The Longest Ride
Erica Marshall
Word Count 1141
My head was pressed tightly against the car door as I sat lopsided in the passenger seat. I stared absently out the window. The sun was low in the sky and its glare seemed to radiate from a thousand points. I looked at the barren gold of dry desert grass that stretched on and on until it melted into the horizon.
My inside throbbed every time I shifted. A wrong twist and I felt I could rip apart. But I knew it was time. It simply could not be avoided. I needed to pump. And the car needed to continue forward. With great effort, I reached down to the breast pump at my feet. I tucked each funnel neatly through the slit in my nursing bra on both sides and pressed the ON switch. I held a funnel in each hand as the machine went to work.
My husband diligently kept us moving forward, one mile at a time. My two-year-old daughter napped in the back. My mother sat next to her, petting the dog’s head resting on her lap. We sat mostly in silence as the miles slipped by. I was done pumping now. Overall, a good haul—6 ounces—considering the circumstances. But now we needed to stop. I had to clean the pump parts, do a restroom break, bag the milk, get it on ice. Liquid gold. We raced along at a clip only possible on an empty desert highway in Nevada. But there was no station for miles.
Finally, a sign lit up ahead— “Casino Gas Beer.” This would work! My husband helped me out of the gray upholstered seat of our Subaru Outback and I baby-stepped toward the station, careful not to upset my gut. I held two large pink plastic bowls in my hand that the nurse from Labor and Delivery had suggested I take on the trip. I walked past men in white t-shirts smoking at the slot machines next to the register and headed to the restroom. In the stall, I checked my scar, just three days old, still engorged and red, and now hot to the touch. That did not look good.
I set to washing my pump parts, noticing the laminate peeling from the vanity and the brown-stained sink. Just get it done and get out, I thought. My mom walked in with my bouncy toddler to help her use the bathroom. Her bubbly chatter pulled me out of the pall of my thoughts. She wanted to know—could she get some candy? No, she could not.
But why?
Why not?
Why?
My husband purchased more ice and twisted the gas cap back into place. The dog took a lap on the grass, and we were off.
The car lurched over a pothole as we turned back onto the highway. I held my breath as the pain radiated through my core. Another Disney movie flashed on the tablet. My mom passed a blanket up from the back. The car sliced forward into the expanse of sky ahead while I traced the outline of gray mountains in the distance with my eyes. Though we’d left it only eight hours ago, Boise was already a distant memory, the last few days a sleepless dream. What do you mean he can’t swallow?The NICU? A transfer? It was too much to sort out here on this highway.
The sun began to fade into the horizon. And then it was night. We drove through a pine forest outside of Lake Tahoe in the dark, the headlights carving a narrow tunnel through the black. The shadows behind the massive tree trunks danced eerily as the headlights bore into the forest. Out of the mountains, we coasted down toward the specks of light below, eventually speeding past strip malls for hundreds of miles as we approached Palo Alto. By the time we pulled into the drop-off rotunda at the front door of the Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital at Stanford, it was after 1 am.
I kissed my sleeping daughter on the head and hugged my mom. My husband held my arm as we walked toward the building. The massive glass doors slid open with a slosh. A curved information booth adorned in oak opened up to a lobby the size of an auditorium. The massive area was empty except for one receptionist. I squeezed my husband’s arm tightly.
“Go get some sleep,” I assured him. But he wanted to stay at least until I was registered.
“We can’t both come in anyway,” I reminded him. “And you still have an hour’s drive to my aunt’s house.” Reluctantly, he turned, walked through the sliding door, and got back into the car.
I dragged my luggage up to the desk, previously unaware that it required core strength to move a bag on wheels. I looked at the receptionist. “I’m here to see my son.”
One state-issued ID, check-in form, wristband, and sticker with my face on it later, I was given directions to the NICU. Up the elevator to the first-floor lobby, around the corner to the right past the chapel, cafeteria, and outdoor garden space, up another elevator to the second floor, then use the phone to call to be let in. I realized suddenly the enormity of the space I was in.
“Do you have a wheelchair by chance?” I asked.
“Oh! Yes! Sorry. Of course. I can call over to the hospital next door.”
“Next door? How long will that take?”
“Shouldn’t be too bad, maybe 30 or so? 40 at the most?”
So I trudged through the long hallways of the hospital, coaching myself through each step. You can do this. What felt like miles (and was probably actually about 30 minutes) later, I picked up the receiver of a black phone hanging on the wall like some sort of extraction device from the Matrix.
“Hello?”
My son’s name and date of birth bumbled out of my mouth slowly, too new to come easily.
“Wash your hands at the sink when you enter. He’s in 270.”
With that, the metal doors parted and opened toward me like outstretched arms.
Room 270 looked like a large sink with a thin metal table splitting it in half. A row of plastic bassinets lined the walls on either side. Each incubator had a green leather recliner next to it and 4 monitors above. Cords spilled out of the pods like colorful waterfalls of wire. I walked around the table looking for my baby, whose medical transport plane had landed here hours ago while I was in the car due to Covid protocols. My beautiful boy was asleep now, peaceful amidst the beeping and the flashing. His newborn baby smell rushed over me. I scooped him up, careful not to tangle his cords, and held him to my chest. I’m here now.
Erica lives in Boise, Idaho, with her husband and their extraordinary daughter and mischievous son, who also happens to be medically complex. She is an attorney and runs a criminal justice reform nonprofit during the week. On the weekends, she loves to spend her time writing, trail running, and overscheduling her family with activities.