hospital etiquette.
climb in the jeep thing.
"the baby's in the hospital."
heart stops. breathing shallow. fuck fuck fuck.
"she stopped breathing last night."
we go to my brother's house, and the whole ride home my four year old niece is threatening to puke in the backseat.
i call garrett.
"she's fine but they're doing an upper gi series and holding her overnight for observation."
my palms sweat.
a couple hours later, we're all at the hospital. she looks good. she looks like a baby should.
awkward hellos and how are yous.
i don't want to hold the baby. i've been sick. and the wires remind me of worse times.
we step out into the hallway. the smell hits me. an alarm on a monitor starts going off somewhere. it sounds just like his. just like his. just like his.
dizzy and faint. the walls are breathing like i can't, and the elevator can't come fast enough. i look at the floor ... same tile, same carpet. just like his. i need a cigarette. give me an out. let me latch on to something good.
"is it a headache, do you need advil?"
"i don't think it's a headache. it's the hospital, right linds?"
i can't breathe, and i can't find my way into the elevator.
"oh," under her breath, "i didn't even think about that."
swimming through nurses and equipment again, i'm shaking and crying and crying and crying.
someone grabs my elbow and puts me in the elevator. the buttons, we had to press three. three brought us to him. the smell is just the same, and she had wires like his. i just can't stop crying, and i don't have the heart to go back to the room to see her again.
