I spoke to my dad earlier on Friday and got the full report on his health. He still has the compression bandage on. That will be removed once he gets the all clear from his surgeon this week. He has not been allowed to shower for over two weeks now because there is still a wound from the chest tube and his bandage cannot get wet. This lack of showering is, to me, much more of a problem than a few shattered bones and leaky vital organs. (Current update: Bandage is now off and the surgeon reports all is healing as it should ... thank you for all the family well wishes! Also a much-needed shower has been had, or so I have heard.)
Right before I hung up the phone with my father, I did something incredible, irrevocably stupid. I spoke the following words: It has been a full week since someone from our family has had to go to the ER! That is good news! I recklessly did so without throwing salt, knocking on wood, or hiding in the pantry to avoid planes which have ingested flocks of geese and will now come crashing through my ceiling. Insane behavior on my part, and I have only myself to blame for what transpired next.
My husband and I do not argue all that often these days. We are more likely to have little spats as opposed to knock-down drag-out sort of events (though we could toe-to-toe it with the best of them back in our bar-hopping days; I am sure that had nothing to do with alcohol). I'd like to think we have become mellow and mature as the years pass, or perhaps we have just become more complacent. In any event, we are too consumed by Big Life to bitch about Little Things all that often. Unfortunately (or perhaps, fortunately, because we were still awake), Friday night was a culmination of little spats that devolved into something more heated.
12 AM The ICU Discussion. I have no idea how this topic got started. Basically this "discussion" is about what happens when I am in the (hypothetical) ICU and he does not visit me enough (hypothetically) or does not speak up when the nurses do not wash their hands before reinserting my brain drainage tube (hypothetically). And DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?! Yeah. No good response to this one, but it never fails to get me worked up.
12:15 AM - 2 AM More discussion. For the sake of not having to make a trip to family law court at the end of the month, the rest of this argument transcript will remain unpublished. But those close to me are fully apprised of what was going on since you received at least fifty emails over the past week with the subject line: ISO: My Husband's Balls. Monetary Reward Offered For Their Safe Return. I do not feel guilty about publishing this post, because I forwarded the majority of such e-mail messages to him already. I am usually only passive-aggressive when I own up to it after-the-fact. (Note: We are both happy to report that they have since been returned to their rightful owner, who missed then very much.)
2 AM Even lawyers eventually get tired of arguing, and at this point, there was no real resolution. So I had a little midnight snack of Ambien washed down with a half-glass of Merlot and started getting ready for bed.
2:10 AM I am washing my face in the bathroom when I hear this weird strangling noise coming from Ethan's room. From down the hall, it sounds like he is vomiting. I open the door to his bedroom and see him sitting up in bed. The weird noise is the sound of him in acute respiratory distress. He is gagging and wheezing and choking, and he cannot speak.
Asthma, I thought at the time. So I give him two doses of his puffer (the asthma rescue medication) and it does nothing. NOTHING! Jeff calls the emergency phone line to Ethan's allergy/asthma doctor but the line is BUSY. He tries the doctor's cell phone and gets voicemail. Most helpful when your child is blue.
After thirty seconds of waiting for a return call - or seventeen hours - not sure, exactly, since everything is all slow-motion and underwater, like in the movies, I tell Jeff to get the Epipen from downstairs while I sit with Ethan. Ethan hears me say this and struggles to get away. Jeff's eyes well up because Ethan is now frantic - not only because he cannot breathe - but because he is scared of the needle. He knows from past experience that the Epipen hurts. A lot.
So I do it. I sit on Ethan's torso to restrain him and yank his pants down to his knees with one hand. This is now my third time giving Ethan the Epipen during an emergency. I am in life-saving mode, no shaky hands, no stalling, just remove the cap - BOOM! - Epipen injection into his upper thigh while Jeff holds down Ethan's arms and tries to calm him. It goes without saying that "calm" and "five-year-old with live needle still inserted in thigh" are mutually exclusive concepts. Ethan lets out a garbled scream when the needle goes in and I hold the needle in place as I count to ten -- one Mississippi, two Mississippi ... -- while Ethan screams with as much power as he can muster with little to no air.
Jeff has never witnessed an Epipen emergency. So he is now sobbing because ... well, because ... it sucks. Jeff, still sobbing, calls 911. By the time the paramedics arrive, Ethan's breathing has normalized and is almost back to "99%." Thank God.
3-7 AM At the emergency room. The emergency room doctor diagnoses the episode as severe croup, not asthma, but says emergency epinephrine was the "right thing to do." Ethan gets Prednisone, more epinephrine, and some breathing treatments. He is a much better patient than I am and is relieved there are no more needles.
7:30 AM Jeff is retrieving the car from the hospital parking lot (he followed the ambulance). I am waiting in the reception area with Ethan when the night reception clerk recognizes me. HEY! It's you! I thought your dad got out of here!
And I'll all, Yeah, it was this one ... and point to little blond lump next to me, who, despite massive doses of epinephrine, is now slumped over in his seat, eyelids at half-mast.
The guard - who became my buddy last week - is sympathetic. Man ... your luck this week!
Dude. This year ... try, luck this YEAR ...
Right before I hung up the phone with my father, I did something incredible, irrevocably stupid. I spoke the following words: It has been a full week since someone from our family has had to go to the ER! That is good news! I recklessly did so without throwing salt, knocking on wood, or hiding in the pantry to avoid planes which have ingested flocks of geese and will now come crashing through my ceiling. Insane behavior on my part, and I have only myself to blame for what transpired next.
My husband and I do not argue all that often these days. We are more likely to have little spats as opposed to knock-down drag-out sort of events (though we could toe-to-toe it with the best of them back in our bar-hopping days; I am sure that had nothing to do with alcohol). I'd like to think we have become mellow and mature as the years pass, or perhaps we have just become more complacent. In any event, we are too consumed by Big Life to bitch about Little Things all that often. Unfortunately (or perhaps, fortunately, because we were still awake), Friday night was a culmination of little spats that devolved into something more heated.
12 AM The ICU Discussion. I have no idea how this topic got started. Basically this "discussion" is about what happens when I am in the (hypothetical) ICU and he does not visit me enough (hypothetically) or does not speak up when the nurses do not wash their hands before reinserting my brain drainage tube (hypothetically). And DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND HERE?! Yeah. No good response to this one, but it never fails to get me worked up.
12:15 AM - 2 AM More discussion. For the sake of not having to make a trip to family law court at the end of the month, the rest of this argument transcript will remain unpublished. But those close to me are fully apprised of what was going on since you received at least fifty emails over the past week with the subject line: ISO: My Husband's Balls. Monetary Reward Offered For Their Safe Return. I do not feel guilty about publishing this post, because I forwarded the majority of such e-mail messages to him already. I am usually only passive-aggressive when I own up to it after-the-fact. (Note: We are both happy to report that they have since been returned to their rightful owner, who missed then very much.)
2 AM Even lawyers eventually get tired of arguing, and at this point, there was no real resolution. So I had a little midnight snack of Ambien washed down with a half-glass of Merlot and started getting ready for bed.
2:10 AM I am washing my face in the bathroom when I hear this weird strangling noise coming from Ethan's room. From down the hall, it sounds like he is vomiting. I open the door to his bedroom and see him sitting up in bed. The weird noise is the sound of him in acute respiratory distress. He is gagging and wheezing and choking, and he cannot speak.
Asthma, I thought at the time. So I give him two doses of his puffer (the asthma rescue medication) and it does nothing. NOTHING! Jeff calls the emergency phone line to Ethan's allergy/asthma doctor but the line is BUSY. He tries the doctor's cell phone and gets voicemail. Most helpful when your child is blue.
After thirty seconds of waiting for a return call - or seventeen hours - not sure, exactly, since everything is all slow-motion and underwater, like in the movies, I tell Jeff to get the Epipen from downstairs while I sit with Ethan. Ethan hears me say this and struggles to get away. Jeff's eyes well up because Ethan is now frantic - not only because he cannot breathe - but because he is scared of the needle. He knows from past experience that the Epipen hurts. A lot.
So I do it. I sit on Ethan's torso to restrain him and yank his pants down to his knees with one hand. This is now my third time giving Ethan the Epipen during an emergency. I am in life-saving mode, no shaky hands, no stalling, just remove the cap - BOOM! - Epipen injection into his upper thigh while Jeff holds down Ethan's arms and tries to calm him. It goes without saying that "calm" and "five-year-old with live needle still inserted in thigh" are mutually exclusive concepts. Ethan lets out a garbled scream when the needle goes in and I hold the needle in place as I count to ten -- one Mississippi, two Mississippi ... -- while Ethan screams with as much power as he can muster with little to no air.
Jeff has never witnessed an Epipen emergency. So he is now sobbing because ... well, because ... it sucks. Jeff, still sobbing, calls 911. By the time the paramedics arrive, Ethan's breathing has normalized and is almost back to "99%." Thank God.
3-7 AM At the emergency room. The emergency room doctor diagnoses the episode as severe croup, not asthma, but says emergency epinephrine was the "right thing to do." Ethan gets Prednisone, more epinephrine, and some breathing treatments. He is a much better patient than I am and is relieved there are no more needles.
7:30 AM Jeff is retrieving the car from the hospital parking lot (he followed the ambulance). I am waiting in the reception area with Ethan when the night reception clerk recognizes me. HEY! It's you! I thought your dad got out of here!
And I'll all, Yeah, it was this one ... and point to little blond lump next to me, who, despite massive doses of epinephrine, is now slumped over in his seat, eyelids at half-mast.
The guard - who became my buddy last week - is sympathetic. Man ... your luck this week!
Dude. This year ... try, luck this YEAR ...
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