better to be safe than sorry

I had no intentions of going anywhere or doing anything other than lying on the couch in a pose striking an uncanny resemblance to Al Bundy when Fiona woke up complaining that she felt weird.  She did in fact look weird, so my maternal instincts went into overdrive, albeit incorrect instincts.  I won't bore you with the medical details of a big false alarm, but the take away lesson for me was that not all "weirdnesses" warrant a trip to an inner city ER at midnight.

"Better to be safe than sorry", rang through my ears the entire trip to the hospital.

We pulled into a pretty quiet parking lot, greeted by a pretty bored looking parking attendant.  We walked inside, holding hands, and I felt her shaking.  Full body shaking.  I realized just how scary this was for her.  What was precautionary mother-measures for me was panic-inducing for her, even though she never admitted it.  As we waited for the drunk teenage party girl on a stretcher in front of us to finish checking in at the front desk, I held Fiona and whispered into her ear.  "Isn't this silly?  Can you believe I took you to a hospital this late at night?  I'm sorry I did.  I just figured they might give you some medicine to make you sleep better, that's all."  The shaking soon stopped.

As we checked in, Fi's eyes wandered through the waiting room.  It didn't appear to be a busy night by an ER nurse's standards, but it was enough to keep a 9 year old's eyes busy.

"First name?"

"Fio-"

I was interrupted by a young girl who looked like an extra from a vampire movie... startlingly pale, black stringy hair that I couldn't make out as an up-do or a down-do or something in between.  She had on oversized tuxedo pants cinched together at the waist by an enormous black belt, a tiny black hoodie zipped up under her chin, and the kind velvet mary janes I wore everyday in 1994.  Her hands were also shaking, but it had a very different effect on me than that of holding her and whispering comforting words into her ear.  It was the kind of shaking that made me want to hide my offspring.

"Tttttt-ake ma-ma-my nnnnname off... the the the... tr-triage list.  TTTAKE IT OFF!  I CAN'T WA-WA-WAIT NO MORE!"

Strung out on something I'm pretty sure I can't relate to, I wanted to tell her that yes, yes she can wait.  And she should wait for triage.  And then I wished I'd had a donut to hand her and tell her that she can fill that hole in her soul with a bible and donuts like the rest of us for so much less money, but please, for the sake of the children in the ER at midnight, wait for triage.  

As we take a seat in the farthest corner of the waiting room, Fiona points to a burning cigarette balancing on the top of a Dixie Cup with purple liquid sitting in the middle of the waiting room floor.  An orderly quickly disposes of the evidence (I believe a little something left behind by Vampire Diaries) and we sit down, strategically positioned so that Fiona's back would face Nancy, or Nance as she was affectionately called by the familiar nurses and orderlies that would have to remind her to keep the chatting to no one down.  Nance was a woman in a muumuu that looked to have been made of 3 of my grandmother's large floral print tablecloths sewn together with holes just large enough for her head and arms.  Her right foot was wrapped in toilet paper, left foot in a proper dangling sock and slide-on slipper.  When we arrived, I took note that she was sitting in a wheelchair, head back, mouth agape, obviously fast asleep.  When we were walking back to our corner of the waiting room 5 minutes later, she was now sitting in the chair next to the wheelchair, head following us, but eyes darting up and down like a slot machine.

She yelled something inaudible in our direction, I believe to the effect of, "why are you here?", but I can't be sure as she was slurring and although her head had followed us, one eye was technically looking at a ceiling tile and the other was looking at her toilet paper bandage.  

Fiona leaned in close to me as we slowed down.  "Excuse me?", I asked.

"I'M TALKING TO MYSELF!"

I quietly apologized while we sat down, quickly pulling out a copy of Harry Potter from my bag.  I began reading in my really awful British accent as if to say "See? No big deal.  Just a little light reading and Hogwarts dialect in the ER at midnight next to Nancy, the lady who smells like fries and looks like Nana's tablecloths.  No big deal."

We got up a few times to get water, or to go to the bathroom, and finally to be seen by a triage nurse.  Each time we walked past Nancy, and each time we tried our hardest not to stare.  

Getting water: Nance was standing over the magazine table, holding an issue of English Gardens an inch from her face.

Coming back from the water fountain: Nance was sitting in her wheelchair once more, reading English Gardens an inch from her face.

Going to the bathroom: Nance was unwrapping the toilet paper from her right foot.

Coming back from the bathroom: Nance's left foot is now wrapped in the remains of the toilet paper, dirty sock and slipper sitting in her wheelchair.

Walking towards triage: Nance's head follows us.  She yells, "GET ME A BOX LUNCH!"  I make sure not to answer her this go around, for fear that she is talking to herself again.

Walking back from triage: "DID YOU GET ME A BOX LUNCH!?  WHY AIN'T YOU ANSWERIN' ME?"

Fiona's eyes are huge.  I can practically hear the million questions knocking around inside her brain, as she tries to make sense of it all... why are we here?  Why is she here?  Is she sick?  Is she hungry?  Both?  Is toilet paper a legitimate form of a wound covering?  And WHY are these nurses giggling about another nurse's rainbow colored shoe laces!?  Don't they see that there's a woman with unruly eyes barking at my mom!?

Three hours later, exhaustion got the best of her curiosity.  She was barely able to keep her eyes open, body sprawled across my lap.  I tried several times to put the kibosh on the whole thing and just leave after the triage nurse assured me that she was probably only coming down with a virus.  But they couldn't let me go until she saw the doctor.

Finally two rooms become vacant at once, so altogether me, Fiona, and Nance are escorted back by a friendly nurse with a large red mustache.  He speaks to Fiona as if she were an angel sent to him personally, his register also similar to that of a 9 year old girl's.

"Heyyyy, Precious!  Aren't you sweeeeet.  Are you not feelin' good?  Oh, pumpkin.  Here's the remote.  Channel 51 is Disney Channel, okay?  Mama, let me know if I can get y'all anything, okay?  Sweetie, the doctor is gonna be here real quick-like.  Lay on down."  He dims the light to our room, and I'm pretty sure he would've stayed and played Chinese Checkers or braided her hair if he could.  But alas, Nance needed tending to in Room 20, and so he wheeled her out of Room 19 and across the narrow hall.

With both our doors still open, we could hear him say in a normal much less enthusiastic voice, "Hello again, Nance.  What's wrong tonight?  Sweetie, last night your other foot was all wrapped up.  Now this one hurts?"  She cleared up the misunderstanding by saying, "Naw, that's my Chri'mas foot."

Disney Channel, Schmisney Channel.  Fiona's eyes were fixed on Room 20.  She watched a resident bring Nance a box lunch, and I watched Fiona smile, lean back, and relax a little.  When her curtain was pulled,  Fiona's eyes moved down to the shin-height production, watching and listening as Nance unwrapped one of her hurt feet, and explain to the doctors that some pain medicine would definitely make matters better.  Fiona clasped her hands in relief when the doctor agreed to bring her some.  Leaning over she whispered, "Yay!  The medicine will help!"  And when she demanded that he check her heart, Fiona shot me a double thumbs up when she heard the doctor assure her that her heart sounded great.  

Feeling the anticipation of imminent discharge, I think Fiona assumed that just as Nance was admitted so would she be leaving with us.  Her cunning eavesdropping skills allowed her to stay up-to-date on Nance's prognosis, up until the very moment we were granted leave at 2:30am.  She was almost satisfied with her prognosis, with the exception of one nagging concern. 

"Mom, why does she keep asking the doctor to look at her foot?  I think they need to look at her eyes before we go."  

Better to be safe than to be sorry.