Chapter Seven: Ten Minutes in the ICU
After getting the call from Kaohsiung Medical University Hospital, I barely gave it a second thought. The pharmacy had only been open for a short while, and I had to rush back to the hospital. The nurse had already explained everything clearly over the phone. Pengpeng had been crying nonstop. Nothing they did could calm her down. She wanted her mom. At the time, I probably didn't even have time to wonder, "Why me again?" or "Why can't anyone else calm her down?" I only knew one thing. I had to go back.
By the time I returned to the ICU and saw Pengpeng, she was exhausted from crying. Children won't tell you they're scared. They won't tell you they don't recognize the place or the people around them. All they know is that when they woke up, Mom and Dad were gone. So they cry. They keep crying. Until the person they're most familiar with appears in front of them again.
I went back. Only then did she slowly settle down.
After that, we understood. We couldn't simply leave Pengpeng at the hospital, go back to work, and wait for the hospital to call. At least while she was hospitalized, someone had to stay with her.
Her dad and I started discussing what we were supposed to do. The pharmacy couldn't stay closed forever. But Pengpeng couldn't be left alone, either. In the end, her dad asked his company for time off. I don't remember how many days he took off, and I don't remember who arrived at the hospital at what time each day or who went back to the pharmacy when. More than twenty years have passed. I truly have no way to piece together every detail of those shifts exactly as they were. I only remember that during that period, the two of us took turns going back and forth between the hospital and the pharmacy.
Her dad could stay with Pengpeng. And Pengpeng was attached to her dad, too. But if we absolutely had to rank us first and second— I'm sorry.
Mom was still number one. Dad was number two.
I don't think her dad had much grounds to argue with that. After all, the little girl who had cried in Zuoying until Auntie Four and Sijia surrendered was now calling the ICU nurses to ask Mom to come back. The evidence was conclusive. There was no grounds for appeal.
It was usually more convenient for me to stay overnight. The reason was actually very practical. I was small. Pengpeng was small, too. If the situation allowed, I could squeeze in beside her and lean against her to get a little rest. Her dad was much taller and bigger than I was. Just imagining him trying to squeeze in with a tiny child in a place like that made me feel tired for him.
So most of the time, I stayed at the hospital. I stayed with her while she slept. I stayed with her when she woke up. I watched her IV. I waited for the nurses to come in. When she was awake, she looked for me. When she was asleep, I only dared to relax a little.
But staying in the ICU alone all the time really was stifling. It wasn't just emotionally stifling. I genuinely wanted to get outside and take a breath. So whenever I saw that Pengpeng was sound asleep, I would occasionally start calculating: I should be able to step outside for a minute, right?
First, I would tell the nurse: "I'm going to the restroom for a minute." Then I'd take the elevator downstairs. The doors would open— Whoosh. Out I went.
I wasn't going shopping. I wasn't going out for afternoon tea. And I certainly wasn't going for a leisurely walk somewhere. I just wanted to breathe some outside air. Look at the sky. Feel the air outside. Temporarily leave behind the hospital's smell, its sounds, and that space that kept reminding me, "Your child is hospitalized."
But I didn't dare go far at all. Pengpeng could wake up at any moment. So every time I went out for some air, it was very short. Usually less than ten minutes. Out. Take a breath. And then— Whoosh. Back in.
Looking back now, it really was funny. Other people's breaks might last an afternoon. I measured mine in minutes. And even then, it depended on whether Miss Pengpeng was feeling generous.
Once, I secretly slipped downstairs while she was asleep again. I had only been outside for a short while when I ran into a man. He didn't look like he was doing very well in life, and seemed somewhat like someone living on the streets. He came over and asked me for money. He said he wanted to buy something to eat.
I wasn't doing particularly well myself at the time. My child was lying in the ICU. I still had to keep the pharmacy running. Even our national health insurance premiums had been paid in a scattered, haphazard way. Every day, besides my child, the only thing on my mind was where the money was going to come from.
But when I saw someone say he was hungry, I still thought: Fine. Everyone's having a hard time. I felt a kind of "fellow sufferers at the ends of the earth" kinship.
I had originally planned to give him fifty dollars, or maybe a hundred, so he could buy something to eat. But this guy had very definite ideas of his own. He didn't want fifty. He didn't want a hundred, either. He told me he wanted— 168 dollars.
I still remember it clearly. 168.
My first reaction wasn't to think of it as a lucky number. I didn't think of any "make a fortune" symbolism, either. I only thought: You want a specific amount? I was almost broke myself, and you were asking me for money down to the exact dollar?
168 dollars. Couldn't you take even one dollar less?
But I didn't have time to stand there haggling with him. My ten-minute break had a time limit. Upstairs, there was a child who could wake up at any moment and start looking for her mom.
So in the end, I gave it to him anyway. Here. 168.
After giving it to him, I left. Looking back now, I still think the whole scene was absurd. A mother whose daughter was in the ICU, who was so broke she couldn't even pay her health insurance premiums, had slipped outside for less than ten minutes to catch her breath. And then someone had specifically demanded 168 dollars from her.
Life really is strange sometimes. You're clearly in the middle of an incredibly difficult period, and then, for no reason, life suddenly drops in something that, years later, you still can't help thinking: What on earth was that all about?
After giving him the money, I hurried back. I took the elevator. Went upstairs. Walked back to the ICU.
And I really did almost not make it in time. Pengpeng was awake. Or maybe it was more accurate to say she had already started looking for someone.
When the nurse saw me return, her expression was practically that of someone seeing reinforcements arrive. She said: "Oh, thank goodness you're back."
I understood immediately. Miss Pengpeng was just about ready to start crying again.
I hurried back to her side. When she saw me, she gradually settled down again.
At that moment, I really felt as if even going to the bathroom was a race against time. But there was nothing I could do. That was simply how she was. As soon as she woke up and couldn't see me, she would start looking.
She was still so little then. She didn't know what a hospital was. She certainly couldn't understand what the ICU was. She didn't know that the people in uniforms who came to see her every day were taking care of her. She only knew one thing— When Mom was there, she felt safe. When Mom disappeared, she looked for her.
That was probably the whole world a child of barely more than one could understand.
The days in the ICU passed like that, one day after another. The IVs continued. The medication continued. The nurses continued monitoring her condition. And I continued staying by her side. I stayed with her when she was awake. I watched her while she slept. Whenever I had the chance, I went outside for a few minutes. Then I hurried back.
Her dad was also trying to figure things out with me, moving between the hospital, work, and the pharmacy.
Looking back now, I really have no way to separate every day clearly. Which day was I at the hospital all day? Which day did Dad stay with her a little longer? Which day did I go back to take care of the pharmacy? I don't remember anymore.
But I don't want to create a neat-looking schedule for myself from more than twenty years ago just because I can't remember. The memories that truly remain were never arranged by date in the first place.
I remember Pengpeng's crying. I remember getting a call and rushing back to the hospital. I remember her dad asking for time off. I remember staying with her in the ICU. I remember never daring to stay outside too long. And I remember the man who inexplicably asked me for 168 dollars.
Those things are clearer than the dates.
Fortunately, after treatment, Pengpeng's edema gradually went down. The shortness of breath that had worried me most also slowly became more stable. At least from the outside, she no longer looked as alarming as she had when she was first brought to the hospital.
Later, the hospital told us she could leave the ICU and be transferred to a regular ward. Of course I was happy to hear she could move to a regular ward. For a mother, the words "leave the ICU" were good news in themselves.
My thinking was very simple then. The edema had gone down. Her breathing was more stable. And she no longer had to stay in the ICU. That meant she was getting better, right?
Next, as long as we finished the tests the hospital had scheduled and adjusted her medication, we should be able to take her home. That was what I thought at the time.
After she was transferred to the regular ward, other children were staying there, too. There was a mother in the bed next to ours. During a hospital stay, when two mothers spend enough time in the same space, they naturally start chatting.
After noticing Pengpeng, she asked me one day: "How old is your little sister?"
I told her: "A little over a year old."
She was surprised. "How does she talk so well?"
I looked at Pengpeng, wondering what was so strange about that. She had always been good at talking.
So I answered: "She says whatever comes to mind. If she knows how to say something, she says it."
To me, it was just an ordinary thing. I lived with Pengpeng every day. She could say Dad, Mom, and Auntie. She could say no. She could say okay. She could say yes. When she wanted something to eat, she had her own way of showing it. When she didn't want something, she made that very clear, too. Especially her "No, no." She said that one very clearly.
I had long been used to her having opinions of her own. But to the mother in the next bed, it seemed special for a child barely over a year old to understand what adults said and express herself so well.
We started talking like that. About our children. About why hers was in the hospital. She gradually learned that Pengpeng hadn't been admitted for an ordinary minor illness. She had a heart problem. She also had a pacemaker implanted.
I didn't make it sound especially tragic. At the time, I didn't feel any need to make myself sound pitiful. That was simply our life. Other people's children might have other problems. My child just needed a little more attention than other children. That was how I had always thought of it.
After that, the hospital began scheduling one test after another for Pengpeng. I can no longer name every test she underwent. More than twenty years have passed. I vaguely remember that she had a CT scan, along with other tests focused on her heart, lungs, and pulmonary hypertension. But I truly don't remember the exact names or the order.
Although I was a pharmacist myself, those clinical tests at the hospital weren't my area of expertise to begin with. So now, writing this afterward, I don't want to force names onto memories that have already grown blurry just to make the story seem complete. If I've forgotten, I've forgotten.
But there is one thing I haven't forgotten. Every test was hard on Pengpeng. She cried. Children have no idea what adults are going to do to them. One moment they have to lie still. The next they can't move. Then suddenly they're being taken somewhere unfamiliar.
To the medical staff, those tests were necessary to identify the problem. But to a barely one-year-old Pengpeng, she didn't understand what a test was. She only knew that she was uncomfortable. That she was scared. That she didn't like it.
So she cried. And I watched from beside her. I held her when I could. I comforted her when I could. When I couldn't go in with her, I waited outside.
I no longer remember how many tests she had over those days. I only remember that every time she had one, I suffered along with her.
I kept thinking: It's okay. Let's finish everything that needs to be done. Find out what the problem is. The doctor will know how to treat it. Then we can go home.
Once the test results began coming in, I learned that things weren't as simple as I had thought. Pengpeng's heart had already begun to enlarge. And the pulmonary hypertension that had been there from the beginning still hadn't improved.
I understood those terms. I also knew they weren't minor problems that could be brushed aside. But knowing something intellectually was one thing. When a mother is actually sitting beside her child's hospital bed, watching the results come in one after another, it is something else entirely.
I still hoped the doctor would tell me: How we would treat her next. How she should take her medication. What we needed to watch for. How we should care for her after we went home.
My thoughts were always focused on what came next. Because I had always believed there would be a next step for us.
Later, the attending physician came by. Pengpeng was right beside me. The doctor explained her condition to me. I no longer remember all of his sentences in full. But I still remember several things he said.
He told me very directly: "I'm telling you, this situation is extremely serious and unfavorable. Her life could be in danger at any time."
Then he said: "Just because we've done every test doesn't mean this child can still be saved."
I was holding Pengpeng. I didn't turn to look at him. My tears had already started falling.
I didn't know what I was supposed to say then. I didn't know what else I could ask. For so many days, I had accompanied her through one test after another. She had cried again and again. I had comforted her again and again.
I kept telling myself: It'll be okay once they're finished. It'll be okay once they know exactly what's wrong. Once they know where the problem is, they can treat it.
But now, nearly all the tests were done. And what I heard was: "Just because we've done every test doesn't mean this child can still be saved."
The pain I felt in my heart at that moment was something I couldn't put into words.
I admit that I was angry then. I even felt that I couldn't forgive him.
What I was thinking was: If you were ultimately going to tell me there might be nothing more that could be done for this child, then why did you make her undergo so many tests in the first place? She was so little. She cried so hard through every single test. Why did you make her suffer through all of this?
At my most overwhelmed, an especially sharp thought even crossed my mind: Were all these tests just for the health insurance money?
Of course, I know now that this was simply the thought of a mother who was already in tremendous pain, confused and helpless, at that moment. I have no way of knowing why the doctor ordered each test back then. And the medical necessity of each test isn't something I can go back and judge on behalf of the medical team now.
But I remember how I felt. That part was real. I only felt that my child had suffered so much. And then someone stood in front of me and told me: She might still be beyond saving.
That pain wasn't because I didn't understand medicine. Quite the opposite. Some things hurt more precisely because you do understand them.
After the attending physician finished speaking, he left. The room fell quiet for a moment. I was still holding Pengpeng. My tears still hadn't stopped.
Then the mother in the next bed, who had been chatting with me earlier, couldn't hold back any longer. She looked in the direction the doctor had gone, then looked at me and said bluntly: "What kind of doctor says something like that?"
Then she added: "How could he say something like that? Honestly."
I didn't say anything in reply. But I knew she had heard everything. She wasn't Pengpeng's mother. Before being admitted to this room, she hadn't even known us.
And yet even someone who had merely overheard it thought those words were too harsh. I was the one holding that child.
I looked down at Pengpeng. She was still so little. Barely over a year old. She could say Mom. She could say no. She could express what she wanted on her own. When she couldn't see me, she would cry until no one in the entire ICU knew what to do with her.
I truly didn't know how the words "her life could be in danger at any time" were supposed to fit onto such a tiny child.
Before that day, all I had been thinking was: Finish the tests. Take the medicine. Go home.
But that day, in the regular ward, I was forced for the first time to face something else— Maybe there really wasn't much more the hospital could do for Pengpeng.
I held her. A thought slowly began to form in my mind.
If staying here only meant putting her through more things that frightened her and made her cry...
then, should I take her home?