We’re here.

In this place.

It’s okay.

No, really

it is.

I will admit that we were both shaking

Ivy and I.

Our hands clasped tightly, our fingers laced

both of us frightened of the past and the future,

the sounds and the smells thick with promise

and with pain.

+++

The ward is vastly different from where William was

in fact different from anything I’ve ever known.

Me – a hospital parent veteran.

Out of my league.

It makes me appreciate our little ward at home all the more

and the nurses

and yes, even the doctors.

It’s not that this place is terrible because it isn’t.

It is a busy, bustling hive of activity.

On one side

there are huge rooms

dedicated to kids just like Ivy.

The immune deficient, the children with endocrine issues,

the small people who will deal with hematological challenges

for all of their lives.

They come and go,

many with sisters and brothers (it’s the school holidays, after all)

and all of them with a rushed, tired parent.

They look weary and worn by the system.

I can see myself in their eyes, when we walk our own hospital corridors.

On this day though

I must appear like a scared rabbit

because they look at me kindly

and when our eyes meet, I can almost see the stark memories

of their first time reflecting in their faces.

They say hello and show us where to find things.

There are many doctors doing the rounds and every child,

every family

is greeted warmly and with familiarity.

It is very much like we are on the outside looking in.

Our doctor comes.

She talks fast and does a scratch test

which Ivy reacts to.

She doses Ivy with the first dose of lactoferrin –

at 1/100th of her original dose

and twenty minutes later Ivy is a ball of itchy redness,

her cheeks hot with allergy.

The doctor is both interested and excited.

If that is the worst that Ivy’s body will throw at her

then she can definitely work with it.

Our appointment, which began at ten is over.

It’s only eleven

and our room is not available.

We have lunch

and escape to the glorious sunshine

but at three,

David has to go and our room is still not available.

We are given a crash course on the workings of the ward.

We are on the parent care side.

There is minimal nursing care during the day and none at night.

We are basically boarders within the hospital unit.

Only there so the doctor can monitor Ivy as she goes through

desensitization

and while tests are taken.

The remainder of the day we are left to our own devices.

Finally we are given a room.

Ivy promptly starts to cry.

It smells funny.

It’s not her hospital.

Where are her nurses?

She is redirected with colouring in and drawing.

A DVD is next.

The shower is strange and she cries through that too.

She cries because I have brought the wrong pull ups

because I am brushing her hair wrong

because she doesn’t like the painting of the three girls on the wall.

They are all little things

but they are everything as well.

I spray the room with some of my perfume

and soothe her the best I can.

Soon she is blessedly and thankfully asleep.

At least we are both on the same page, I think.

It is very different here.

The bed is a standard issue fold out.

Cardboard thin, bar across the middle of your back edition.

Some things are the same everywhere.

I can’t complain.

I’m thankful for the space

that has a verandah, with an opening door,

so fresh air can make it’s way into the room.

I’m grateful that it is nothing like the place where William died

and that I am essentially okay with being here,

that the memories are not all consuming

and that I can concentrate on the reason I am here:

to find a way to help my girl feel better.