Alanna of Trebond (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_lioness) wrote2007-02-25 02:08 pm
the_lioness) wrote2007-02-25 02:08 pm
(no subject)
Dearest Thom,
I hope you will pardon the many scratched-out beginnings to this letter. Only two sheets of paper were provided with the room. I suppose I could have Adam fetch more, one way or the other, but I find that the messiness lends a personal touch you will no doubt expect and appreciate.
I don't really know what to say.
I didn't die. That's good news, isn't it? You don't have to give that journal to Adam. Ideally, you will consent to keeping it, but I understand if you would rather turn it over to me.
Nothing Maude ever said could have prepared me for this. Rest assured that I will spare you the grisly details. Somehow I suspect it is all entirely too human a process for you. We named the first boy Thom Alan. A little bit of you and a little bit of me. He's quieter than the others, like he's thinking on everything and is very selective about what warrants blatant disapproval. Grace Thea -- don't laugh. I think Mother would approve -- is far more lively. I predict she will inherit the familial stubbornness in spades.
James Brian. My heart aches for Jamie. He's so small, so delicate, but the doctor assures me this often happens with triplets, and he won't suffer long-term effects. I'm terrified I will hurt him somehow. What do I know of babies, especially those that are smaller than they ought to be?
And yet, I know more than I did. We are staying in an inn near the hospital, the four of us, waiting for the doctors to say Jamie's lungs are definitely working as they should. Neither Adam nor I have had much sleep, and we are tired, although it is a pleasant sort of tired. The kind of tired you get after a job well done.
They released me earlier than expected. Never have they seen such a cut heal so quickly or cleanly, Dr. Lord said. I feel guilty about cheating with my Gift, but I wasn't doing anyone any good laid up in bed, and they needed me. Besides, I only sped it up a little. And maybe helped a bit with the scarring. I've been the size of a horse for months. Surely I'm allowed a small vanity?
We take turns visiting Jamie, talking and reading to him. (Remind me to ask Aziraphael for some decent children's books. Some of these are frightening, like the bunny who obsessively says goodnight to every material possession in his room. Frightening.) Once we took Thom and Grace over together. It should have felt complete, but it didn't.
It's so loud here, Thom. I can't escape the beeping noises, the laughter, the tears and the shuffle of shoes on cold, sterile floors. The windows dull the traffic noise from outside, but the low hum is almost more noticeable for it. I lurk around the unit where Jamie is being kept, and the nurses all know me and are exceedingly nice. I still feel lost. Families and new parents come to see newborns, and then are gone again the next day. We're still here.
I want to be there.
Sometimes, when Jamie is asleep, I wander the halls. They all look the same. The colors might change, but there is a sense that you could walk them forever and never reach your destination. I found an empty room and cried yesterday. I’d been exploring the fourth floor, when I noticed a frenzy of activity around a middle-aged man with a stab wound. Without thinking, I ran forward and insisted I could help. They threw me out. Rightfully so, I suppose. I'm not a doctor, and they undoubtedly thought I suffered from insanity.
He died. I could have saved him. I think I cried more from anger than anything else. It was hard not to punch something.
Adam is there now. I'll ask him to bring this later, though I seriously doubt he will stay but a moment. He's happy, I think. I frequently catch myself watching him with the babies, and smile because I wouldn't have it any other way.
This part of it, at least. The part that tells me I made the right decision.
I miss you. We shouldn't be too much longer. I hope to see you soon after we return. Please, Brother. I'd like you to meet them.
Grace needs feeding, and I'm quite certain you don't want me to write about that. Take care, and know that I am thinking about you.
Your loving sister, Alanna.
I hope you will pardon the many scratched-out beginnings to this letter. Only two sheets of paper were provided with the room. I suppose I could have Adam fetch more, one way or the other, but I find that the messiness lends a personal touch you will no doubt expect and appreciate.
I don't really know what to say.
I didn't die. That's good news, isn't it? You don't have to give that journal to Adam. Ideally, you will consent to keeping it, but I understand if you would rather turn it over to me.
Nothing Maude ever said could have prepared me for this. Rest assured that I will spare you the grisly details. Somehow I suspect it is all entirely too human a process for you. We named the first boy Thom Alan. A little bit of you and a little bit of me. He's quieter than the others, like he's thinking on everything and is very selective about what warrants blatant disapproval. Grace Thea -- don't laugh. I think Mother would approve -- is far more lively. I predict she will inherit the familial stubbornness in spades.
James Brian. My heart aches for Jamie. He's so small, so delicate, but the doctor assures me this often happens with triplets, and he won't suffer long-term effects. I'm terrified I will hurt him somehow. What do I know of babies, especially those that are smaller than they ought to be?
And yet, I know more than I did. We are staying in an inn near the hospital, the four of us, waiting for the doctors to say Jamie's lungs are definitely working as they should. Neither Adam nor I have had much sleep, and we are tired, although it is a pleasant sort of tired. The kind of tired you get after a job well done.
They released me earlier than expected. Never have they seen such a cut heal so quickly or cleanly, Dr. Lord said. I feel guilty about cheating with my Gift, but I wasn't doing anyone any good laid up in bed, and they needed me. Besides, I only sped it up a little. And maybe helped a bit with the scarring. I've been the size of a horse for months. Surely I'm allowed a small vanity?
We take turns visiting Jamie, talking and reading to him. (Remind me to ask Aziraphael for some decent children's books. Some of these are frightening, like the bunny who obsessively says goodnight to every material possession in his room. Frightening.) Once we took Thom and Grace over together. It should have felt complete, but it didn't.
It's so loud here, Thom. I can't escape the beeping noises, the laughter, the tears and the shuffle of shoes on cold, sterile floors. The windows dull the traffic noise from outside, but the low hum is almost more noticeable for it. I lurk around the unit where Jamie is being kept, and the nurses all know me and are exceedingly nice. I still feel lost. Families and new parents come to see newborns, and then are gone again the next day. We're still here.
I want to be there.
Sometimes, when Jamie is asleep, I wander the halls. They all look the same. The colors might change, but there is a sense that you could walk them forever and never reach your destination. I found an empty room and cried yesterday. I’d been exploring the fourth floor, when I noticed a frenzy of activity around a middle-aged man with a stab wound. Without thinking, I ran forward and insisted I could help. They threw me out. Rightfully so, I suppose. I'm not a doctor, and they undoubtedly thought I suffered from insanity.
He died. I could have saved him. I think I cried more from anger than anything else. It was hard not to punch something.
Adam is there now. I'll ask him to bring this later, though I seriously doubt he will stay but a moment. He's happy, I think. I frequently catch myself watching him with the babies, and smile because I wouldn't have it any other way.
This part of it, at least. The part that tells me I made the right decision.
I miss you. We shouldn't be too much longer. I hope to see you soon after we return. Please, Brother. I'd like you to meet them.
Grace needs feeding, and I'm quite certain you don't want me to write about that. Take care, and know that I am thinking about you.
Your loving sister, Alanna.