for the love of the Sage Bug, no.2: 08/04/10

This night is quiet and the sounds of Sage's room are oddly comforting. She sleeps so peacefully and looks so calm. Her hands are thankfully warm and the numbers - always the numbers to watch - have been stable even in the instability and uncertainty of the 'right now' of her condition. Peter Rabbit is peeking over the other edge of the bed, fierce protector as always. He is on Sage's left side and I sit by her right. Her night music is on - sounds of the ocean. Her day music has the sounds of the rainforest. The shifts in sounds help her on some deeper level (I am told) to maintain the rhythm of the light and the dark, the sun rising and setting, the tides rising and falling. Perhaps this brings comfort.
This is the time of night most difficult for me, 1-3 a.m. I let my guard down, I relax into the silence, only to sense something lurking on the edges. The doubt, the unknown, the uncertainty, the panic. There's also something else there, which I can only describe as a fear of being afraid. It makes me mad! I don't want it! and yet I realize all I have to do is tweak it a bit, to transform it into a fearlessness at being afraid, and it just might just work.
Sagey Sage. She is so so beautiful and brilliant. Perfect eyebrows, long lashes, nose in profile curved up just a bit, ever so impishly. Long slender fingers and golden hair thankfully braided by her loving aunties. What a girl.

She is most definitely in charge;  I think the extraordinary people who now grace our lives with their care of Sage, well they're seeing that  appearances can be most deceiving. Sage may be small but she is loud. Determined. Bold. Feisty. Fierce. Full of piss and vinegar, as they say. If you mess with her, you're going to know it, so pay attention!
Again I thank you so much for walking this path with us. Your thoughtful words,  loving prayers, heartfelt wishes, **positive energy** and deep love for Sage and everything and everyone connected with her - well it's hard to express my gratitude. I know that Sage is going to be alright. I also know that it is going to be quite a path and process. I also know that God, like Sage, is in charge of this one, and that more than that, love rules the day. End of story. Punto final. That's just the way it is: Love reigns and rains.
Before signing off with this post, I wish to share a snippet from that day unlike any other - Thursday the 29th of July. I had been at Sage's bedside at Brattleboro Hospital since the early hours of that morning (the late hours of Wednesday night) when I had first arrived at 12:37 a.m.  Quite specific that time, 37 minutes after the hour of midnight - but that was the time when I first saw her, meeting her as I rounded the corner and she was in a wheelchair, being taken down for a chest x-ray. She was coughing and the color of her skin and overall state sucker-punched me. Oh God, I breathed. I knew, just knew, that something was not right.
The next six hours were sleepless, fitful and consistently alarming for me. My brain was screaming for logic and yet couldn't find it: I was witnessing freefall of Sage's health and yet no one else seemed overly or overtly concerned. Did they not see it? notice it? were they not alarmed? was I even there? Was this what was meant by a 'Kafkaesque' novel??
I tried not to panic, but as I continued to count Sage's rate of breathing at 40-45 breaths per minute (the norm is 12-20) and listened to her continuous cough, the rattling in her chest, her complaining of being cold and then throwing off the covers, something shifted. The world wobbled on its axis, Sage and I listed to the left, and we began to dive.  
I called my sister Hilary at 6:30 a.m. Hilla, I said, you need to talk to this doctor. They're saying Sage has pneuomia and is now a patient of the special care unit (read ICU) not just placed there upon admission due to the numbers.
By 10 a.m. the call had been made to transfer Sage to DHMC. The helicopter was on its way and I was told Sage would need to be intubated. No, I prayed, no no no no, anything but that, please - I know what that means. Please not that, but Hilla said to me, you've got to get her out of there. Do it. Make sure they start vancomycin before she leaves. Don't let Sage leave without it being started.
Okay. Right. Got it. Vancomycin.
Sage had said earlier in the night, when I asked her how she felt, that it was like being in a briar patch. (Gee whiz Bug!! Who likens pulmonary distress and beyond to a briar patch??!) As I listen to her rattle and cough, however, I see that Sage has got it absolutely right. Briar patch. Thorny. Annoying.  Won't let you go. Have to go really slow and place your foot ever so consciously and cautiously to get out of it. Doesn't take you down completely but the path out is uncomfortable, painful, a bit nerve-wracking. 
The doctor who comes in to sedate and intubate Sage tells me in no uncertain terms to leave. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I'm not going anywhere.
I turn to Sage and take her hand. It's time. What's happening, she says. What's going on.
Sagey listen Bug. You're going to another hospital by helicopter because you're pretty sick. And you need to be intubated, which means you'll have a tube inside down toward your lungs so they can take a break. The machine is going to help you breathe. This doctor is going to give you some medicine so you can fall asleep. Don't worry, okay Bug? just don't worry. You're going to be alright.
The doctor puts a mask over Sage's nose and mouth. I watch the vapors of the sedative spring into action, curling around her nostrils and lips. I can't breathe! she shouts through the mask. I can't breathe! The vapors keep moving, Sage looks up and her eyes close.
She gets lifted onto a gurney for transport to the helicopter. Where's the vancomycin, show me where it is. It's pumping, I'm shown, it's going, it's starting its magic. Sage has what she needs for right now.
Sage and the briar patch. Keep walking Sage, one step at a time Sagey Sage. Right there with you.