Saturday was a hospital day. I sat with Emma for three hours. With the Phillies and the Eagles scheduled for today, I would have spent more time sitting in traffic than sitting with the baby. Emma was very fussy. There was a new admittance who was put right next to her, and his parents came in for their first time. The man was soooo loud. I feel terribly sorry for anyone who enters the hallowed realm of the NICU, but this particular person irritated me. Not only was he loud, but the very first question he asked of the neonatologist was if, in her opinion, the fault for his baby's plight lay with the obstetrician. I truly wish someone had the sense to give these parents some privacy to converse with the doctor. I did not want to be privy to what I was sure was a lawsuit in the making conversation. The whole day was ruined for me. I felt - and still feel - unsettled. I can not help but worry that, one day, in the not so distant future, the brilliant minds most wanted - and needed - in the medical profession will no longer consider that a viable career option, simply because, who wants to put all that time, effort, and money into a career that can be ended based on a judgment call that is questioned by some lay person? My family has been the recipient of some amazing life-saving medical care in the past twenty years. We have also suffered loss at the hands of doctors who may have done better to listen closer, perhaps ask for guidance from other doctors. Loss hurts. Dollar amounts cannot undo loss. I cannot imagine putting a dollar amount on a life. Perhaps if one is seeking to pay for care for a child who has been carelessly injured, I could see the benefit. But, if I lost my child, you could lay a million dollars on my bed, and I would still feel the sting of the pea beneath my mattress - for the loss would be that pea, forever the pain of something missing, of something not right, of the child that was and is no more. Maybe lawsuits help assuage some. Maybe it is a tonic to help soothe the hurt, calm the giant "what ifs" of fear that loom over us when our children present to us so fragile and so broken in the NICU. It is most certainly something that requires the expertise of those who possess enough knowledge to say that a mistake was made. And it is something that most certainly should be done discreetly, in hushed whispers in a conference room or out of ear shot of those of us for whom it is none of our business. I do not want to be privy to your dark-side while I've got my own to live through. And, at the moment, I am trying to enjoy the light of the tiny embers of brightness that I pray continue to be stoked in my little Emma.
Just as a caveat, lest you think, "My, aren't we holier than thou!" - I do believe in the right to use the legal system if necessary to address possible malpractice. There is not a day that goes by that I do not entertain the possibility of that need in my own situation. But it will be done with serious consideration, only following the realization that it is an avenue that must be explored to address the needs of Emma in the future. It will not be a way of displacing the pain and the burden. And it will never compensate for any of what we have gone through - most especially, Emma. It will never take away my own sense of guilt that perhaps I did not take good enough care of myself. I will always curse that blasted flu that plagued my entire family in February of last year, blurring symptoms of pregnancy with symptoms of illness. Each time I enter the NICU, I repeat what has become my mantra: "
There but by the grace of God go I", simply because, as bad as it has been and as it may yet become, there is so much worse out there - the baby born with a hole in its face, whose cry sounds like the most awful wind-up toy you could imagine; the baby with the hole in the top of its head, whose cap fell off when the mom picked it up, spewing fluid all over her; the baby in bed 5, whose O2 levels keep falling into the 30s, requiring the nurses to repeatedly bag him. I could go on, but, quite simply,
There but by the grace ...
One year ago, there was a family waiting for a baby ...
This baby, to be precise. But this baby was sick - again - with Necrotizing Enterocolitis, an illness as horrible as it sounds.
This little girl was 5 1/2 months old, and weighed a mere 6 lbs. 2 oz. She was emaciated, because, each time the nasty NEC reared its ugly head, the docs took away her food. Her face was compressed from the pressure of the ventilator, which was a presence in her life for many, many months. She was so lethargic from lack of calories that she could barely open her eyes, and could not hold her head up. And, boy, was she yellow. An ugly yellow, like a jar of Gulden's Mustard had spilled and, as it dried, crusted over her body. Her liver was severely damaged, perhaps beyond repair, some surmissed. Her intestines? Who knew. There was no definitive way to know unless we agreed to have the surgeons take them out, place them on a table, and take a closer look. But, that, of course, was no guarantee of anything, since the surgeons could not see inside the walls, where the damage would most likely be found.
So the little girl lay in the hospital, far, far away from her mommy. She was tied to a pole, tubes in her chest, buzzers going off around her, other little ones with other illnesses lay sick - some dying - around her. And the docs, well, some of the docs, were not too kind about her prognosis. "Swiss cheese for brains" is one of my personal favorites. Talk about bed-side manners. 
