Between traveling back and forth from home to the hospital, feeding Kevin, and reacting to a variety of emergencies that seemed determined to end his life before it was even fairly begun, Lynette felt on edge all the time. She knew she was on edge; knew it was making her cranky and that to some extent she was taking it out on Robbie, but knowing didn't help make the feeling go away, or make it any easier to say goodbye to her son each time she left him.
The first time there was an emergency with Kevin was only a week after he was born. Doctor Cody came into her room - she was still at the hospital herself, still recovering from her nearly fatal embolism - and informed her that Kevin had jaundice.
At first, Lynette didn't see much to be concerned about. She knew that many babies experienced the mild effects of the condition, and in fact both she and Robbie had had jaundice when they were young.
"But with premature babies," explained Doctor Cody, who always referred to Kevin as "premature" and never "a preemie," "jaundice is worse. It can cause brain damage if it's not corrected."
Lynette felt herself grow cold. She had thought that the worst was over; that having fought to make it into the outside world, her son would automatically qualify for life. Not so. "How do we fix it?"
"Normally we simply use a special light that helps the infant's body eliminate bilirubin. Bilirubin itself is a natural byproduct of blood breakdown, but premature babies often don't have the capacity to deal with it. The light breaks it down. But...."
"But?" asked Robbie, who was there as well, having taken an extended leave of absence from his work as a teacher in order to care for Lynette and the baby until the crises were over.
"But in Kevin's case the bilirubin buildup is quite massive. The light won't be enough."
"So?" said Lynette, feeling the familiar cold dread settle into the pit of her stomach again.
"So we need to do another transfusion."
And they did. The hospital again used the AB negative blood that was best for Kevin's body, rather than relying on a universal donor type, and slowly Kevin recovered from what Robbie - who joked when he was nervous - tended to call his Big Carrot Face Disease, since the boy was bright yellow until his system was cleared of the bilirubin.
But that wasn't the end of the problems. Kevin also developed severe apnea, because the part of his brain that was in charge of breathing processes had yet to develop. Normally apnea could be treated with something as simple as gently rubbing the baby's chest. But with Kevin, a mild stimulant - basically a few milligrams of caffeine delivered intravenously - had to be used. And not only that, but in addition to the feeding tube he now had another tube going through his nose - this one delivering a steady stream of oxygen to his stressed lungs.
And no sooner had the apnea dissipated than Kevin developed bronchopulminary dysplasia, another breathing condition, and had to be taken off the tubes and put on a ventilator until his lungs were developed enough that they could work on their own. New tubes were put into his stomach to pump food directly in until he was taken off the ventilator.
Then, one day when Lynette was gently touching her son through the special gloves that allowed her to touch him in the regulated environment of the incubator, he coughed and began shaking, then turned deep gray all over. Lynette shrieked for the nurse, who came over and immediately paged Doctor Cody.
The baby disappeared in a sea of doctors and nurses, and Lynette was left behind, crying for her child, as the doctors wheeled Kevin in his incubator out of the room. A few minutes later the dour Doctor Cody came out and said it looked like Kevin had patent ductus arteriosus
"What the hell is that?" said Lynette. Normally she didn't like to curse, she thought it was ugly and showed a laziness of thought she found repellant. But she was tired, and frightened, and overworked, and nothing seemed to be going right, so she used the word that with such vehemence that Robbie, who was sitting beside her, jumped in startlement. "What the
hell
is going on with my baby?"
Doctor Cody's expression didn't change, as though he had been expecting such an outburst and had come emotionally prepared to deal with it.
"The ductus arteriosus is a major blood vessel in charge of fetal circulation. It allows blood to bypass the undeveloped lungs and deliver oxygen directly to parts of the baby. In full-term babies, the d.a. closes of its own accord so that the lungs can do their work uninhibited. But in some premature children, it remains open."
"What does that mean?" asked Robbie, his own tired eyes staring at Doctor Cody with a dull, glassy stare.
"It means that excess blood is flowing into his lungs, making it harder for Kevin to breathe."
"Why did he turn gray?" asked Lynette.
Doctor Cody looked at his toes. They had been around long enough by then to recognize this as a bad sign, and Robbie gripped Lynette's arm. "Because his heart failed."
Lynette started crying. "Is he going to die?"
"I hope not," said Doctor Cody. "We're taking him right to surgery to clamp the d.a., hopefully that will allow him to resume normal lung functions."
"Hopefully?" said Lynette. "What do you mean, 'hopefully'?"
Again Robbie gripped her shoulder, but she shrugged his hand off her. "Why can't you people just fix my baby?"
Doctor Cody kept looking at his feet. Lynette had heard that in spite of his downcast facade and lack of a real bedside manner, Doctor Cody was one of the best doctors in his field in the state, so she was glad to have him watching over Kevin Angel, but at that instant she wanted to strangle the man.
"We're doing what he can," he said. He turned to leave, then stopped and faced them. "Are you churchgoing folk?" he asked.
Robbie nodded. Lynette didn't. She couldn't. She was too spent to even move at that instant.
"Then I might invite you to pray," said Doctor Cody wanly, and left.
They did pray. Lynette grabbed Robbie's hand instantly and said the most heartfelt prayer she could think of: that Kevin Angel would live.
***
8.
***
Benjamin had known he wanted to be a nurse since he was eight years old. But he nearly changed his mind some twenty years later.
On his eighth birthday he had been riding his present - a brand new Huffy two wheel bike. He had had a two wheel bike without training wheels for almost two years now, but this was a
full sized grownup bike
, or at least it had seemed so at the time. Certainly it was too big for him; he had to stand on a curb in order to throw his legs high enough to straddle the crossbar. Starting the bike was a matter of taking a flying leap of faith, jumping forward and then landing hard on one of the pedals, and hoping that he had enough weight behind the action that the pedal would crank hard enough to start the bike. The entire process was wobbly, frightening, eminently unsafe.
And Benjamin loved every second of it.
He was actually getting pretty good by the time his mother came out to announce that it was time for his birthday dinner. The birthday would be a family-only affair that year, since he had opted for the bike in lieu of a party.
"Benjamin!" shouted his mom. "Go get Gina!"
Gina, his little sister, was playing at a friend's house down the street. Benjamin decided he would not only bike down the street to get his sister, but he would set a new all time landspeed record in the process. He hopped on a curb, standing next to his bike, threw his right foot over the crossbar, and then pushed off, jumping heavily on the right pedal in a kickstart motion that sent the bike cruising down the street.
Zero to sixty in no seconds, thought the eight year old.
Soon he was going fast, fast, faster. So fast the wind was blowing across his face, whipping his long blonde hair around his face like a halo.
Then the unthinkable happened. With a sickening thunk, his bike chain slipped off the teeth of the bike sprocket, and suddenly he was pedaling faster than ever before, but felt as though he were pedaling through air as all resistance instantly disappeared.
He was no longer totally in control of his bike. That scared him. What scared him worse was the fact that his brakes - coaster brakes that relied on the chain to stop the bicycle - were no longer functioning.
He panicked. Forgetting the obvious - that he would simply coast to a gentle stop if he stopped pedaling and just let friction and gravity gradually halt his momentum - he looked frantically around for some way to arrest his forward movement.
He saw the chain link fence almost instantly. It was a logical thought: I'll grab the fence, and stop the bike. Easy-peasy.
He reached out. Check.
Grabbed the end post of the fence. Check.
Held on tight. Check.
But the bike didn't stop moving. No check. In fact, it whizzed away from him, riderless, as he stopped his own motion but failed to clamp down and retain control of the bike. The Huffy sped away, wobbling and then falling only a few feet later.
Benjamin, however, did not wobble away. His forward momentum changed to a sharp arc as he grabbed the fence, swinging him around until he came into contact with something that
did
stop him.
The something was a rock. He hit it face first, and pain exploded through his head. He felt like someone had poured molten lava over him. He popped up instantly, clapped his hands on his face, and ran screaming toward his house.
Halfway there, he felt something strange on his hands, and managed to pry them away from his burning skin long enough to glance down at them.
They were covered in blood.
Benjamin screamed then as the thought came that he might be bleeding to death, right there on the street where he had lived his whole life. Still, he managed to maintain enough rationality to continue running home.
His mother, hearing his screams, ran out of the house when Benjamin was still a good fifty feet away, and that was when he knew he
was
going to die. Because his mother, an avid churchgoer who would never dream of breaking a commandment, definitely took the Lord's name in vain. Loudly, in fact, screaming "Oh my
God
" at the top of her lungs and running to him.
She scooped him up into her arms and rushed him to their bathroom, where she took a towel and began wiping what seemed like quarts of blood from off his face. When she had finally taken it all off, she sighed in relief.
Benjamin, crying, managed to say, "What?" in between sobs.
His mother explained that the blood had all come from a cut not even an inch long. Benjamin didn't believe it. All that blood?
"Heads bleed a lot, Benjamin," she said. Then, upon closer inspection, she added, "Still, I think we may need to get you some stitches."
Benjamin started crying that much harder. Stitches were bad news, he knew. They were what you got when you were bleeding so bad that it wouldn't stop. They were what soldiers got right before they
Bled Out
and
Needed Morfeem
and
Died Horribly
. He knew because he had seen a war movie on TV once, and that happened to one of the guys on the show.
In spite of his fears, however, his mother packed him and Gina up in the car and took them to the hospital.
And it was awful. He
did
get stitches, and though he did not Bleed Out or Need Morfeem or Die Horribly, he was most uncomfortable, especially when the doctor had to inject his face with something called anesthetic which was supposed to take away the pain of putting in the stitches but which itself hurt horribly and what was the point of
that
then? The doctor didn't seem to even notice when Benjamin screamed loudly as the needle sunk what seemed like about six or seven feet into his face.
But the nurse did. She was a kind-faced, quiet older lady who was helping hold Benjamin steady through the procedure, and at the moment he was at his most panicked, she let go of him and put a calming hand on his. It was like sunshine soared into his soul at that moment, calming him, giving him peace.
The rest of the procedure was no problem, and Benjamin knew it was because of the nurse. His fate was signed, sealed, and delivered from that moment: he would be a nurse.
And never once did he regret the decision...until the night of his twenty eighth birthday. The night he was doing rounds in the NICU. He had several children he was monitoring, checking oxygen saturation levels, watching for the telltale signs of distress that would mean a doctor had to be called, and generally acting like a mother hen in her coop.
Suddenly, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. A strange pressure built up in his mouth and nose, as though he were in an unpressurized airplane that was rapidly rising into the upper reaches of the atmosphere. His ears popped.