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Being 39

 In the abstract, a hospital is like Oz, a well-run world unto itself, a place where great things, great acts of healing, can occur.


But, if you live for a few weeks in a hospital, then you see the man behind the curtain.

In my car, I have a thermos that says: "Gundersen Hospital, Keep Calm and Mom On." It doesn't matter that I'm not a mom, and moms are absent from my home. No one at Gundersen really wrestled with the idea of "alternative families," and the harried twentysomething who shoved the thermos at me must have thought: "Free shit. Of course they'll accept it." (This conclusion was accurate!)

Toward the end of my stay, I was asked to watch a series of educational videos, so that I would not (a) shake my baby to death, (b) ignore signs of choking, or (c) drive my child around with her body unbuckled, dangling from the passenger-side window of the car. These videos were like bad pornography. An actor--without affect--would murmur, "Oh gosh. She's not breathing. What are we going to do?" Then he would hold up a white chunk of plastic and sadly shake his head.

I thought of the director for this film, and the paycheck he must have received. Wasn't Anjelica Huston available?

Things reached a nadir when my husband grew frustrated with the Wifi issues at the affiliated hotel; we were attached to the NICU, so we could just stumble across the street to see our baby. As my husband patiently explained that he needed to have Internet access, the ten-year-old behind the desk grew visibly irritated. "Just turn off your phone," she said, "and turn it on again." She examined a nail on her finger. "Or, you know, move from one side of your room....to the other....."

This was NICU life.
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