The Woman Who Ate Cat Food on Christmas Eve

I follow the respiratory therapist to the door of my 4-year-old daughter’s hospital room. The therapist stops at the door, near the waist-high grey trash can, and tugs at the paper yellow gown that covers his scrubs. Yellow gowns, yellow masks, and bright blue gloves, must be worn for patients with the words “contact precautions” outside their hospital room door. Today, that’s Nora.

The hospital staff precautions are to prevent the spread of germs from one person or patient to another. During flu season, extra precautions are taken in the form of hospital policy that limits visitors to four per patient. Tightly regulated green visitor wrist bands are issued. No visitors under the age of 18 are allowed.

I reach for the blue hospital curtain and begin to slowly slide it across the room, creating a barrier between Nora sleeping in her bed and the glass hospital windows separating her room from the hallway.

The respiratory therapist discards his yellow robe into the trash can already piled high with other paper gowns, blue gloves and yellow masks. He pushes the mountain of precautionary garb deeper into the can before he removes his gloves. He opens the door, props it with his foot and then, in one motion, unloops the yellow mask from his ears. I realize, all of a sudden, that although he’s been popping in and out of Nora’s room all day and we have been talking all morning, this is the first time I have seen his face.

“She is sounding much better this afternoon,” he says as he opens the door full and wide.

I nod in agreement, holding the blue curtain, waiting for him to walk out the door before I can pull it tight. His voice is different without the mask— clearer, and more animated even, more…. alive.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. I feel a knot in my chest as my throat begins to tighten; the knot has risen up throughout the morning, each time a person in a yellow mask shifts their attention from Nora to me. The knot is a clear indication of an impending “pre-cry” moment and the possible beginning of a cathartic “ugly-cry” episode. Please don’t ask me if you can get me anything… I think to myself. People have been asking me that all morning. I know I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not with these people— these sweet, busy, kind, helpful, yellow-mask people. What I need is… my people. My “okay-to-cry-with people”. My husband. My family. My friends. But with flu season and visitor hospital policies, with limited green wrist bands, I know they can’t come.

I stare at the grey trash can. I hear the therapist’s voice again, “Water….?” He trails off as I continue to stare at the trash. I consider being honest with him; I consider explaining exactly what he can get me and why:

As you know, Nora has four assigned visitors. For this hospital admission, her four visitor wristbands have been given to 1) Me (mom) 2) Nora’s dad (but he’s working) 3) My dad (but he just left for a family gathering 4) My brother- in- law (but remember, this man has his own family, work and life too). So, how about you get me more green wristbands so I can distribute them to the people on my approved list of “okay-to-cry-with people”?

And you know what would be ideal? If my 2-year-old son could be here too. Sidenote: Do you know how it feels to be split between two tiny humans who both need their mom? You would think I would be used to it by now, but I’m not. Do you know why? Because it literally goes against every God-given maternal instinct I have. So what if we all start to give moms a free pass around here —  a “you-do-you” pass that comes with extra green wrist bands. A pass for a mom who might be walking the fine line between functioning and the fetal position. A pass for a mom who is suddenly feeling quite forgotten on the fourth floor of Children’s Hospital. The same floor, by the way, where her water broke, she celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday, her fifth wedding anniversary, and her son’s first Easter. A pass for a woman who is suddenly feeling quite humbled by the reality that some days actually might be too much. And, she might actually need support from her approved list of “okay-to-accept-support-from people”. Not yellow-mask people.

Inhale. Exhale.

I hear the respiratory therapist voice, “Blankets…pillows…?”

I look away from the trash can, to his face.

“I’m okay. Thank you so much.” I say, unsure of exactly how long he’s been standing there — watching me stare at a trash can — politely waiting to be released from the doorframe of Nora’s hospital room.

He leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and I finish encircling the space that has become our home. I turn towards Nora, still sleeping in her bed. I watch her chest rise and fall then glance at the monitors above her head. I note the numbers for her oxygen and heart rate. I start to wonder if and when the inpatient team might consider weaning her off of oxygen support, and what criteria Nora might need to meet before she can go home. But because it’s our second admission this week, because Nora was discharged on Christmas Eve and came back to the ER and then, back to the fourth floor two days later, I can’t imagine the team here will be in a hurry to send her home.

I walk to the foot of Nora’s bed and begin to quietly arrange her books, toys and dolls — things we brought from home, things we brought to create a home. I pick up a book called “You Belong Here” written by M.H. Clark and illustrated by Isabelle Arsenault. It’s the book Everett opened with his sister, just two days ago — Christmas morning. Of course, I didn’t have time to read it to my children on Christmas, not with the hustle and bustle of family, food and gifts. Not with Nora’s post hospital respiratory treatment schedule, not with me worrying about how hard she was working to breathe, while I wiped snot from Everett’s nose. Not with Tyler going back to work the next day and working through New Year’s Eve. Not with cleaning up torn wrapping paper amidst a tangle of respiratory cords, not with my heavy eyes and the compressed mom-lungs of a post hospital stay. Not with being unable to sit still — to be still.

I open the book, and begin to read the first page:

“The stars belong in the deep night sky

And the moon belongs there too,

And the winds belong in each place they blow by

And I belong here with you.”

I slowly shut the book and place it on the white sheets of Nora’s hospital bed. I stare at it, and then carefully, decidedly, stack Nora’s books, one by one. I cover the book. I erase the title “You Belong Here”.

No, I say to myself. She doesn’t belong here. I don’t belong here. We do not belong here— Nobody belongs here.

The knot in my chest begins to tighten and my eyes start to burn. I close my eyes and breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.  

I hear the “blip” “blip” of Nora’s monitor. I open my eyes and stare at the flashing numbers indicating a low heart rate. I walk around the bed near her head and the blips continue, but she is breathing and resting comfortably. Her heart rate is low, the type of low I see when she sleeps heavily, when she is in a deep and natural sleep —  restorative sleep. It’s not post seizure sleep, or working- too- hard- to- breathe-to- maintain- alertness type sleep, but real natural deep, sleep. The beeping stops on it’s own as her numbers stabilize.

I look at her face, at the oxygen cannula tubes that cross her cheeks and gently tuck behind her ears. She seems to have more color than she did this morning — natural color like the day my dad brought her back home from the beach, just two weeks ago —  her curls tangled and tossed by the winter sea wind, eyes bright, face alive. Her cheeks were the color of blush tulips.

I carefully pull Nora’s blanket up to her neck and tuck it around her shoulders, “We’ll be home before New Year’s” I whisper to her before I kiss her forehead and turn toward the blue couch that doubles as a single bed. My bed. And, the space furthest from the blue curtain.

I glance at a partially open cabinet I like to call the “pantry” while at the hospital. It’s the place where I store and organize food for Tyler and myself. It’s always the type of food typical people might take camping, or store in the basement “just in case” the zombie apocalypse becomes a reality. It’s the type of food parents whose children spend time in the hospital might pack in their “to go” hospital bags: packets of starbucks coffee to mix with hot water, liquid vanilla creamer packets, and almost always — trail mix, cliff bars, dried fruit, oatmeal, dark chocolate, tuna and crackers. It’s all food inspired by my “walkabout” college backpacking trips through the Ansel Adams wilderness.

I really should eat something I think to myself. I open the pantry door all the way and stare. It’s empty except for a can of tuna “salad” packaged with water crackers, and one vanilla coffee creamer packet.

I consider eating half the can of tuna for lunch and the other half for dinner, but then remember how bad a can of tuna can smell once it’s open.

I recall Nora’s nurse’s reaction to the can of tuna I opened on Christmas Eve, as I spread it over a water cracker,“Are you eating cat food?” She asked with a wrinkled nose (she wasn’t wearing her yellow mask).

“It’s tuna, but I guess it does kind of look and smell like cat food.” I replied with a laugh.

She laughed too. “You know Ronald McDonald house is open right? They give free food to parents with green wristbands. And you can always order something from the hospital cafe or go to the Subway downstairs.”

I held onto my cat food cracker. And for a moment, I considered being honest with her, but then I would have to explain why all of her solutions to my cat food meal were simply not options. And then I would probably ramble and over-explain, and possibly even sound a little odd or get myself some sort of mental health consult:  

Yes, I am aware Ronald McDonald house offers free meals. But I do my best to avoid Ronald McDonald House. I can (usually) make it just as far as the bench outside the entrance, the one with the life-sized fiberglass statue of a bright-eyed, grinning, Ronald McDonald before I lose my appetite. Before I am flooded with memories from the hardest days, the early days, the days when my 3-month-old baby started having seizures.The days she was sedated in the ICU, the days when Tyler and I stayed at the Ronald McDonald house.

One memory in particular I cannot seem to shake; on the second morning of our stay at Ronald McDonald house I showered, pumped breast milk for my sedated baby, slipped on the only pair of pants that fit my postpartum body, held my husband’s hand and began the walk from our room to the hospital ICU. But I could only go as far as the fiberglass Ronald McDonald on his bench before I froze. I couldn’t take another step closer to the hospital, to my baby riddled with cords, to conversations about medications, to respiratory therapists, to nurses and doctors — the world of people in yellow masks, the world that was, in some utterly unfair, cosmic, way, now part of my new world and my motherhood. And, I needed a moment, a moment with my “always-okay-to-cry-with person”, before I could keep moving forward.

But, do you know what happened as I held my husband and cried on the pavement before God and the universe? I found myself staring over his shoulder, at a grinning, bright-eyed Ronald McDonald — a laughing clown. A clown whose face in that moment, in my “the world is crumbling all around me” moment, felt truly… horrifying.

Yes, I know it has almost been five years since the early days, the hardest days. But I have never been able to forgive Ronald McDonald for smiling, for suggesting that life outside a children’s hospital is as bliss-filled and delightful as happy meals or Mcflurries. But really, I know I’ve never been able to forgive him for trying to cheer me up when I just needed to be sad — when I just needed a moment to let my world crumble, to sit in the unfairness of my new world, my daughter’s new world.

So basically what I’m trying to say, is that I would rather eat cat food than pass by a potentially unempathetic clown with a painted smile, even on Christmas Eve. Especially on Christmas Eve.

And, while I love your Subway and hospital-cafe suggestion, when it comes to buying food or “eating out”, while Nora is sick, recovering, or even just after a long day in the ER or clinic, my husband rationally, responsibly and even reasonably believes Nora’s day-to-day health is too up and down for us to financially justify eating out just because it’s been a long day with medical events. And, quite frankly, I would personally much rather eat cat food (any day) than have a “let’s-reevaluate-the-budget” conversation with my husband.

So you can see now why none of these dining options apply to my situation. I’m sorry my tuna looks and smells like cat food, but maybe if you were abiding by contact precaution policy and wearing your yellow mask, you wouldn’t have to smell my cat food meal and we could forever avoid these intensely personal conversations.

But of course I couldn’t be honest with her. She wasn’t on my list of “okay-to-vent-to-and-overshare-with” people. A list that overlaps with my list of “okay-to-cry-with people”. So instead of being honest, I chose to eat cat food on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas to Jesse Van Leeuwen, the lonely writer, a woman who is clearly walking the line between the fetal position and functioning, a woman who would rather eat cat food than work towards solving life’s inconvientant dilemmas.

I continue to stare into the pantry, at the tuna — my last box of cat food and crackers. I decide to save it for dinner. Reminding myself that it doesn’t taste so bad when I’m hungry, like really, really hungry, like on a ten-day-backpacking-in-the-wilderness type of hungry.

Well, at least 2019 can only get better from here I think to myself. “Cheers” I say out loud as I close the pantry and push the backs of my knees against the sidearm of the blue couch-bed. I let myself sink backwards, slowly until I lay face up and arrange my palms underneath the back of my head — my pillow. I let my legs dangle over the arm of the couch, slowly tapping the heels of my red moccasin slippers against the couch.

Suddenly, I hear my phone vibrate. I turn onto my belly and grab it, now lit up with a text message from my dad. It’s a photograph of him, together with his family — my family. All five of his sisters and their families are on a three day trip at the coast, all 21 of our people. These are the people Tyler, Nora, Everett and I belong with, right now.

I consider calling my dad to explain my nothing-to-eat-but-cat-food predicament, knowing my description of Ronald McDonald would make him laugh— knowing his advice and insight would make me laugh. I can hear him in my head: “Jesse, this all seems like really extreme self talk”. Such a statement would of course cue my aunts and cousins to listen more closely to the phone conversation and then they would want to know more. Dad would announce my cat food predicament, word for word, until all of his sisters were fully informed of my “dilemma”. These are women who have offered again and again to fly or drive to San Diego, to help me when Nora is in the hospital, to help me take care of Everett and Tahoe, to cook and clean and to show up. If they knew I was in need of a good cry and planning on skipping a meal and having cat food for dinner, they would gather my cousins and drive three hours straight down to the hospital —- the way Auntie did the night after Nora was admitted to the ICU.

That day she held me tight while I cried and she told me: “Don’t let anyone tell you God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. He does, and He will. But, He won’t let you do it alone.”

I start to imagine what it might be like if Auntie was here now. What would it be like to have all 21 members of my beautiful family here now? My aunts would bring wine or margaritas in thermoses, like we do when we go down to the beach in the summer. My dad would bring his guitar and harmonica; we would sing Christmas carols around Nora’s bed and she would sit up tall with bright eyes. Food would appear from large purses and grocery bags. Aunt Leslie and I would sit and plan our trip to the Grand Canyon, while Grandpa Bob reads his book, gin martini in hand. Aunt Kristie would invite the nursing staff and residents into Nora’s room and they would, one by one, pull down their yellow masks to tell her their life story, and they would feel like they found a new friend, a cheerleader for personal or professional life. Cousin Hillary and I would talk about her wedding, Nora’s flower girl duties and how cute Everett will look as a ring bearer. We’d talk about Nashville — her bachelorette party and when I should book my flight. Auntie would tidy the room and make sure I stocked up on all the “free” hospital amenities and medical supplies before discharge. Aunt Stacy would be sitting with Nora, reading to her, teaching her something new or telling her stories. Aunt Karen would be wearing her bright red Smirnoff Ice fanny pack—the one she wears when she ushers at church, and she would give me the biggest hug. And then, with her arm still wrapped around my shoulder remind me,“My friends have seizures all the time, I know what to do when Nora has one. We’re here for you Jessbo”.

And then of course, everyone would loudly talk over one another, Aunt Kristie would eventually offer the hospital staff margaritas, Tyler and my Mom would rally the “married men,” my uncles, and coordinate a game, and my cousins would chase Everett around the room and talk with Nora until her color improved, until her color was the same color as the day Papa brought her back from the ocean — blush tulip pink. And for the first time in my life, I would probably feel like, I belong here — on the fourth floor.

But I know my family can’t come. Not without more green visitor wristbands. Not during flu season. Besides, I’m sure there is some hospital policy against having more than 20 visitors per patient, and probably one about alcohol too. I stare back at the photo on my phone. Again, I feel a knot tighten in my chest, then throat.

I set the phone back down on the table.

Inhale. Exhale.

Suddenly, I hear the door to Nora’s room open, accompanied by a quick knock. I see the top of Nora’s nurse’s head, then her face briefly through the mesh material that lines the top of the blue curtain. She’s not wearing a mask. I hear her voice as she turns and makes her way to the counter near the door, by the grey trash can with discarded yellow paper robes and blue gloves.

“I brought you lunch from the Ronald McDonald house. I’ll leave it right here on the counter. Just in case you haven’t eaten yet.” I watch her quickly exit the room. She shuts the door quietly behind her.

I stare at the curtain for a moment trying to recall a time or place a nurse has brought me food from Ronald McDonald house all the way to Nora’s hospital room. But I can’t. I can’t because nurses don’t deliver food. I can’t because I’ve never had a nurse do that for me. I can’t because nurses have probably offered in the past and I have probably considered being honest with them but then said, “No thanks, I’m fine.”

I stand up and walk toward the counter, sliding the blue curtain aside as I walk across the room. When I get to the glass windows, I peer out, looking for Nora’s nurse, to thank her. I’m embarrassed I didn’t say thank you. But she was in and out so quickly, it was like she knew I needed to eat something besides tuna, like she knew the only way I would accept it was if she casually, and uneventfully, left it on the counter.  

I open the box of food — a salad, some type of protein mixed with sauce and a heaping pile of macaroni and cheese. I open the packet of utensils and, still standing by the window, begin to scoop macaroni and cheese into my mouth. I walk back to the blue couch, scooping and chewing macaroni.

I sit down and stare into the box — slowly rearranging the salad. It’s like she knew… like she knew I would rather eat cat food than walk by the statue of Ronald Mcdonald. It’s like she knew my “okay-to-cry-with people” were far away. It’s like she knew I love macaroni and cheese, especially when I’m in need of a good cry.

It’s like she knew this is all so hard. And, like she wasn’t about to let me do it alone.

Suddenly, big drip-drop tears slide down my cheeks and around my chin, and into the brown box of macaroni and cheese. I let the tears come, until suddenly, I hear a knock at the door. I look up and see a tall man in a yellow gown with a bright smile— framed by the glass window of Nora’s hospital room door waving cheerfully.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” I mutter under my breath. It’s like Ronald McDonald in the flesh. The stranger continues to wave as I stand up, wipe my face and walk across the room, kicking myself for not remembering to completely close the blue curtain tight.

I’m still holding the box of food, fork poking out of the box, prongs pointed down into a pile of macaroni and cheese.

He says quietly, “Hi, I’m the chaplain, is this a bad time?”

“Ummmm….” I say and look down at my box of food.

“I can come back later, when you’re done eating?” he suggests.

“Does that work for you? That might be better”. I tell him, “Thank you!”

I close the hospital room door and slide the blue curtain all the way to the wall, recreating my barrier. I glance at Nora; she’s still sleeping.

And then, still carrying my box of food, I slide open the bathroom door with my free hand, and sit down on the tile floor. I stretch out my legs, cross my feet inches from the toilet and in one motion, use my free hand to slide the door behind my back. I take a deep breath.

Inhale. Exhale. What does a woman have to do to get in a decent, cathartic cry around here?

I look back into my box of food and take a bite of mac and cheese.

I start to wonder if the chaplain knew I had been crying. I bet he did, maybe that is why he offered to come back after I was done “eating” aka “crying” into my box of food. I eat the salad, and begin to consider my meal options for tonight and tomorrow….Ronald McDonald House will be open. And, I will be hungry again.

I consider what it might look like to walk across the street — independently, for a hot meal. I think about the grinning Ronald McDonald on his bench. I start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it might be worthwhile to forgive him for trying to cheer me up in that very desperate moment when I just needed to be sad.

I think about the macaroni and cheese.

I consider how I might go about starting a conversation with the iconic, cheerful, fiberglass, American clown:

Hi, do you mind if I sit here? Thank you. So, I’m sure you are well aware that you have an incredibly important job. The people here, families and staff, and patients like my daughter Nora, all need smiles and cheerful faces like yours. I want you to know I don’t have anything against clowns and big winning smiles. I am all for choosing joy, humor, and laughter. Even when things are tough. Especially when things are tough. Cheerful faces, and bright- eyed optimists like you have the ability to encourage people, to support them holding tight to hope, even in the chaos. I can’t imagine what it might be like to live on a bench outside a Children’s Hospital. But I could imagine it might be tiring — to be the guy on the bench with a smile, the guy who has to pretend that life and childhood is all about happy meals and chicken nuggets. It must be exhausting to be the guy everyone relies on to be consistently happy, to never really have any troubles of your own, to be the guy everyone looks to for a reminder that somehow, everything is going to be “okay”.   

I can also imagine that even clowns need a break from smiling. Even clowns who don’t see all the things you see day in and day out: the 24-year- old mother crying into her husband’s chest, the ambulance loading and unloading patients —all children — throughout the day and night, life flights buzzing over your head, parent conversations while going to and from clinics, into surgery, or from the car to a child’s hospital room. I could imagine it might sometimes feel lonely here on your bench and that it might feel overwhelming to not have a way to escape the chaos, being bolted to this bench and all. It doesn’t seem fair to me that you don’t seem to have any type of reprieve or respite.

My aunt tells me that God does give people, and probably clowns too, more than they can handle. But, she also says, God will never let you do it alone.

We cannot possibly belong here — my daughter and me. And why would God plant you here? Glued to a bench with a smile plastered to your face when you and I both know that sometimes, oftentimes, there is absolutely nothing to smile about here on the sidewalk outside the Ronald McDonald house. I’m sure people here bring this up all the time, but I just have to say it: I cannot believe they tore out the McDonald’s restaurant right across the street from you and then had the audacity to replace it with a Subway. Right before your eyes, you literally can’t even look away. How does God and the universe expect you to handle that type of grief with a smile? Really Ron, nobody expects you to smile through that type of upset.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this. I don’t understand why God and the circumstance of the universe planted us here. We don’t belong here. You a cheerful, charismatic, optimist on a bench outside children’s hospital, and me at my daughter’s hospital bedside without my approved and preferred list of “okay- to-cry-with people”. But what I am learning is this: I think it is actually okay to be sad or hurt even when my heart-people aren’t with me. And I want you to know I forgive you for trying to cheer me up when my world felt like it was crumbling around me.Yes sweet Ronald, I do understand clowns literally have their smiles painted to their face. Like the Joker in Batman. So, I brought you a box of yellow masks from the fourth floor. Just so you have a way to escape all of the smiling —  just so you have a way to be sad if you need to be. I can check and make sure you always have a box within arm’s reach when Nora’s here, on my way to get a plate of food at the Ronald Mcdonald House. I know sometimes it doesn’t seem like we— me and you— have the choice to be sad, like the world would actually fall apart if we let them know what was really going on in our minds and souls. But I think we do have a choice. I’m going to grab dinner, can I get you anything?

I take another bite of macaroni and cheese and realize it’s okay if the chaplain saw me crying. And, if and when I decide to “ugly cry” while he’s sitting across from me, wearing a yellow mask, at my daughter’s hospital bedside, that will be okay too.

It might even be okay to admit I do belong here, in this moment when God has absolutely given me more than I can handle, on the bathroom floor of my daughter’s hospital room, four flights above a smiling, fiberglass, statue of Ronald McDonald. And this same God has not left me and my family to handle this life and all it brings alone.

He would never do that.

Photo Credit: Jessica Rice Photography