The Nightmarish Miracles Before Christmas - Part 2

So many noises.
Feet shuffling.
Whispered voices.
Squeaky wheels carrying large machines down the darkened hall.
The clicking of a keyboard.
And beeping.
So much beeping.
Some rhythmic.  Some harsh and shrill, warning.
None of it calming.
The machines hooked to Brian's body fall into the nervous song and, even when I try, I can't ignore their contributing sounds.
The nurse steps lightly into the room, patiently studying the heart tracking monitor several times an hour to find the source of the warning sounds that make my nerves feel so raw.
Sometimes she resets the monitor without question.
Sometimes she wakes Brian to ask him how he feels.
Sometimes she leaves and comes back in with the doctor.  Then they stand there in the darkness, side by side, and stare at his monitor.  I stare at them, wide eyed despite the late hour, trying to judge their faces.  Eventually, the doctor gives an order - usually a change in medication - and an instruction to 'let me know if doctortalkdoctortalkdoctortalk.'
They never look at me.
I'm not supposed to be there.
But the nurse is kind and, in the name of the holidays, had pulled a (slightly) reclining chair next to Brian's ICU bed and gave me a pillow and blanket.  Brian does not talk all through the night.  Not more than an occasional complaint of pain.  The nurse does not like those and the doctor is in the room quickly after each complaint.  I don't like those either.
My eyes will not close.
Instead, they watch the minute hand of the clock on the wall chase and overlap the hour hand once.
Twice.
Three times.
Instead, they watch Brian's face for much of the night.  His eyes stay closed, but he is not resting well. So uncomfortable.  He feels funny pressure in his chest from a balloon pumping in his aorta once every second.  Not allowed to bend his knee or his hip.  Not allowed to turn to one side or the other.  Not allowed to even lift his head.  I want to help.  But there is nothing I can do.  Helpless.  Once he asks for a vomit bucket and I feel charged with the small request.  But the charge dies quickly when the nurse acts concerned and brings the doctor in quickly.
Four times around the clock.
Still breathing.  Still beating.  Keep checking.  I wish I could hold Brian's hand, but the bed is in the way.  He doesn't want me to, anyway... the few times I stood to rub his arm he gently asked me to stop.  He says his skin feels funny and sensitive. 
Five times.
I curl up several times to try sleeping.  But the chair is small.  And baby doesn't like my knees too close.  He feels squished.  I feel squished.  So I uncurl and sit.  Not tired anyway.  The iPad sits close to my body and I read and re-read the messages and comments coming in from concerned family and friends.  I cherish each new message and feel blessed to have friends awake at all hours of the night.
Six times around the face of the clock.
The nurse comes in once each hour to check his vitals.  She comes in several times an hour to check those warning sounds.  Otherwise, she sits outside his glass doors.  Clicking the keys of her keyboard.  Watching his monitors always.  I can see her hand moving the mouse.  I can see her feet resting underneath the computer monitor.  It's comforting to me to know she's there. Watching so closely.  Or is it uncomforting to me?  Watching so closely.
Seven times.
The walls of the tiny room are all glass, but there are heavy curtains that block the views into the neighboring rooms, and one heavy curtain that can be pulled halfway across the front.
Eight. Eight hours, and my eyes are heavy.  The morning light is drifting in through the window behind me.  It's seven in the morning and my mind starts to lose its grip on reality and finally rest.  My eyes stay closed for a full ten minutes before the doctor's morning rounds wake me.
Night is over.
Day has started.
So many noises.
Feet hurrying.
Orders spoken.
Squeaky wheels carrying large machines down the brightened hall.
Rustling papers.

And beeping.
So much beeping.