When you can't help the One You Love
Disclaimer: I own no one!
A/N- Title comes from the Terri Clark song, "The One You Love"
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
John Cena sighed, wandering through the narrow corridors of the hospital. Each day of the week, he wandered the corridor. Each day, the smothering scent of disinfectant seeped into his clothing. Each day, he was forced to watch his daughter suffer.
He felt helpless. Each day, he would go to the NICU and face his wife, Trish. She was still hospitalized, following the premature birth of their daughter, Salome Kismet.
"How is she today?" he asked, staring into the NICU window. Trish sighed, glancing up at him from her wheelchair.
"No change. The doctor said he's never seen a baby fight so hard. Every time they think they've lost her, she comes back. It's as if she wants to live," Trish explained. She bit her lower lip, to keep from crying. "Sometimes, I wonder if we're doing the right thing,"
"What do you mean?" John asked. Trish sighed. How could she begin to explain her feelings?
"She was born at twenty-five weeks. The odds weren't in her favor. The doctors tell me if she survives, she'll have major disabilities. She might be blind. She might be deaf. They told me she might not have a good quality of life. They told me it would be easier to take her off the respirator," Trish explained. John closed his eyes, and bit his lower lip. He saw where his wife was coming from.
"I thought you said she was fighting," John murmured. Trish sighed. She had said that.
"She is fighting. I just wonder if we're doing the right thing by allowing her to fight this hard," Trish said. She grabbed a wadded up tissue and wiped her eyes. "Can you take me back to the room? My stitches are beginning to hurt," She had had an emergency cesarean after developing complications.
Trish was not one to complain about pain. John knew his wife so well. He knew she just wanted to get away from the pain caused by their daughter's condition.
With a kiss on the cheek and a promise to come back, John left her in the room. He walked back toward the NICU. He could see Salome through the window.
She was so tiny, so fragile. He had not realized babies could be that tiny. He had never imagined his daughter would come prematurely. He had not thought it would affect him. Both Trish and he had been expecting a healthy full-term baby.
Her name was supposed to have been Salome Rose. Yet, when she had been born early and despite the doctor's prediction, had survived the first crucial twenty-four hours, John and Trish had fallen back on Kismet, another word for fate.
"Do you want to come in?" The nurse's soft voice pierced the silence of the corridor. John glanced around. Was she talking to him? He looked at her. "Yes, you."
"Sorry," he apologized. The nurse sighed, allowing him into the sterilization room.
"I've seen you here every day for the last week. Why haven't you come in?" the nurse asked. John sighed.
"I didn't want to leave my wife outside the ward. She's afraid to face the truth." John replied. The nurse thrust a yellow paper gown at him.
"Put this on." she said. "Then, remove all rings and your watch, and scrub your hands," John proceeded to scrub his hands with antibacterial soap, and hot water. "Which baby is yours?"
"Salome Kismet Cena," he said. The nurse nodded.
"Salome, the fighter," she said. "I have never seen a baby fight so hard to live. She's beautiful," The nurse knew exactly what to say. John nodded gratefully.
"Thank you," he said. The nurse led him over to Salome's bassinet. John bit his lip, glancing at his daughter for the first time. He hadn't been prepared for how fragile she seemed.
Salome had a tube down her throat to help her breathe. She had three IVS all around her tiny body. Butterfly shaped pads monitored her heart rate and her respitory rate. Her eyes were closed and her skin was translucent.
Seeing his daughter had done more good than bad. He was able to see his baby girl up close. He was also able to see how much care was needed to keep her alive.
It drove him mad that he couldn't help her. Salome was their only child. She was slipping away, despite the fact the doctors and nurses were using all their resources to save her.
Entering the chapel of the hospital, John slowly approached the altar. The priest seemed surprised, but not startled.
"Hello, My Son," he said in the soft way that seemed to be only applicable to priests. "How may I help you?"
"My daughter is in the NICU fighting for her life. It hurts me that God would put an innocent baby through so much pain. Would you say a prayer for my daughter?" John asked.
"Of course," the priest said. "Dear Father, we pray that you help this man's daughter in her transition from ill to well. We pray that you will be merciful to the suffering of his child. We pray that you will make her well. Amen,"
"Amen," John echoed. He stood up. "Thank you,"
John felt helpless. All he wanted to do was take his daughter's suffering on himself. He wanted to ease her pain. He just wanted his daughter to be well.
By the time he got back to Trish's room, he immediately noticed there was a problem. She was acting strangely. Her eyes were red and tear-stained.
"What happened? Is Salome okay?" he asked. Trish sniffled, dabbing her eyes with a wadded-up tissue.
"They lost her again. She came back, but they don't know what the oxygen deprivation is going to do to her," Trish explained.
John hit his knees, and held his fists up to the roof. He bit his lip, and then, let out an inhuman moan. All he wanted was a healthy baby! Why was that so hard?
Trish looked at her husband. She had never seen him like this. Was their daughter's health issues that heart-wrenching? Was it because she was dying?
"Are you okay?" she asked, wheeling over to him.
"I feel so helpless," he said. "It's driving me crazy that I can't take her pain away," Trish nodded. She knew exactly what he was talking about. "I just wish I could help her,"
"So do I. So do I."
The End