Hospital Mothers

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Hospital Mothers I watched her as I walked towards my dirty white van. She had long straight blond hair, the kind that always flows silky in the wind. She was transferring her baby from her shiny white BMW to an immaculate stroller. Obviously the baby was new enough not to have had time to change the blue hues of the stroller to the gray-grime color that my strollers always wore. She was tall and lean, wearing a stylish black leather coat over fashionable clothing in perhaps a size 6. My van was parked next to her shiny BMW van. I didn't even know that BMW made vans! Even her mode of transportation was cool. She was entering the Pediatrician's office and I was just leaving. As we passed each other, she gave me the sort of non-look that people of fashion bestow upon us lesser beings. I glanced down at my gray sweat pants, over sized tee and jean jacket. My white, ok semi-white, sneakers peeked out from my sort-of-fashionably flared -leg sweat pants. I didn't even want to think about what size they were. Since my Mom died ten months ago, I had obviously entered the Eat Your Way Through Grief Marathon and was within pounds of a gold medal. My hair wasn't flowing in the crisp breeze; it was lying limply next to my head, having been stuck there during my short afternoon nap between barfing sessions with my three older children. I'd brought my four year old to the doctor because she has CP and her foot was contracting so badly she was unable to walk on it sometimes. Who had time for fashion? I put my daughter into her car seat and then climbed aboard my van, thankful that we 'd just gotten it out of the shop earlier in the day. The newly fixed transmission, even at a thousand dollars, still didn't seem right to me. I lurched the van out of the parking lot and into Seattle's usual Friday night traffic snarl. The blond Mom with the svelte figure and classy van stuck in my head. I was pretty certain that I hadn't even registered on her radar. I wondered what she was at the pediatrician's for. Did her baby have an earache? A sniffle? Was it a regular well baby check up? I couldn’t recall making many well baby visits with my children. We were there so often with a myriad of different problems that the ‘well baby’ thing hardly ever applied to us. As I drove home I pondered what Dr. Wheeler had talked about for relieving Ashley’s cramps and spasticity; Medication and surgery to transfer the tendons from one side of her leg to another. Tears welled up as I though about putting her through yet another painful procedure. She had been in physical therapy since she was four months old and even today spent three hours a week being pulled and stretched by the best physical and occupational therapists that Children’s Hospital had to offer. That beautiful blond wouldn’t blend easily into the throng of Moms that I usually saw during my visits to Children’s Hospital every week. We are a motley group, most of us wearing comfortable and well-worn clothing. It’s easier to spend hours in an uncomfortable situation when you’re wearing comfortable clothes, so most of us do. Our faces are at times glowing with good news, or worn and tired from the constant strain and worry about our little ones. We have an unspoken bond, we Mom’s of Children’s Hospital. Most of us don’t speak to each other; we simply pass in the long halls or stand together in the elevators waiting to get off at the right floor. Glancing at each other’s children, we mentally speculate on what their diagnosis might be. Mom’s pulling bald toddlers in wagons and trailing IV poles are painfully easy to figure out. Other children are less visibly affected by their illnesses and some don’t look sick at all. Sometimes we are too wrapped up in our own tiny world of pain to speculate. But one thing we never do, is judge each other on fashion or weight. When your priorities are life and death, lipstick, Lipo and Gucci bags don’t come into play. I rarely see a Mom in my Children’s Hospital world that falls into the category of the tall sinewy blond I saw today at the pediatricians. Sometimes I believe the birth defects, cancers and disorders of our little ones take away not only our peace of mind, but rob us of our desire to wear bright and fashionable clothing. It’s as though we are subconsciously certain it would bring us to the notice of whatever, or whoever brought us misfortune in the first place. We take some measure of comfort in blending into the background. Or perhaps it’s just me.
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