. Warm. Relief flooded my system. I knew she was alive, the monitors indicted as much. Somewhere in my mind, I had doubts. The gentle warmth was proof that somewhere deep inside, my mom was hiding. She was somewhere in that shell, waiting to come back.
I began to cry again, but instead of tears of sadness and fear, tears of wistful joy streamed down my face. Never again would I take people for granted. In that moment, I learned the value of human life. My childhood played through my mind. The boring afternoons at home, the adventures at the zoo, the tears I cried, the laughs we shared. Every step of the way, there was my mom. My confidante, my champion, my sentry, the one person who never let me surrender or gave up on me.
As the montage of memories played through my mind, for the first time in a long, long time, I began to pray. In my mind, I made a bargain with God. I promised that if he would give me my mom back, I would never, ever take her, or anyone else for granted. There was nothing more I could do. There was nothing else the doctors, the nurses or the medicine could do. It became a waiting game.
The following days were not easy. I learned who I could lean on (or in some cases, collapse on.) I tumbled from my pedestal and lost my “better than thou” attitude. I began to see that people who I had long discounted in my mind were the people I should have been befriending. The people who I thought were my friends quickly stepped back from the tragedy that had suddenly entered my life. The people that stepped forward surprised me. Those are the people I will forever be grateful for.
Today, my mom is happy and healthy. She’s still behind me, always supporting me, whether she approves of my decisions or not. I almost lost my mom. I made a deal with God that if he gave my mom back to me, that I would never take her (or anyone else) for granted again. That was almost two years ago. Not a day passes that I don’t think about the ICU. Not a day passes that I don’t remind myself about how lucky I am to have her as a mom, as a friend, as a guide through life.