Chapter 7: White Board
Saturday, May 22 - 10:56pm
Olivia locked eyes on room 15 at the end of the hall, the one where Betsy was, the one that wasn’t filled with some other family’s misery on full display. Nico laced his fingers in hers, and she focused on their roughness against her skin and the 15 down the hall—blocking out everything else she possibly could.
As they passed through the doorway, her spirit crumpled. Betsy looked so small, surrounded by equipment and beeping and wires. And less alive—not just because she was sedated but because the sea of machinery just… infringed on her humanity.
Olivia saw the central line: it was like the PICC line in her arm—thin tubing jutting out of her skin and secured with clear adhesive, lines running back to machines—but sticking out of her neck, looking unnatural.
She took a breath, ready to face the worst update: the ventilator, the machine breathing for her daughter.
Betsy’s nose was covered in white tape, holding the plastic headgear-like apparatus to her face, a tube thicker than a milkshake straw disappearing down her throat, the other end snaking away from the bed to some oxygen tank somewhere.
A machine is breathing for my baby, Olivia thought, willing her feelings to catch up to the new reality. A machine is breathing for my baby. And it is doing it so that she can get better and we can get out of here.
A man in scrubs was fiddling with a machine. It chirped happily, like a slot machine ready to dispense a jackpot’s worth of nickels. “Dialysis machine is just about ready,” he said. “It’ll run continuously for 24 hours. Then, we’ll shut it off while we wait for her lab results and see whether we need to run it longer or can pull out the central line.”
Olivia crossed her arms. “Strangely happy sounds for such a sad machine,” she said.
“Yeah, much happier than the printer. That always sounds like it’s about to attack.” The dialysis man chuckled,at ease. If he had kids, they were safe and whole somewhere. He looked from the machine to her, his eyes content, likely hiding thoughts of dinner plans and soccer games—something pleasant, away from the work and suffering he could just leave here at the end of the day. “Ready?”
She looked at Nico, and they both nodded. There was no chirping or beeping as the machine fired up, just a whirring sound as something inside it spun. Olivia’s eyes followed the delicate tubing that led from Betsy to the machine. It went from clear to deep red, Betsy’s blood leaving her body.
Olivia shuddered, held back her tears. The dialysis man filled out some paperwork while they pulled chairs up to the bedside, and he spoke to Nurse Heidi before leaving with promises to be back.
Nico sighed. “It’s a lot of hurry up and wait, isn’t it?”
Olivia nodded, and they fell into silence once again. Anxious, a little tense, but together. Olivia looked out the window. Antlike cars went about their business on the interstate. The PICU bustled behind her, chatter between nurses and doctors, phones ringing, forever beeping everywhere.
She lost track of time and felt her head begin to droop. Nico gently touched her arm. “Maybe you should go home,” he said. “Get some sleep.”
Home. She desperately wanted to sink into their bed. She’d only been home long enough to shower and hug Gabby and Sophia since they came in Thursday night. “Maybe just a few hours—”
She stopped short. Betsy’s fingers waggled.
“Nurse?” she asked, not turning her head. She wasn’t even sure the nurse was in the room.
“Yes?” Nurse Heidi’s voice drew nearer. “What’s the matter, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
All Olivia could do was nod toward the bed: now, Betsy was lifting her fingers.
“That can happen when the sedation is low,” Nurse Heidi explained. “It’s not a bad—”
“Betsy, sweetie,” Olivia interrupted. “Don’t touch that.”
Betsy’s hand fell back to the bed and her eyes fluttered open. She started to talk around the tube, her mouth clamping around and pulling back, spittle gathering at the corners.
“There’s a tube in your mouth, Betsy, remember?” Nurse Heidi said, her voice calm and soft as cashmere. “If you’re awake enough to say something, we can try yes-or-no questions, okay?”
Betsy nodded her head slightly.
“Is it hurting?” Nico asked, his face scrunched. Betsy shook her head, and Olivia watched some of the tension slip away from her husband’s eyes.
She licked her lips. “Are you feeling okay? Like you need anything?” Betsy nodded and started trying to talk again.
“No, no, baby, don’t,” Olivia crooned, searching for the soothing voice she used during midnight diaper changes. “You can’t talk right now, sweetheart. We’ll have to find another way.”
Betsy’s hand was moving. She pinched her thumb and pointer together, made tiny swirls in a line.
Olivia understood. She leapt up from her seat and snatched a small white board from the wall. “Heidi, do you have a dry erase marker?”
In no time, Nico was holding the white board in front of Betsy’s hand; on the third try, she was able to make contact between marker and board. Her handwriting was sloppy but legible.
Root beer
Olivia snorted. “Seriously?” She didn’t hide the laughter in her voice. “That’s what you wanted to say so badly?”
Betsy’s smile pulled away from the tubing before she turned her efforts back to the white board again.
Ramen
This time, Nico burst out laughing. “Maybe just save the dinner order for after the tube’s out, huh?” he asked.
She nodded and blinked—the long blink of fighting sleep.
“Anything else we should know?” Olivia asked.
Stay
Olivia gripped her daughter’s left hand. “Of course,” she whispered. “This room is not very well equipped, though, so probably just one of us will stay with you. Do you have a preference?”
Betsy squeezed her hand back and though part of her ached desperately for her bed and a shower and just a moment of reprieve from the hospital’s sterility, Olivia smiled. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” she said. And meant it.
Need to catch up?