Work heart, work

There are no days, only nurses and shift changes. There are no hours, only epinephrine doses and drainage. Sometimes black spreads beyond the shutters; sometimes there is blue or gray, then black again.

Guard dogs

I cannot remember what I did before Wednesday, before the sticky floors. I cannot remember before the darkened stairwells took me to breakfast and lunch. I cannot remember walking my dog in the hills. It's hard to believe that I was so afraid of that bottle of tiny white pills, those sweet pills that slow twitching and soften muscle contractions ripping through my legs. I cannot remember sucking the fresh air into my lunch; my lungs fill with recycled air from hospital filtration systems. I shiver in my jacket as your naked frame lies motionless on the bed under a tiny cloth.

Work heart, work.
Work kidneys, work.
Work liver, work.
Please.

My voice whispers into his hair and his ears and his wrists when I want to shout at someone or something. There is no one to shout at. There is no one to blame. But I understand why he blamed me for growing him incorrectly. I blame me too, even though I didn’t grow him incorrectly on purpose. My pocket bulges with crumpled tissues.

His stretched skin is filled with fluid, so painfully stretched, so full of fluid. How can I wake his kidneys besides pleading with them as I hold his hand. I smooth love over him as I graze his lovely skin. I cuddle him in my mind and relive all the hours we sat in a rocking chair in his bedroom as I pet his soft hair. I pour love into his open mouth, lips spread from the breathing tube.

Work heart, work.
Work kidneys, work.
Work liver, work.
Please.

A giraffe holds his ventilator in place. His penguins support his legs. His guard dogs perch at the end of his bed. Who can they guard against? It has only been four days. His heart needs to make peace with its new ventricle.

I am only a mother. I am only a mother. It feels as though I cannot bear many more days like this, even though this pain, this helplessness isn't new. Take my heart. Take my kidneys. Take my liver. Hear my whispers. Feel my love. Take all you need from the love I have to give. If my love is the medicine to heal you, it feels inadequate.

Work heart, work.
Work kidneys, work.
Work liver, work.
Please.

(To follow R's medical progress, visit his blog here.)