A few hours passed by, the bulb of the operation room went off and the surgeon In his green scrubs came out. Walking steadily towards us, one look at his face and I knew something was wrong. He’d obviously learned to mask his expression, but his posture announced the gloomy news. The sloped shoulders and counted footsteps were a sure sign for disaster. Bad news was inevitable; the question was, how bad was the news he was about to break.
Let all be well, I prayed fervently despite the negative signs in front of me. My experience, escorting Summer’s mother to the hospital during her battle with cancer, taught me a few things about doctors. Merely from their gesture while approaching a patient, you could tell if it was going to be good news or bad news. With the doctor standing in front of me, the signs were screaming “Bad.”
He began with the usual, ‘I’m sorry’… Crap
Julie had passed on and the babies were to be kept in an incubator for a few days until they stabilized. Samuel blanked out after hearing Julie’s demise, he just stared into space, said nothing, did nothing.
“Sam?” “Sam,“ I whispered shaking him lightly at the shoulder.
He didn’t even shrug me off, just stood there with a blank expression on his face. A nurse came and showed us to a small pediatric room. It had baby pink and sky blue colors painted on alternate walls. Drawings of Mickey, Minnie, a baby in a crib and little stars-moon were plastered on the wall. We weren’t allowed to enter. In front of us was a huge rectangular see-through window. With my left arm firmly wrapped around Sam’s shoulders, peering through the window, two babies lay in an incubator. They were wearing the pink overalls I and Julie had picked out previously.
From my vantage point, I could see they were sleeping. Hearing a sniffle above me, I looked up to see tears streaming down Sam’s eyes as he saw his baby girls.
“It’s going to be okay,” was all I could say
I was relieved when I saw him cry because any emotion was better than no emotion.