All the World's a Stage...

B"H

The Exit and The Entrance

The cardiac intensive care waiting room is a mournful and grief stricken place.  From the hallway looking in, we saw a woman tearing her hair crying, "no, no, no..."  There were others wailing, keening, and even someone catatonic-like, all for a fuller expression of sadness.

We stood there watching this drama of life.  "Can you stay in your stroller while I go to see Grandma?  I'll only be two minutes maximum.  Your brother is in charge.  Can you?  Can you stay in your stroller while you wait for me to come back?", I asked my young daughter with Down Syndrome.  

"Yes, Mommy, I can do that for you," she replied with complete sincerity in her face and voice.  

"Okay, thank you,"  I said as I turned to my son.  "You will be in charge.  Can you do this?  It's your last chance to say 'no'."  

He looked at me with his big eyes and serious face, "yes, Mommy, I can be in charge."  

"Good.  Two minutes or less.  I promise."  We walk into the waiting room.  I notice a little side room filled with a family.  A man is pounding the wall with his fist.  His forehead drips blood.  Perhaps he began the pounding with his head.  Everyone in that corner looks at him in silence, tears rolling down their cheeks.  We continue into the crowded room until we find an empty place.  "Okay guys, two minutes or less."  My daughter and her  sincerity have left the stroller and are getting comfortable on someone's sweater on the sofa.  "You must not sit on other people's stuff."  This is why ages sixteen and under are forbidden from entering the cardiac ICU.  

My son looks at me and says, "just go, Mommy, just go."

"Two minutes," and I run out of the waiting room with Grandma's sleep apnea breathing machine.  She hates this machine, but, she needs it.  I run into the ICU.  "Hi, Grandma, I've got your machine, the kids are in the waiting room, I'll give this to your nurse."  Grandma's nurse is waiting for me.  We spoke earlier by phone.  She takes the machine and promises to set it up for my mother-in-law in the evening.  She also knows that my young kids are in the waiting room by themselves, with each other.  We make plans to speak later after I've returned home.  I turn around, say good bye to Grandma after I tell her to expect a visit from her son in the evening.  I exit the cardiac ICU and run down the hallway to the waiting room.  From the hallway I can see the clock.  Good, less than two minutes.  I look into the waiting room.  Everyone is smiling and looking in the same direction.  Certainly this is a different scene than the one we saw upon our arrival.  I know the floor show involves my children.  With a deep breath I dive into the room.  My daughter sees me and runs back to the sofa.  

My son glares at her then turns to me, "hi, Mommy."  

Rachel jumps off the sofa, grabs my hand and places it in the hand of a lady from the adjacent chair.  "This is Joanne," she says.  

The lady stands up to respond, "hi, Joanne, my name is Donna.  Pleased to meet you."  

"Yes," I say, "a pleasure to meet you too."  Then to my kids, "guys, it's time to go home." At these words everyone in the room smiles and waves goodbye.  

"Be good!"

"Have a good day!"  

"Thank you!"

"Bye, bye."  

WHAT HAPPENED IN THOSE TWO MINUTES?  

It was not exactly babysitting.  My mother promised it would take two minutes or less.  I was going to be in charge of my younger sister in the waiting room of the cardiac ICU while my mother dropped off Grandma's sleep apnea machine to the nurses' station.  Grandma hated that breathing machine, still, she needed it.  Rachel and I were both under sixteen years old, the youngest age allowed for a person to enter and visit the cardiac ICU.  

Mommy was nervous as we approached the special waiting room.  Hearing the crying and seeing the sadness and despair of the people waiting there made Mommy even more anxious.  "Rachel, you will stay in your stroller and listen to your brother.  He is in charge of you.  Can you do that for me?" asked Mommy.  

"Yes, I can do that for you," answered Rachel.  

"Isaac, you will be in charge.  Do you understand?"  another question from Mommy but this time for me.  

"Yes," said I.  

We entered the wailing (also the waiting) room.  First thing that happens is Rachel jumping out of her stroller and plopping herself soundly in the middle of someone else's stuff in the corner seat of the couch.  Mommy hadn't even let go of the stroller!  (Not a carriage for a baby, this stroller was for special needs.  My sister has Down Syndrome.  When the walking gets long and quick this stroller is our best solution.)  

"Oh, Rachel!  You can't sit on other people's things!"  Mommy cried as she tried to straighten up the stuff Rachel had rearranged.  "Okay," a most exasperated sound from Mommy to my promise breaking sister.  "Okay, let's try this again.  Rachel, you must stay put.  Isaac is in charge.  Please, just two minutes.  I promise," pleaded Mommy.  

"I can do that for you," Rachel said.  

"Yeah, right," thought I.  

"Isaac, this is your last chance to excuse yourself," said Mommy.  

"I'll be okay being in charge.  Go.  We'll both be here when you come back," said I.  And out the door ran Mommy with Grandma's despised breathing machine.  

As soon as Mommy ran out the door Rachel stopped smiling.  She turned to me and squinted her eyes while she spoke these words to me, "I'm in charge, not you."  She jumped off the couch, grabbed me by the arm and approached a very miserable man.  No tears in his eyes but he was grief stricken nonetheless.  

"Excuse me," said Rachel as she patted his hand.  "This is my brother, Isaac.  I am Rachel".  The man looked up at me.  

I said a feeble, "hi".  He looked at Rachel smiling at him and he smiled back at her.  

"I'm Larry," he said, "pleased to meet you both".  

We moved on to the next sad soul, and the next, and the one after that.  When we had met everyone in the waiting room my promise breaking sister decided to introduce everyone in the waiting room to everyone else in the room.  That is when Mommy returned.  

Rachel took one look at Mommy's face, ran back to the couch, plopped herself into the corner, and smiled like an angel with crescent moon eyes.  Everyone in the room was looking at us. Everyone in the room was smiling.  Rachel then got up and ran to Mommy.  She grabbed a lady's hand on the way and put it in Mommy's hand saying to the lady, "this is Joanne".  

"Hi, Joanne, my name is Donna.  Pleased to meet you," she said with a very measured voice decorated by a very genuine smile.  

For me this had been a very long two minutes.  For everyone else in the room it had been a welcomed relief from the grief we all shared.  

A MOTHER'S PRAYER

It is something that I wonder about everyday of my life.  I do not want to rob my daughter of the best of Down Syndrome but I do not wish her to be held captive by the more disabling attributes of the syndrome.  Who am I to judge which attribute is life affirming and which is not?  It is clear that my son would never have approached anyone in that room.  He would have sat quietly waiting for me to return. 

My daughter waits for no one.  Thank G-d for those crescent moon eyes.  What people would never have accepted from my son, they joyously accepted from my daughter that day.  There is comfort from those who are magnets for compassion.