Life in a Cubicle

The weeks I spent in the hospital were like the most adventurous roller coaster one might imagine. I was completely disgusted at first that I had a roommate. In the first few weeks, the women who roomed with me came and went, while I looked on jealously as they got discharge orders. First and foremost, I wanted a healthy baby, but there were times when I was absolutely desperate to escape the confines of the hospital. Soon, however, I made my "nest" and began to establish a fairly normal routine - one I would even miss one day.

Part of my survival was to decorate the blank wall that stared me in the face. I covered the wall with cards, with a collage that Lori and I made together, and with a banner that my dear friend Angela made, which read: God danced the day you were born. My mom and Amy brought me the essentials of home: lotion, make up, hairdryer, comfy clothes, and my most necessary item: my pillow. 

I was on oxygen, but other than that, I was free of tubes and wires. They only put in an IV if I needed fluids. I almost always kept the curtain drawn between the beds. I really had no inkling to talk to my "roomies." That is, until one day I was watching TV and a hospital volunteer came around with magazines. I was in the bed closest to the window (farthest from the door), so the volunteer first asked my roommate if she wanted a magazine. I was shocked when I heard the small, young voice reply cheerily:

"No thanks. I can't read."

WHAT???? You can't read???? I had already discovered, through inevitable eavesdropping that this was the young ladies second child. She was nineteen years old, this was her second child, and she could not read.

I immediately threw back the curtain between us. "You're joking, right? You surely can read," I said partly in awe and partly in desperation.

She seemed unphased by my shock and concern. Even more frightening was her utter lack of embarrassment. She was perfectly alright, or at least appeared to be, fine with her illiteracy. As a young, naive, and over zealous English teacher, I just could not let it go. My husband (now ex-husband, Bill) was urging me to leave her alone.

"I'll tell you what," I said in the nicest voice I could muster, "I'm an English teacher, so how perfect! If we are just sitting around here, I could teach you to read!"

I could see by the look on her face, she was less than thrilled and utterly confused as to why I would make such a request. She looked back at me as if I was from Mars.

"Ugh, no thanks. I think I'm only going to be here for a few days."

With that she pulled the curtain, and I was honestly glad when she was released just two days later. I could not stand the idea of not being able to get my hands on such raw possibility, especially for the sake of those small babies she was raising.

Mostly, I spent my time enjoying visits from friends and family, taking occasional walks to the courtyard (me in a wheelchair), and I even looked forward to my daily shower. It meant a few minutes out of the room at least. I was almost four weeks into my stay when I started experiencing pre-term labor. The first time it hit, I literally thought I might die from the pain. I started to get really worried about the birth and about this "no turning back situation" I had myself in.

The ob/gyn doctor on call came to my room and examined me after a few hours of contractions. He was disheartened to report that I was dilated to a one. This meant, the contractions were causing dilation, which would eventually cause birth. Thus began my trips upstairs. Up one floor was the labor and deliver floor, and any time you had contractions, you were sent up there. When I went up to that floor, they assured me they would keep my room in order for me...as silly as it sounds, this was important to me. It was my home.

The next two days were awful. I received a nasty medicine called "MAG" to stop the contractions. I was vomiting and burning up hot from the medication. I was also having a hard time breathing because of all the fluids they were pumping into me. At this time, I was 25 weeks. The doctors explained that they would, at the very least, want me to get to 28 weeks. They sent in a social worker from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit to explain to us what would happen if I delivered prematurely. 

The amount of information we had to digest, on top of feeling horrible, was overwhelming. I was scared. I had rarely, believe it or not, felt fear through my childhood illness. And this fear, it was new....urgent, protective fear. Something that I came to know comes with motherhood.

Luckily, they were able to stop the contractions, and I was sent back down to my "home." My mom had stopped in there the day before and excitedly reported that she thought I got a roommate I just might like! 

As I was wheeled in the room, I met Valerie and her mom. It was an instant connection. It was a gift from God. I finally had a friend to share my home....to share the adventure in a way that only someone confined like me could. The curtain between us was pulled back, and we embarked on a journey I'll never forget.