The word critical spun around in my head like an hallucinogen.
Isaac was to be helicoptered to our closest major hospital.
But without me.
I was told I’d have to drive.
As he was taken off in a tiny plastic cage to the unknown, alone, I could physically feel my heartbreaking. I had to just watch him go, again completely powerless to his needs.
Was I a mother yet? I didn’t know. I was without him. He was without me. I was without me.
I will follow you, please wait for me.
Crammed in the backseat of my car, pressed up against the brand new baby seat – empty of my baby – it was the longest drive of my life.
Weeping. There were no words to comfort me, no way of gaining context or perspective.
All I felt was pain. Physical. Emotional. Entrenched.
It was darkness, followed by the burn of the fierce fluorescent light pouring over me, and that disinfectant smell insulting all of my senses.
I was being led this way and that, like a marionette – hollow on the inside, relying on strings for movement.
Then there he was. He was real. I hadn’t been imagining him. Still part dream in this nightmare. Alive.
There he lay, silent.
Pumped with drugs.
Now sit, watch and wait. (and try to remember to breathe)