Lift Read Free Page B

leftover bra liners for nursing mothers that cost me a fortune.
    “So just listen,” Sarah said. “When you get there, they are going to take some blood and do a culture—and they’re going to do a lumbar puncture, a spinal tap, and they will start her on IV antibiotics immediately—”
    My vision blurred for a second, like I’d stood up too fast. “They’re going to give Claire a spinal tap ?”
    “Yes,” Sarah said.
    “Georgia!” I put your shoes on the table in front of you. “We gotta go, right now—” I needed you to hurry but I didn’t want to scare you, so I added “honey” at the end.
    “It’s gonna be okay,” Sarah said. “But Kel, don’t let anyone make you wait.”
    “Untreated,” Wikipedia says, “bacterial meningitis is almost always fatal.” Included in the entry is a color photograph of someone’s shiny, purple infant whose limbs had to be amputated because the infection led to gangrene. I’d been worrying about you choking on a mancala bead or falling through the slats on the deck, but gangrene?
    Dad left work to meet me at Children’s. When he appeared in the waiting room, I wanted to throw myself at him, but something about his pace andhis expression said he needed to see me managing, not dissolving. Looking up at him, I wished I knew his faces a little better. Cousin Kathy once told me it takes ten years to learn your spouse; we’d barely been married for three. I shook off any hint of a breakdown and said, “All the forms have been filled out. We’ve been waiting to go in for about five minutes.” Kathy also told me once, “We’re never ready for the things that happen. When the big stuff happens, we’re always looking in the other direction.”
    A nurse called out, “Claire? Claire Lichty?” Dad and I stood. A nurse took us through double doors to an ER room where we could wait for the doctor. I held you, taking in the room. Every drawer was labeled: IV catheters, vinyl gloves, number 10 needles. Above the red trash can for biohazard waste was a laminated reminder that this was a Germ Free Zone! Against the wall was a blanket warmer,and overhead, a set of heaters the nurse referred to as French-fry lights, to keep the babies warm.
    “Hi, I’m Leo Benjamin.” The doctor looked down at the chart in his hands while I threw information at him.
    “She’s been running a fever since Friday, 101, then 102, now 104,” I said. “She’s not eating, or crying. She’s really not herself in any way at all.”
    “Okay,” he said, “we’re going to give her some tests. We’ll draw some blood, collect a urine sample, start her on an IV. We’ll have to do what’s called a lumbar puncture.”
    “Our pediatrician told us,” I said, wanting him to move faster.
    Dr. Benjamin nodded toward a drawer, and the nurse took out two pairs of sterile gloves. They both put them on, and the nurse took you from me. She helped Dr. Benjamin hold you down on the table. He spread your legs open at the knees and youscreamed the scream that is given to each of us as a tool, the scream of violation. I started to lunge forward but Dad took my arm. The doctor pulled back the skin above your vagina to access your urethra and insert a catheter. I stepped closer to the table, into the heart of your vehemence, as urine drained into a clear plastic bag. It’s one thing to know your child is in pain, it’s another to attend it. Finally, Dr. Benjamin secured the catheter and you were back in my arms. We were both sweating.
    Next, we were shown to a room just for spinal taps, where a staffer stood tall like a naval cadet. “This is Jeff. He positions and stabilizes the babies during the procedure,” Dr. Benjamin explained.
    Jeff held out his hands. Against every instinct, I handed you off. With your feet in one hand and your forearms in the other, Jeff rounded you out. After swabbing your back with yellow iodine, Dr. Benjamin pushed a long needle between two ofyour lower vertebrae, “past some