A sick baby

Time trickled that morning.

The sky was still dark when we lifted our baby from bed and moved him into the carseat. We’re taking him downtown today, we told him. Like it was a special trip. He sucked on his soother with wide eyes and stared back at us, completely trusting. We quickly buckled him in, we needed to get going.

We arrived and checked in with reception. They called the Operation Room and told them we had arrived. The receiving nurse pointed to a room far down the hallway and gestured to wait there. We walked slowly, carrying him down the hallway. He sucked on his soother some more, feeling safe.

We sat down and waited. And then we waited some more. The room was a quiet place, with a steady hum from the machines and the occasional beep. Several announcements came on, beckoning colour codes and mundane protocols. We held hands as we continued to wait. By now he was dozing off. He sucked on his soother, to fall asleep.

And then time poured.

The nurse came in and announced to us that the Operation Room was ready. They prepared him for surgery and within minutes he was wheeled away. They told us to wait. Four hours, they said, it will probably take four hours.

The fourth hour came and went.

And then the fifth came. This final, unexpected hour lingered and stayed way past its welcome. It dawdled and paced around in the waiting room, touching every magazine, flipping every page from parenting advice to formula ads. It sat in every chair, bouncing in the seat and squeezing the handles, perhaps wishing for difference where there was only sameness. And then, it sat very still. Palms together, squeezed in between the knees, head bowed down. And like that, the fifth hour didn’t move altogether.

We sat with the fifth hour in stillness. I stared down at the soother in my hand, it was just as still as we were.