Today was not as productive as I hoped it would be. A speaking engagement in Des Moines went longer than expected, so my departure for the Council Bluffs/Omaha area was delayed. Combine that with faulty Map Quest directions to Children’s Hospital, and I didn’t get there in time to meet Sheila, the cordial hospital chaplain who I had contacted by phone about dropping of complimentary copies of A Different Dream for My Child.
Oh well, I thought after calling Sheila and explaining why I wouldn’t make it and offering to mail books to her after this business trip, there’s still time to get to the University of Nebraska Hospital with their complimentary copies.
Rain began to fall as I drove east toward the corner of Dodge and 42nd. Though twenty-seven years have passed since Allen’s three week stay in the U of Nebraska Hospital’s NICU, and evidence of new construction was evident, the area around the hospital felt familiar. About two blocks west of the hospital intersection, a faded orange sign on the north side of the road caught my eye.
Village Inn. It was still there, looking tired and unkept. The sight of it brought back memories of hurried breakfasts after nights of fitful, worried sleep. I thought of meals eaten but not tasted, of food bolted down in the rush to return to Allen’s side in the NICU. Then I thought of Susan, our baby’s primary nurse – was her last name Bristol? – who greeted us each time we returned and lovingly told us every little thing Allen had done in our absence.
Unexpected tears blurred my vision. I turned south on 42nd Street, blinking them away in time with the windshield wipers. Somehow, I managed to locate the main entrance to the hospital. It had changed, but the chaplains’ receptionist had given good directions. I parked and located the office, but the door was locked, the room was dark. I sat on a bench and scrawled a quick note, explaining my delay. For the second time in an hour, I promised to mail their books once I arrive home.
And, I optimistically and unrealistically asked, have you ever heard of a nurse named Susan who worked in the NICU in 1982? Her last name might be Bristol, though I’m not sure. She left NICU a number of years ago to manage a different unit, though I don’t know which one. I want to contact her, I explained, because she loved our son so much. Then I wrapped the note around a few business cards and slipped the little bundle under the door.
I walked back to my car, knowing the likelihood of locating Susan in a hospital as vast as this one was. But that didn’t matter. And neither did the missed appointments. All that mattered was the love Susan gave our baby, the tender care she lavished on him in our absence. Her love is a part of him, and I hope they meet some day.
I did what I could to make that happen. My day was not wasted at all.
