Here is my moment of Joy inspired by Nathan, who has heard this story many, many times, and yet still politely smiles when I repeat it.
We got her admitted. Everything was a blur. Doctors coming in and out. Endless histories taken--because Stanford University Hospital is a teaching hospital it had a lot of medical students and interns practicing the fine art of taking medical histories, whose attendings then followed up by reviewing the histories yet again. I repeated her medical history what seemed like dozens of times. I was exhausted. She was exhausted. They put her in a ward--she was put in a crib, not a particularly happy thing for a big girl sleeping used to sleeping in her own big girl bed. There was also a room at the end of the hall in which either I or your father would spend the night. We gave specific instructions tp the staff to wake us whenever they tested Chrissy blood sugar every few hours--which they did not always do--because we did not want her having tests without one of her parents nearby.
The hospital stay was a whirlwind. Dieticians, doctors, social workers, nurses. All visiting. All trying to assess us as parents and teach us what we needed to do for Chrissy. I was up most of one night trying to memorize all the rules and interactions of insulin. In order for the hospital to release Chrissy, we needed to demonstrate our knowledge of insulin as well as our ability to care for Chrissy. First, both Mom and Dad had to be able to test her blood sugar and inject her with insulin. We had to understand the diet--which at that time was an exchange diet. And most importantly, I needed to know how her little body reacted to insulin. This was in the days before humalog--we used humulin and NPH insulin then. Humulin was a short acting insulin, which peaked 2 hours after giving it and lasted 4-6 hours, and NPH was a long-lasting insulin, which peaked 6 to 8 hours after an injection and stayed in the body for 12 plus hours. We needed to know how to adjust her food intake to the peaks of the insulin. (Little did we anticipate then the challenge of getting a child to eat at precisely the right time.)
We also needed to know not only how to give the injection, but als how to prepare it. Chrissy received two shots a day with both types of insulin, which had to be mixed in the same syringe precisely and one could not allow the NHP to contaminate the humulin, so the order in which the insulin were drawn into the syringe had to be followed precisely. The NPH insulin needed to be rolled to mix it, there could be no air in the syringe, and the amount of insulin we were giving was so small that it was difficult to measure it precisely. I studied and practiced far more intently than I had ever studied any subject before. I was so afraid I would fail my daughter by not being able to pass the test so that she could go home. And, of course, this was just the mechanics of the illness. Chrissy was baffled as to why her caring parents parents were now pricking her finger several times a day and injecting her twice a day.
I spent that first night at the hospital with Chrissy. Dad actually had a job interview with Apple Computer the next day, which he went to. (If only they had hired him.) Then on Friday night Dad spent the night at the hospital. I had spent the day learning what foods Chrissy could and could not eat. (Again because the insulin was less adaptable than the humalog is now, the food intake needed to be precisely planned and calculated.) So I went home, emptied the shelves of my cupboards of the now forbidden foods, picked up Nathan from the babysitter and we went to Lucky's--a grocery store now subsumed by some other conglomerate.
I sat Nathan in the grocery cart. He was able to sit in it if I held his hands--just like Adella can now. Aimlessly, I wandered the aisles. I felt helpless. I was overwhelmed. I look at the blur of cardboard boxes and cans. I did not know what to put into my cart. How was I going to make it through what was demanded of me?
And then I looked up at Nathan.
It was one of those moments, which if captured on film, would have baby Nathan bathed in light with a slight halo effect over his head. Undoubtedly there was no such halo, except in my mind. Undoubtedly, the store aisles were brightened by fluorescent light. But his smile, a smile so broad that his little body moved with it, a smile so bright and complete that it reflected in a twinkle in his eyes, oh so bright, changed me. My soul was lifted. I knew everything would be all right.
I have remembered that moment many, many times over the years. I can remember the little white with blue polka dot knit overall with a teddy bear on it that Nathan was wearing, I can remember his stance in the cart, the direction the cart was facing in that cereal aisle. Most of all his smile, I remember the smile. Nathan, as were all of my babies, was naturally adorable. And he was only doing what all naturally adorable children do when they are three and a half months. He was smiling. (In fact, that's about all babies that age can do--except eat and poop.) But that smile and the light in his eyes gave me what I most needed in that moment of despair. Hope. I knew everything was going to be all right.
Joy comes in moments unexpected, in places unexpected, from sources unexpected, and gives us the hope to carry on. And those simple, short, small everyday moments of Joy last a lifetime.
