Rainy Days (third installment)

You can find the second installment here.

And in an equally emotionless tone, described the likely mortal injuries to my 6 year old child. The doctor allowed me a few minutes with Micah before the surgery. It was all I could do to walk into the ICU area. “Not my baby.” He was unconscious and looked like a used up rag doll; he was so tiny in that bed. The sight of the mixed collection of wires and machines attached to him, used to extend and maintain his life, was obscene to me. I needed him to wake up. I needed him to know that his mommie was here and that I would make all of his hurts go away, just as I have always done. I needed him to give me his brilliant smile and I needed him to ask me when he could go home. I needed these things like I needed my next breath.

I walked over to the bed, my mother followed closely behind me.

“Mama, I need to be alone with him,”

“But honey,” she started to protest. I interrupted before she could continue.

“I need to be with my baby, mama. I need to be alone with my ba” I broke off as my voice broke as a cry threatened to emerge. She hesitated, took in my determination and then complied.

I slowly approached the bed, afraid to disturb him, a completely ridiculous idea, since the doctor assured me he was in a coma and could not be disturbed by an earthquake. I took his hand in mine and started to rub gently. He was so cold! I looked for an extra blanket and not finding one, I climbed in bed with him, careful to avoid pulling loose any of the offensive wires.

I lay there cuddling and warming my baby as random thoughts of him passed across my mind. I smiled at the memory of his birth and watching his daddy pass out cold, right there in the delivery room at the sight of Micah’s head crowning at the entrance of the birth canal. I remembered the extensive, and at times, heated debates about what we would call him. Kai was thinking about Deontarious or some other such nonsense, while I wanted something simple and classy like Jared or Richard. However, all debate ceased the moment we discovered the meaning of the name Micah, which is “he who is like God.” I also remembered the little tug at my heart at the memory of the first time Micah smiled at me; a real smile, not just a grimace as he passed gas.

“How old were you then?” I mused, looking down at him and kissing the wooly softness of his head, “two, three months?” That memory led to the time when Micah finally spoke his first word and the word was “Daddy.”

“I was doing some serious hatin’ that day,” I spoke again to my son, “all the stuff I’d done for you and you call his name first. What’s up with that?” I chuckled softly and then broke off abruptly as more memories surfaced.

“Oh Kai,” suddenly feeling his presence right there in the room with them. “No baby, please, I can’t think about you right now, I just can’t.”

“Mommie?”

I looked down to see Micah stirring, his eyes unfocused, but calling for me.

“Oh, sweetie I’m right here.” I hugged him fiercely, thanking God with every part of my being that he was conscious and alive.

“Mommie, where’s daddy?”

“Baby, daddy’s not here right now.”

“Yes he is, mommie, there he is. Hey daddy!” he called out weakly, still not looking at me, “See mommie, he’s here.” I followed his unfocused gaze to an empty corner of the room.

I went icy all over. I pulled him closer to me and fought back my raising panic.

“Oh, please God, please God, noooooo.”

“I love you mommie.”

“Oh, I love you too baby, my most precious baby. God, please don’t take him from me!” I implored desperately.

“It’s gone be alright, mommie. Daddy and I always take care of you.”

I continued to lay there, arms wrapped securely around my son and prayed to a distant God for mercy. After awhile, I became aware of someone touching me and trying to pull me from the bed.

“No, leave me alone. I’m not going anywhere.” I said as I attempted to shake myself free. “He’s cold and he needs me to keep him warm. I’m not going ANYWHERE!”

“Nandi, you’ve got to let him go, baby,” my mother pleaded.

“No,” I screamed, suddenly furious. “What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see he needs me?”

I looked at her then and watched the silent tears streak down her face, as she stood in front of me, helplessly. I slowly took in the sight of my brothers and sisters-in-law behind her, openly weeping and grieving. The sound of a high pitched alarm and the nurse who worked silently to turn off the equipment, brought the reality of the hospital room back to my remembrance. Finally, I looked down at my son.

He was so still.

He could have been sleeping except that I was aware that I could no longer feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine. His face was already taking on that waxiness that comes when a person’s life force is no longer behind it. I pressed my lips to his forehead; I gently extricated myself from around him, rested his head back on the pillow and arranged the covers over around his body. I took one last look at all that was pure and good in my world, and without a word, I walked out of the room.