Sickness in Seattle

We had an old nurse. Her name was Jan, and she'd been on the job for 40 years. She had jet black hair, 4 inches of white regrowth and a black eye. She passed out in the toilet from low blood pressure.

I was sitting on a hospital bed covered in vomit, and she was showing me a photo of a patient who got his dick and balls stuck in a metal cock ring.

His face wasn't in it (that would have been weird).

She laughed and searched her phone for more images while the new girl, fresh out of University, juggled phone calls and paperwork.

It was Gastroenteritis, and the toilet bowl was a blood bath.

Jan said, 'We've seen it, but not this much.'

Austin was in pain.

Then I saw Liam on the security camera, holding Lizzie on the steps of the main entrance.

It was midnight, and she needed me.

I fed her while Austin spewed. It was minutes between purges.

We were advised to see a doctor the day after he was discharged.

Sitting in the waiting room, he was staring at the rain.

I was staring at him.

He'd lost weight and looked vulnerable. I kept touching his face and telling him I loved him.

He said, 'Wow, Mum, look at the world. Look at the cars and the garden. Doesn't Nanna have those flowers in her garden?'

It was as if he was seeing everything for the first time.

He was re-admitted.

That night, Lizzie went down. She was transferred in an ambulance to Perth. I had to leave Liam and Austin behind.

She was strapped in so tight. She would vomit and then fall into a deep sleep, surrendering to the pain and weariness. And I'd watch her little face.

Her pale, cracked lips.

And I would feel a love that hurt.

I was hanging from a rail in the ambulance, dangling my nipple into her mouth as we clocked 130km along narrow country roads.

The ambulance officer said, 'These vehicles have no suspension, but don't worry; she's a good driver.'

We made small talk while plastic water bottles and medical kits flew from one end of the ambulance to the other.

I had not slept for two days. I had not showered. I had nothing on me but the clothes on my back and a bag full of useless shit.

Midland Hospital was alive—a Mecca of physical and mental illness.

I felt relief.

And dread.

Ten hours in emergency, nursing her on the floor of a holding bay.

I had to wee, but I couldn't leave her. I used three of her disposable nappies, and all I could think about was how nice it felt to let go and how crazy it is that, in these difficult hours, we're grateful for anything.

I mopped vomit up off the floor, breastfed, and touched her sore, tired body.

Her empty, savaged belly.

We got a bed.

It felt like a 5-star hotel.

But the nurses were running. It was wild.

A sea of ambulance beds lined both sides of the corridors. Every bay was occupied.

One nurse yelled across the chaos, 'Bob, for the love of God, keep your dick in your pants!'

I laughed. And then I thought how nice it was to laugh.

Another young guy came in after drinking fuel.

I watched a lady with a curtain open on the phone talking to her husband and complaining about the service as if it were a hotel. She was obese. Naked. Masses of dry flesh spilling down both sides of the bed.

Lizzie continued to vomit, and each time, she would panic and climb up me. I had chunks of chicken in my hair, through the small holes in the buttons of my top, all over my bag.

I kept thinking, 'How has this not hit me?'

A nurse read my mind and said, 'Mothers are the last to go down.'

For three hours, I sat in a sea of filth. I hadn't eaten for two days, and the room was starting to spin.

I kept feeding. I gave her everything I could.

My body to hers.

The last of my fuel.

And she would bring it up.

But I prayed there was more input than output.

I needed water. I rang the bell, but it was the wrong one. Sirens blared, and staff flew from every angle.

I said, 'I'm so sorry, I just need more water.'

Lizzie was assessed. Her OBS were good, but her blood sugars were low. They brought cookies, lemonade, icy poles, and apple juice.

They said, 'If she does not eat or hold fluids soon, we will need to use a gastric tube and IV fluids.

They left me with a syringe and said, 'We need 80ml in the next hour.'

She threw the syringe on the floor and threw up all over the table.

So I kept feeding.

My Dad came. He brought nappies and wipes. Seeing him walk into our bay was another moment I felt I could 'let go.'

He sat in the corner while they drew blood from her heel.

The 2L glass bottle of water in my handbag had smashed in transit. A nurse emptied the contents onto our bed.

Then she left.

Lizzie fell asleep on me. The bed hadn't been changed, but now, we were surrounded by wet mail, bank cards, keys, chewing gum, nappies and a massage voucher I got for my birthday three years ago but haven't had time to use.

Austin was home and FaceTiming hourly.

Liam was crook.

One of our business employees was in Perth and asked if I needed anything. She bought hoodies, pants, toothpaste, undies, and face wipes.

It was like Christmas.

Breaking new tags and inhaling the sweet smell of polyester.

At 7 pm, we were wheeled onto the children's ward.

Warm, dim lights.

Pastel colours.

Toys.

And nurses that don't run.

The bed was clean.

Crisp.

Dry.

And we had our very own shower.

She broke out in a rash all over her face and arms. A safe rash.

They gave her anti-nausea medication, and I ate a ham sandwich so fast it lodged in my throat.

We couldn't move. Not even the prospect of a hot shower could raise us from this bed.

Her little body against mine. I touched her blotchy face, told her how sorry I was, and we slipped into the deepest sleep.

For the very first time since Lizzie was born, I remember nothing.

At 5 am, we sat on the disabled chair under the heavenly warmth of running water. Every bone in my body took a breath, and it felt like we had new skin.

It was another moment.

Of letting go.

She straddled me like a koala. Clinging to her source. The only constant in this unfamiliar and changing place.

There was hot tea.

Tim Tams.

And she was healing.

Her vomits were far enough apart that she was holding fluids.

She was brighter.

That afternoon, we checked out.

In the end, no IV or gastric tube was needed.

Just breast milk.

I felt superhuman.

Curled up in a hotel bed that night, the bug continued its course.

I had a bucket between us, and I was quick. I would hear her groan and catch it with my eyes closed.

We showered, fed, hugged, slept, vomited and went through the motions.

I felt as if it would never end.

My Dad stayed with us.

The following day, my mother-in-law called. She had just finished a shift at Perth Children's Hospital and asked if she could visit.

By the time she arrived, I felt a burning in the pit of my stomach.

And it hit me.

Every 5-10 minutes for 12 hours.

I noticed Austin and Lizzie would keep moving their bodies.

Rolling, rocking, stretching.

And I understood now.

It was the only relief.

Constantly changing sides and positions.

Moving my legs as if riding a bike.

Austin was trying to FaceTime again. He was struggling without me.

The night closed in, her attached to my body while I spewed into the bucket.

We lay on the sofa bed, door open, overlooking Midland. As the sun dipped, I watched two drunk girls fighting out the back of Seventh Avenue Bar. I could see them being dragged apart by security guards.

There were sirens, the smell of Asian food and Turkish kebabs.

The smell made me vomit.

A constant stream of planes landing, beautiful lights gliding across the night sky.

Although I was so far from home, this place was familiar—my hood. I was lying where we used to dine at Jimmy Deans.

Bleached hair and nose rings.

The infrastructure was gone, but the sounds, smells, and soul of this place were still thick in the air.

The people were still fucking mad.

The world goes on while billions of lives tick away in broken homes and tiny hotel rooms. I felt so small.

Frail.

Insignificant.

One of so many humans, so many mothers. So many struggles.

My Dad caught it.

His work colleagues caught it.

And their parents caught it.

The next morning, I called reception, begging for one more night. But they were fully booked. I felt like I was in my twenties again, dragging myself out of bed after a night on Yellowglen.

I messaged Liam and told him to bring the last anti-nausea tablet from Austin's hospital stay. Three hours later, he sat on the side of my bed, trying to open the foil wrapper—a thin, dissolvable wafer that would change my life and buy me time to get home.

The packaging released and the tablet disintegrated into a puff of smoke.

Fucking gone.

We both sat in silence, staring at the micro remnants of all my (prescription only) hopes and dreams.

We managed to track one more down in Perth, and it felt like a cloud under my tongue—soft, sweet relief, melting like mist and devouring all the acid and pain.

We took to the open road.

Liam put his hand on me. We didn't exchange any words.

Just love.

All the fucking gratitude in this world for each other. Another parenting crisis survived.

We pulled into a small town called Bindoon, and I was hyper-aware of all the little things.

The sun felt like syrup, the stone fruit, fresh flowers, salads, bottles of clean water, and the locals all chatting.

I felt alive.

Dressed in my black hoodie, looking like a Midland meth dealer.

The roads were gentle and smooth. Guiding us out of the chaos and into the trees.

We made it home.

And there were eight days of washing and mess. Both kids wrapped around me.

And I embraced all of it,

with all of my heart.