Ask Me Why I Hurt by Randy Christensen M.D

Author:Randy Christensen, M.D.
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780307719027
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2011-04-11T16:00:00+00:00

Finally, in November, Reed and Janie were allowed to come home. Their two months in the neonatal unit were a memory both Amy and I wanted to put behind us as quickly as possible. Amy had spent every day there after her discharge, from morning until eight or nine at night, and I had stopped in frequently, coming back in the evenings. It was a routine that we were desperate to leave.

But if I thought it would get easier at home, I was wrong. I was blown away by the constant medical care the twins required. Our living room looked like a hospital ward, with apnea monitors and a massive five-foot-tall oxygen tank for Reed. Janie had severe apnea spells, during which she would stop breathing and turn different shades of purple. The episodes were terrifying to watch. Every time I thought about her brain cells dying. Even getting the right clothes was a hassle. It irked Amy’s frugal nature to buy expensive preemie clothes. My aunt Margie came to help out. She was fantastic with the babies, but we couldn’t let many others visit. The risk of infection in preemies was just too high, and we didn’t want them exposed to RSV, an illness sweeping the city that winter. Outings with the babies were not going to be possible for some time, a fact that left Amy isolated.

And I was back on the van. I had taken two weeks off following the birth, but that time was long gone. I was still working more than eighty hours a week. I often came home late to find Amy feeding one of the twins. They took food so slowly that an hour could pass for one feeding.

I invited my parents to babysit early one Sunday morning in December, a few weeks after the twins had come home. They had met the babies in the hospital and had spent time with them, but I was still surprised at how gentle and yet confident my dad was with them. Mom and Dad showed up excited to finally get to babysit. My dad was dressed in pressed casual trousers and a short-sleeve shirt. My mother was wearing a long-skirted dress and her favorite golden cross, which I had given her for Christmas one year when I was a teenager and working at the Golf n’ Stuff. Her shiny brown hair was brushed into a short bob, and she wore a touch of lipstick. I looked like a train wreck, from too much work, junk food, and lack of sleep. Amy had at least brushed her hair. I was losing mine so fast I had started joking about not needing to brush it at all.

“So, you two, off to church,” my father said. Amy and I had made plans to try a nearby church. One of the things I liked about Amy was that her Quaker faith shared many traits with my Lutheran upbringing. We both were private about our faith and felt communication with God was a personal matter.

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