The
glow of the neon lights cascaded in ripples of warm air that hit the
skin unforgivingly. It took some time getting used to the heat in the
neonatal ward.
But
it numbed the post c-section backache that was making life miserable
lately.
A
line of white tents, as if pitched mid-air looked like luxury tents
for tourists somewhere in the Sahara desert, glowing blue under
a clear night sky and surrounded by gentle golden dunes that went on
and on.
But
this room was a far cry from luxury hotels. And as if as a
reminder a wail from one the 'tents' interrupted this reverie.
 |
| Nothing luxurious about phototherapy beds. Just a fanciful thought. |
In
a flash a woman stood up from the floor, lifted the sheet from the
tent, and scooped out a naked infant, bawling for attention. The
white sheet lying between the glass and the infant was soaked in
yellowish fluid. It was a good sign that the few days old baby was
recovering from jaundice. Phototherapy was working in breaking down
the bilirubin into a substance that could be digested and excreted
with other wastes.
It
was good to see infants recovering in the neonatal ward but the
overpowering feeling of sadness couldn't be ignored. There seem to be, in the air, a
consolidated sadness of parents and family members of the tiny
helpless patients.
So
as I sat on the floor behind the phototherapy bed where my four-day
old son was getting treatment, tears welled up my eyes.
Just
then my sister and her husband walked by to say they were leaving.
"Are you crying?" she asked. I said no. "Come on, I
can see the tears glisten under the blue light," she said,
trying to bring some relief to the tense moment. Tears started
streaming down. "Well there's no reason," I said. "I
am just crying."
It was the truth. And a lie too.
The
drop in hormones after delivery was to be blamed, or so I've learned. It's called postpartum blues or baby blues. It was second pregnancy and
repeat c-section for me, but the blues caught me off guard this time
around.
Just
a couple of months back, a friend was caught in a
similar overpowering emotion that she simply sat on the bed in the
ward and let tears roll down when her brother-in-law came in. "Don't
cry," he'd consoled her, and instinctively handed her the
chocolate he was eating. "Here, have some chocolate," he
said.
She
narrated the incident like it didn't matter and I felt much better.
Over
the days, weeks and months such a situation could ease up and become
only a memory. It meant, even for me it should only be a phase I'd
overcome and become a 'been there, done that' moment.
The
other day, as the milk came in and the breasts became engorged, I was
overcome with a powerful emotion that I simply let tears roll. It was
an 'Alice in Wonderland' moment. I felt like a giant crying gigantic
tears, which were more powerful and capable of wetting the cloth than
the milk I was expressing to get some relief.
I
found myself unable to explain, so I blamed it on the engorgement. I simply felt blue.
Back in the neonatal ward, in
the mothers room were baskets containing hot bottles and food,
relatives with grim and tired faces, and mothers recovering
from labour and c-section. Most mothers preferred to sleep on
mattress laid near infant's treatment bed. The two rooms, while
identical were the opposite in terms of cleanliness.
The
neonatal room was spick-and-span. The mother's room looked like a
dharamshala. Without a bed I
had to find a corner to stack my mattresses.
I
sat on a bed of a stranger when I had to eat. My mother had sent
soup, rice and scrambled eggs. And as I sipped on the soup, I couldn't
help but let my lips curl down, like that of the fish in an aquarium
I'd been face to face while stealing shots with a camera.
Outside,
we could see the parking lot near the ER. It was a cloudy day
matching my spirit and the spirit inside the ward.
I
looked around the room and saw tired sleepy eyes, some nodding away
while others looked stoned with worry and sadness. A parent draped in a gown, worn while entering the ICU trudged in and plonked on the bed, only to be called back to the ICU again.
Something was
desperately required to lift the spirit here. With each mouthful I blinked tears away.
The
mood was so much different here than in the maternity ward where
mothers and fathers cooed to their newborns and happy relatives visited with
gifts and food.
The
neonatal had the saddest aura about it and it didn't help for I had the blues.
Entering
the phototherapy room was a task. I'd simply ignore the first few
beds in the phototherapy where infants lay naked with tubes running through their nose
and hand. They looked helpless with their tiny fingers and toes, limbs
and arms. I dreaded what it'd be like in the ICU.
The
two days and nights spent at the neonatal ward dragged. Everyone in the ward desperately wanted to leave, but not without their
little ones safe and sound.
Day
two in the ward was a Sunday and the testing facility staff had
requested the ward not to send patients for bilirubin testing because
the machine was down.
So
on Monday, when the nurse instructed parents to take their babies for
the test the ward suddenly seemed bright and alive.
With the
lights out and the sheets hauled over the phototherapy machine, the
room wore a different look- a very welcoming look. It was bright and airy and not under the haze of neon lights that seemed to have a drugging effect.
After the test Leki came with the result. "It's 17," he said and my face simply dropped. I was that
melancholy fish in the aquarium again. It had to be below 14 to get a yes from the pediatrician to go home. More importantly, it indicated my son was not recovering as expected.
"I
am joking," he said. "It's eight. Can't
you see? It's scribbled on the paper."
The weight in my heart suddenly disappeared. We were headed home.
