Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass
Rest and Be Thankful by Emma Glass leads with its message as the title. Once the story begins, Laura's life is depressing, death and disappointment. Powerfully, she survives with brief moments of gratitude and self-care. A subtle reminder to rest and be thankful.
Laura is a pediatric nurse in a halfway unit for newborns. Babies with the most severe issues go to intensive care. Those who strengthen and thrive go home. Laura’s infants have three paths: NICU, home, and death. Laura also cares for the parents. In her personal life, she loves her boyfriend, but he is not good for her. How does she survive? Rest and be thankful.
Laura starts her day with gratitude. I try to love this part of the day because I won’t see daylight for the next twelve hours. I try to love London but London doesn’t love me, doesn’t love itself. I love this morning light but I can’t love the grime, the concrete, the dead pigeon. … Poor Pigeon does get a little bit of my love, but I must keep some in reserve.
Once at the hospital, Laura tries gratitude again. Not sweaty. But not fresh. I feel grim. I hate starting the day this way. I dig into the pockets for surprises. My name badge, a pen (bonus), a crumpled hand towel with a phone number scrawled on it (X-ray), a handful of saline ampoules (shit, thank goodness I didn’t take home actual medication) and a single piece of chewing gum with a little coat of dust. I wipe the dust off and pop the gum in my mouth and let my teeth sink in. Glorious saliva pours, the tingle of strong mint floods my tongue. A small spurt of joy.
Laura cares for the babies and the parents. Our baby is back in oxygen, but the cannula is rubbing the skin under his nose, it’s so sore, I’ve kept him uncovered, he has cried all night. The doctor upped his morphine, fentanyl is going in, he desperately needs a pain review today. They want to do a scan but he’s probably not safe for transfer. They should take him down to intensive care but intensive care won’t take him because he’s managing his airway, just. Mum has been awake with me most of the night.
The hospital tries to comfort the parents of dead babies. Someone has put milk in the milk jug. Someone has arranged the teacups on saucers with handles all pointing in the same direction. There are fucking biscuits. The china is bone white with blood-red flowers running over the rims, dripping down the sides. This is the death china. This is brought out for families when their children die.
Laura’s boyfriend is self-centered and not supportive. Your eyes are on me. I tear the bread and dip it in the soup. I chew slowly, quietly, the butter melts on my tongue, rich and delicious. You tell me that if you’d known I was going to cook you wouldn’t have eaten so much crap. Your eyes are big and watery, you are gruff and slurring a little from sleep and booze. ‘If I had known I would have to cook, I would’ve stopped for something on the way home. I am starving, I didn’t have a lunch break today,’ I tell you.
The nurses support each other. They are barely hanging on. I help Amir with the drugs. I check his and he checks mine, we correct each other’s mistakes.
Optimism. I rock him and I feel like singing. In this holding, I am healing, he is dreaming and I feel content. This is where I’m supposed to be. This is why I’m here. A sick baby on his way to being well. On his way to being well because of surgery, medication, holding, sleeping, something. I wish I knew which one it was because then we could do more. Save more babies. Sometimes none of it works. I think about this all of the time.
Rest and be thankful.
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