Cicadian Rhythm

Click. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, drip, drip, drip. Click. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, drip, drip, drip. Click. One one thousand, two one thousand . . .  The soft modulating sound emanating from Anthony’s I-Med regulator that controls his IV’s and the white noise from the room’s air filter are the only sounds in the room as we enter into Day 7 of the battle. Anthony is asleep. Only the night light guides as I tip toe around his bed to my post in the corner. Sleepy eyes open slightly and he whispers, “Morning, Mom,” before drifting back to sleep. As I backtrack to his bed to kiss his forehead my Motherly Third Eye quickly scans his body, checks his face to see if sunken cheeks have filled in any more, observes skin color; he looks good. Thank you, God.

I have just come up from one of the three sleeping rooms the hospital keeps hidden for stressed out family members and for which I am extremely grateful. It’s obvious it was a good night because of the amount of medical debris left from the night shift – cellophane packs, needle guards, extra tubes, gauze wrappers, tiny rubbery blue things. Not much here to speak of compared to the previous nights’ fragments which at times have been mountainous; the smaller the pile, the better. The debris is left behind after a crisis moment when the Call button has been hit and nurses rush in to calm the pain that doubles Anthony’s  retching, hacking body into a fetal position.  Bodies bend over him, packets are ripped open, IV bags are checked before the line is opened to accept relief from syringes, tubing is adjusted, voices ask – “How we doing, Anthony? Are you feeling it yet?” In their exacting haste, they don’t think about the debris and so I have learned to read it – I can tell how many of those crisis moments he’s had by what is in the pile; I am glad they leave it all behind for the morning shift to clear away – it is my oracle.

It is my oracle and today, it is also sign of hope; if he had a good night, it’s the first in a long time so perhaps we have rounded the corner. Just to make sure I check with his night nurse who assures me he had a good night and slept well. Thank you, God.

It is hard to know what this day will bring, but I do know that whatever it is, it will be one step closer to health for Anthony – hard fought and hard won, but nonetheless a step closer to health. And so as I quietly, slightly, open the curtains  to welcome the morning sunshine and settle into my chair to wait for the doctors to make their rounds, I link my circadian rhythm to the pulse of the room, watching, waiting, praying, keeping vigil and giving thanks knowing that God’s plan and vision for Anthony is health and peace. Click. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, drip, drip, drip. Click. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, drip, drip, drip. Click. One one thousand, two one thousand . . .

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s