24 March 2005

Pediatric ICU.

Abbe has gone through surgery. He’s in the ICU – the intensive care unit – and is under the circumstances all right. That’s not something I can make out for myself; all I see is my loved one, conked out behind a colourful nest of wires and tubes. But that’s what they’re telling us. ”Everything looks well”, they say.

I’m not really that worried now. Of course I’m sad that we’re in this situation and I wonder where it’ll all lead. But people are so professional around here and I trust them to 100%. I mean, they’re doing what they’re experts at, what they’ve been trained to do for years and what they have done so many times before. It’s all beyond me anyway; I can only watch them doing it. As a by-stander. But every now and again I can’t help putting my nose to some square inch of Abbe’s skin, visible through all the equipment, just to smell him.

Abbe’s bed and its surroundings would remind you of a cockpit. The respirator, EKG, pox-, blood pressure- and pulse meters, pacemaker and automatic pumps with calcium, morphine, glucose and such. Moreover a number of tubes with oxygen, pain relief and other stuff that he needs. From his body a catheter and different kinds of drainage tubes. And there’s a grand buffet of drugs on offer, so that he’ll never be in pain. I’ll tell you more later.

Right now I will just sit here and look at him.

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