The Hospital Stay

Lucie

My socked feet drag along the carpet making a swish, swish, swish noise with every step. Music blasts in my ears as I walk down the hallway, trying to process everything that has happened in the past few days.  Doctors are rushing past me with places to be. I pass the adult ICU and see family members attempting to get some sleep in various uncomfortable positions.  

How can this be happening? Lucie never gets sick; she’s the healthiest person in our family.

But it is happening, we’ve been at CHAD, Children's Hospital at Dartmouth, for two days now. My little sister, Lucie, has Type 1 diabetes. It still feels weird to say. I know that she’s been in kind of a funk lately and not feeling well, but how could she possibly be so sick that she’s in the pediatric ICU. The ICU is a place for people who are really sick and could possibly die, not my little sister.

The doctors told us that diabetes can be fatal if left untreated and that Lucie was in DKA, a type of diabetic coma. When my Meme’re first picked me up and told me that Lucie was in the ER my heart stopped. I’m still scared, but hospital life starting to become the norm.

Our family is learning more about diabetes everyday. It’s something she has to manage for the rest of her life. It seems so strange that just a few weeks ago we were performing side by side in the musical Hansel and Gretel.  

This is my little sister, the girl who I’ve know since the day she was born, my best friend in the whole world. Without her I don’t know who I would be. All my life it’s always been Rosie and Lucie or Lucie and Rosie. It was never just Rosie or just Lucie.

As I continue to walk down the hallway I pull out my phone and start going through the pictures I have of us. One shot from this summer catches my eye in particular. We’re sharing a root beer at Bob’s Clam Shack in Kittery, Maine. There are two straws in the cup and we each have one in between our lips. We’re staring at each other laughing over a long forgotten joke.

It was an insignificant day at the time, but looking back I’d give anything to be back there with her, healthy. My vision goes blurry with tears as I think about the moment I had to trust the ambulance attendant to safely transport her from the ER in Concord to CHAD in Handover.

I head back towards her room as I recollect the panicked feeling I had as I said goodbye to a barely conscious Lucie. I made sure to clarify with her that it was a goodbye for the time being, not forever. I fiercely insisted she had to keep fighting.

I reach the locked entrance to the PICU and wait to be buzzed in. I hear a noise and the door swings open. The nurse smiles at me and I grimace in response. I push Lucie’s door open and walk inside.

My parents are sitting on the bench against the window, talking. Lucie is in bed with her eyes closed. She stirs as I enter and I walk over to her. I brush the hair from her face and kiss her forehead.

“How are you feeling little miss?” I ask.

Her dry lips part and she says, “Ok.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

I stare at her for a moment then ask, “Can I climb in with you?”

“Sure,” she murmurs, her eyes still closed. She pauses for a moment, working up the strength, then moves over enough for me to climb in next to her. I move all the wires and tubes she’s connected to out of the way and climb under the covers. She doesn't look 12 lying there attached to everything like some sort of superhuman, she looks like a child.

But in the coming days I will learn that she is not in fact a child, but that she is a superhuman. For figuring this out and doing so with such strength. But in this moment, laying here, waiting for me to hold her close she is still a child.

We finally get comfortable and this reminds me of all the times we’ve slept side by side. I remember those nights when I was too scared to sleep on my own, but too proud to climb in bed with my parents. It was always her bed I found my way into, promising only to stay for a second but falling asleep instantly and staying the whole night.

I stroke her hair and am calmed by her familiar scent.

I think of all the times I’ve taken her for granted and not appreciated her as much as I should. I know that, of course, there will be more times like that, but I also know that I’ll never forget this hospital visit or this moment even.

Although friends and extended family know that we’re in the hospital with Lucie, no one truly understands like we do. You never fully understand the horror of almost losing someone until it happens to you. And if it does happen to you, you will never forget.