Note: All medical details were researched for the time they were set, much of it has changed with the times, and things varied a lot from hospital to hospital back then. Hey, what doesn't? *G* So, your mileage may vary... that having been said, enjoy. This particular piece was a bit of an experiment for me; I hope it worked. :-D
Audrey Lynne
Well, tonight thank God it's them instead of you.
I kind of ignored most of the music from the 80's, but when the money was for a good cause, I'd buy a copy of something. And, now, when I least expect it, a line from one of those songs comes back to me. Thank God it's them instead of you. And, now, though I feel terribly guilty for doing so, I am. I'm sitting here, listening to a Code Blue being paged down the hall -- knowing that someone is dying. It could be someone's daughter, someone's son... someone's father or mother... but I thank every deity I can think of that it's not Blair. I don't know what I'd do if it were Blair.
Don't get me wrong; I don't wish death or destruction on anyone. But, if it's going to happen, I just pray it isn't my son. He's already been through enough.
My first instinct is to point out to him that this is why he shouldn't be working with those pi-- er, police officers. I was worried he'd get hurt, and I was right to worry. He's in the hospital now, and it was because of his connection to them. But, really, it could have happened to anyone who happened to be standing in that bullpen at that time. Blair just happened to be that one. He wouldn't hear me anyway, if I did tell him. He might hear my words, even in that coma, but he wouldn't listen. He loves that life too much.
My son -- my baby. He's lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and needing a ventilator to breathe -- all because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He happened to be standing at the desk when some jerk out for revenge sent drug-laced pizzas to the police department.
I shudder at that. Golden, they called this drug. Like LSD, only "better". I know some people who'd have paid a pretty penny for it. In my day, I might have given it a try, myself. Frankly, I wasn't much into the acid scene -- if I did take anything, I preferred marijuana, but... those days are long past. I never did much of anything after Blair came along, anyhow. He was a handful enough when my mind was perfectly clear. Most of us didn't realize what we were doing to our bodies then. Those who did realize it were usually too far gone to care.
But what really scares me -- what terrifies me, in fact -- is that I know that if we'd HAD the idea of lacing a pizza and sending it to the pigs (sorry, police... old habits die hard), we'd have done it in a heartbeat. True, we wouldn't have put a lethal dose on it. We weren't THAT bad -- at least, not the people I associated with. I heard what Blair did when he was dosed with this crap, though. My gentle, peace-loving son was so terrified by the visions he saw that he felt he had to use a gun to protect himself. What disaster might have ensued if it had been a seasoned officer, not afraid to use a weapon -- and trained to do so? And what if someone had more than a couple of slices? Someone might have overdosed. Someone might have been in the same condition my son is now, because of us.
I suppose the thing that matters in the end is that we never did anything like that. I can't dwell on the 'what ifs'. It only builds up negative energy.
Jim isn't here now. They forced him to go home; his captain drove him. I'm glad -- not that he's gone, but that he's getting some rest. He needs it. He looked like hell. I know he's a cop, but I'm starting to develop a bit of a soft spot for James Ellison. Not romantically -- Blair would have a fit -- but... friendship, perhaps? Maybe it's a hint of maternal tendencies creeping up on me again? Jim's trying to pretend like everything's all right with him, but I know he's blind. Blair mentioned it to me when we talked on the phone, just a few days ago. That was because of this damn Golden stuff, too. Hopefully, it will wear off and Jim will get his sight back. Hopefully, Blair will wake up.
No, I don't just want him to wake up. I'm worried about the brain damage possibilities that the doctors have mentioned. That stupid drug might very well have destroyed a brilliant mind, and we won't know until Blair wakes up. My heart tells me that's not the case. I hope I'm right.
I reach out to stroke Blair's cheek, and I'm reminded of times past. This isn't the first time I've seen him on a ventilator. That had nothing to do with the police. There was nothing any of us could really have done to change circumstances -- it was just bad luck and bad timing. I'm longing to hold him, but I can't. I couldn't then, either. But at least this time I can touch him. I can hold his hand.
And you'd better believe I'm going to.
The vent hisses again, as it forces oxygen into his lungs. It's keeping him alive right now, while his body recovers. The sound hasn't changed much in twenty-eight years. It doesn't seem like that long, some days. Other days, when I see him in his prime -- as he normally is -- bouncing everywhere, talking a mile a minute about things that I might never understand... those times; it seems like an eternity ago. A lifetime. And it was, really.
It was Blair's lifetime.
I reach out to brush a lock of Blair's hair from his face. His hair hasn't always been this long and beautiful. Despite what everyone seems to assume, he actually didn't have any hair when he was born. His friends find that amusing when I tell them. I do too, after the fact. But, then...
Well, I'm as scared now as I was then. And that's saying a lot.
May 1969
Down on my knees again tonight
I'm hoping this prayer will turn out right
See, there is a boy that needs Your help
I've done all that I can do myself.
Despite being raised Jewish, and despite the fact that she'd decided to expose her child to the basics of the faith, Naomi Sandburg had never been terribly religious. It was one of the reasons she had left home. Her parents were, and they reacted badly whenever she didn't seem terribly enthusiastic about some ritual or another. Naomi had always felt that all of the beliefs in the world worked best together when viewed as being merely different, not wrong or right. They should work in harmony, not opposition. So when a group of free-spirited young men and women not much older than herself, preaching peace, love and harmony, rolled into town... she couldn't help but be fascinated. Her father had forbidden her to see those "hippie freaks" again once he'd found out -- as long as she was living under his roof. So she decided that she wouldn't live under his roof. She packed up her most important possessions, and gone to live with her new friends. That had been last February. Her life hadn't been the same since.
Then, later that year, she'd discovered that she was pregnant. Naomi had been nervous about telling people. She loved the idea, even if the idea of motherhood did make the seventeen-year-old a touch nervous -- the thought that she'd spend the next eighteen years responsible for another human being. Eighteen years. She wasn't even eighteen years old. Part of her nervousness was related to the knowledge that her parents would have absolutely freaked if they'd known. But they weren't there, and the members of the community she was in at the time loved the idea of a baby on the way. To them, it was a new life to be celebrated, not a mistake to be ostracized.
And that baby was the very reason Naomi had found herself on her knees, praying desperately to a God she had never paid much attention to since her childhood. Other than the whole 'trying to avoid damnation' part, she hadn't had a reason to. Now, her reason was also her world.
"Please..." she whispered, the sobs shaking her slight frame, "just take care of him, okay? Please. That's my baby. He's the only family I have anymore."
A nurse came up to Naomi and wrapped a gentle arm around her. "Sweetheart, you really should get back to your room. This kind of stress isn't good for you.... you just had a baby yesterday."
"I know that!" Naomi snapped, looking up. "I know! Why do you think I'm here?! I want to be with him." Teen angst, raging hormones, and a sick baby did nothing for one's emotional stability.
Things had been going well with her pregnancy, until just the day before. No one knew the exact reasons why, but many teenage mothers statistically delivered earlier. The general thought was that their bodies, though capable, weren't ready to carry a child just yet. Whatever the reason, Naomi had found herself in labor two months prematurely. Her July baby had arrived in May. He was a fighter, and he was hanging on. But just barely.
She hadn't named him yet. In a way, she was afraid to. Naomi worried that if she named him, if she let her hopes get too high, he wouldn't survive and she'd be that much more devastated. For the first time since she'd run away, she wanted her mother to be there. She wanted someone to hold her and tell her everything would be all right. She'd have to settle for the kindly nurse who was embracing her at the moment.
"I want to be with him," Naomi repeated.
The nurse nodded. "All right. I understand. But only for ten more minutes, and you use that wheelchair. Then you're going back to your room to rest, young lady." Her gentle tone softened the words. "You can see him again later, and we'll be sure to call you if anything changes."
Naomi nodded, brushing the tears from her eyes. She knew to take what she could get. "Okay."
"Have you thought of a name?" the nurse, whose name tag said 'Greta', asked.
Naomi shook her head. "I was going to name a girl Raven, but I hadn't thought of anything for a boy yet."
"Well, you've got time, honey. That little boy handles being called 'sweetie' just fine for the moment." Greta smiled as she helped Naomi into the nearby wheelchair. "Why 'Raven'?"
"Raven Lenore," Naomi answered. She shrugged. "I like Poe."
Greta chuckled. "It's creative, at least."
Naomi nodded as she was escorted into the neonatal intensive care unit. Unlike the nursery across the hall, which was filled with wailing infants, this room was deathly quiet. All of the babies in here were so fragile... all their energies were focusing on just getting well. Naomi knew that not all of these babies would go home... and she didn't want to think about the possibility that her baby might be one of those who didn't. He was so tiny, and frail...
The glass walls of the incubator seemed almost like a prison, but it didn't seem to bother the infant any. He was sleeping, his breathing supported by a ventilator. Tubes and wires snaked all about him, making him look like some mad scientist's latest experiment.
"Hi, baby," Naomi whispered, running her fingers along the glass. "Mama's here."
Exhausted, Naomi leaned her forehead against the incubator as she watched her son sleep. She wanted so badly to cuddle him, but she couldn't. She couldn't hold his hand, either -- not at the moment. There were portals into the incubator, but they were used only when necessary. Preemies were hyper-reactive many times, not used enough to the outside world to be sure how to react to excessive handling. They wasted so much energy on squirming around when touched, energy they needed to grow. And there were so many times that they needed to be touched for one test or another. The doctor had explained that to her, and had assured her that she'd be able to touch him soon enough, in a few days -- when the baby had time to adjust. But "soon" wasn't soon enough for Naomi. She knew it would likely be a long time before she could hold her son, but she still wished she could at least stroke his face, hold his hand -- let him know that his mother was there and in his corner.
I sit nearby as he sleeps
Longing to hold his hand
And I try not to cry
As the tears fill my eyes
Naomi wiped the tears from the glass of the incubator as she sat up, and wiped a hand across her face again. Greta was nodding at Naomi, indicating that it was time to go. "Hang in there, sweetie. I love you. Keep fighting."
As Greta wheeled her out of the NICU, Naomi chanced a glance upward, at the ceiling. She wanted to believe that her earlier prayer had been heard. Was it too much to ask for an omnipotent being to save one tiny child?
Naomi had often heard parents say that they wished they could trade places with their children in times of hardships... she finally knew what that felt like. She'd have given anything; she'd have fought in his place, anything at all... if it meant that her little boy would be okay. "He's a pretty tough little guy," she said aloud, trying to reassure herself.
"That he is," Greta agreed. "You should have seen him yesterday when Dr. Nichols was trying to intubate him. That boy was fussing at her... sounded like a little kitten, but he was protesting, all right. It's a good sign when those little ones try to argue. The ones that don't fight scare me."
Naomi nodded, only half paying attention. Most of her mind was still back in the NICU... certainly, all of her heart was. "He's gonna be special. If he makes it through this, there's a purpose for him. He wouldn't go through this for nothing." She couldn't believe that her baby would have to deal with this without some greater plan in place.
If you can hear me, let me take his place somehow
See, he's not just anyone...
He's my son.
Later that evening, she was lying in bed, waiting for a nurse to come and take her back to her son. She was allowed ten minute visits every hour, and she took them. Sometimes, a nurse would stretch the rules and let her stay a few minutes longer, but that hadn't been too often. Naomi knew that the baby was going to be in the hospital a long time, but what she didn't know was what she was going to do once she was released. They weren't going to keep her any longer than necessary; this was a county hospital that took everyone, regardless of ability to pay. The county absorbed the cost of treatment for those unable to pay... which included Naomi. She was barely scraping by most days, though she had saved up a bit for when the baby came. There would have been no way except through this hospital that she'd have been able to pay for treatment. She had actually just planned to give birth naturally, among her friends, but that had been when the baby was due in July. When she had gone into labor early, she knew that her child would need better care than she or her friends would have been able to provide.
It was 11 pm when she saw him again. He was still sleeping, though he moved around a little bit every now and then. She wondered if the other babies were restless like he seemed to be, or if that was just part of his personality. He didn't seem to be in distress, except for the vent. The rare times when he was awake, he certainly didn't seem to appreciate that.
What would he be like when he grew up? Would he be sports-minded, or a child that preferred to curl up with a good book? Would he be outgoing? Shy? So many possibilities...
She looked up again; she'd been doing that a lot. The doctors and nurses were doing everything they could, but they weren't the ones who would decide if her son survived. That was left up to a higher authority. Whether it was the God she'd grown up hearing about or another deity she'd learned of since leaving home, some force greater than mere humans was going to make the choice. And if he didn't live... a possibility she didn't want to consider... there was probably some reason. These things weren't just arbitrary.
It was amazing, Naomi thought. Her son had been born just the day before, yet she already found it impossible to imagine life without him. She was already thinking of all the things they'd do once he got out of the hospital... of first steps, first days of school, first dates... But what if none of it came true?
Windsong would tell her to stop thinking negative thoughts; it wasn't good for one's aura. Especially around a baby. There was no sage burning to cleanse the negative energy now; they would just have to rely on chance and fate. Besides, even with sage, negativity was never truly gone. It was like yin and yang -- for every good, there was some bad. For every bad, there was some good.
Her ten minutes was almost up; it flew by so quickly. "I'll be back as soon as I can, little one," Naomi said softly, running her fingers along the incubator again. "Be strong."
When someone knocked at her room's door later, Naomi assumed it was the nurse, back for more test and vital sign checks. She sighed, and turned over. "Yeah, come in."
A blonde head, adorned with beads rather than a nurse's cap, poked in. "Naomi! I'm glad I got the right room number -- that last lady didn't like waking up for just me!"
"Windsong." Naomi smiled faintly at her best friend. "What're you doing here?"
"I snuck in," Windsong admitted. "I wanted to see you. How's the baby?"
"Hanging in there," Naomi answered. "He's a survivor, I think."
"Good." Windsong smiled. "I'll keep a candle burning for him. Now I'd better scoot before Nurse Brunhilda at the desk finds out I'm here." Offering a quick peace sign, Windsong disappeared as quickly as she'd come.
Naomi settled back against the pillows, glancing at the battered paperback lying on the bedside table. It hadn't been there before, and she picked it up. Selected Works of Edgar Allen Poe. Naomi shook her head, smiling fondly. It must have been Greta.
A nurse came into the room a moment later. "Can I get you anything?"
Naomi shook her head. "No, not right now, thanks. But next time you see Greta, could you tell her I'd like to thank her?"
"Greta?" The nurse frowned. "I've worked here twenty years... we don't have a Greta on this floor..." Then she shrugged. "Maybe she was on loan from another floor. I'll let her know if I see her."
"Thanks." Naomi frowned. Maybe it was just that simple. But... hadn't Greta been telling her about the baby's behavior yesterday? This nurse had been on duty then; Naomi recalled seeing her. "Weird."
Maybe it wasn't so weird... she remembered an old passage, about entertaining angels unaware...
Suddenly, Naomi had a feeling that her son was going to be all right. She offered a silent thanks to anyone listening, then began to flip through the book. She didn't think she'd be getting much sleep anyway.
1997
I've lost more than a few minutes to memories, thinking back on Blair's first few days. I never did find out more about Greta... and I'm not sure I want to. I like thinking that she was an angel. Even if it wasn't the heavenly kind, she was an angel to me.
In my hand is that same book. I'd offered it back to the hospital staff, but they'd told me that they had multiple copies in the hospital's reading library, and to just keep it. It was put out by Meadows Publishing... which is how Blair got his name. I was looking for male names with "meadow" as a meaning (there aren't many)... and stumbled upon "Blair". It seemed to suit him.
Now, it seems we're back at the beginning... but, as I'd noted earlier, I can touch him this time, and hold his hand. And, even though I was just stopping in Cascade on my way to a retreat in Vancouver, I'll stay as long as I have to. I won't leave him. His going to Rainier at 16 was his own decision... I didn't stop him, but I wasn't the one who sent him away. I suppose I never did let go completely.
I've got a lot to process, still, about the police department... and life in general. There will be time later -- right now, my baby needs me. He'll always be my baby.
Jim's back; he's on the other side of the bed. He still looks terrible, but he's not leaving again until Blair wakes up. Fortunately, Blair's out of Intensive Care, so we can stay as long as we like. I don't think any of us is ready to handle ten minutes every hour right now. Some things never do change.
Jim's sitting forward now, an expectant look on his face. "Chief? Hey, are you coming back to us, buddy? Come on..."
I frown suddenly, and look at Blair's face... sure enough, his eyelids are fluttering. But how could Jim see... I suddenly realize that Blair's hand is no longer limp in mine. He's holding my hand -- and he's not letting go. He's doing the same to Jim. "Blair? Sweetie?" I admit; calling him "sweetie" for nearly two weeks of his life did kind of stick. I call him that more than I do his name, almost. "You can do it."
Blair's eyes open, and he at first blinks against the light... but then he seems to focus on Jim and me. I have to laugh at the face he makes once he notices the vent. It's not something one grows to love. "I'll call your doctor. We'll see about getting that out."
He nods, and I offer Jim a grin. I don't care if he's not going to see it -- or, maybe he has his sight partially back, and he will. "This is great. Just great." I hug him quickly before dashing out of the room. Jim smiles back, and I'm only able to catch some of what he says -- something about the people responsible. He's fumbling for his phone as he turns to leave, but not before squeezing Blair's arm. "Welcome back."
Blair never did outgrow his affinity for getting into scrapes as a child... a friend of mine once said he had the best bad luck in the world -- he always managed to bounce back. Looks like he's done it once more.
I just hope like hell he doesn't have to do it again.
The End
BTW -- most of the song lyrics are from "He's My Son" by Mark Schultz -- they're different from the original version; this version was the one I first heard. I later found out that the singer had adapted them for her situation, but they worked for this one, too