I'm Not Sick, But I'm Not Well

What a difference a day makes.
I got to sleep in today. I love working four tens. I do miss the overtime pay, but not the hours.

Today my daughter left to spend the weekend at the in-laws house. The boy was supposed to go, too, but because of the massive head wound he received yesterday, we felt it would be best that he stay home with us. He and his cousin play very well together, and, as boys usually do, rough house a bit.

No more trips to the ER, thanks.

Have you ever noticed that many nurses that work in the ER are quite rude? The one I encountered yesterday told me that I couldn't go and stay with my son while he was getting stitched up. After a few words, I was permitted to go to the back and hold my boy's hand. Mom and dad in the same room make all the difference for an eight year old boy who is terrified because of the sight of all the blood. And it was a LOT of blood.

About seven years ago, Charlie (who was about eleven months at the time) and I were playing in our front yard. I picked him up to talk to a passing neighbor, when I noticed that he appeard to be sweating profusely. I brought him inside to give him a cool bath, and I noticed then that he had large welts all over his body.

Before too long, he was swelling. I mean really swelling. His ears were so swollen, that they flopped over. He was barely recognizeable. We rushed to the hospital. By the way, a 2000 Chevrolet Impala will reach speeds in excess of 120 if you have enough road.

We got to the hospital, and I dropped momma and son off at the door. Rachel and I parked the car, and ran back to the entrance of the ER. I couldn't find Kelly or Charlie, so I asked the "lady" at the check-in desk if she could check and see if they had been back. She looked at her paperwork and told me that there was no one with the name of Charlie or Kelly that had signed in.
"Impossible", I thought. So, Rachel and I walked through the waiting area again.

I should tell you that this was shortly after Tropical Storm Allison had plowed through Houston. Many hospitals were closed, and this one, one of the few that were operating, was packed. With illegal immigrants. I was not happy.

I checked three times for my wife and son, and had no luck in finding them.
So I went back to the desk.

I was not received warmly. In fact, I was threatened to be quiet and wait my turn.

Not a good thing. Not for me, not at that time.

Both of my feet left the ground as I jumped over the desk and grabbed the "lady" by the collar, demanding that she find my son.
It was at this time that a candy striper (or some sort of volunteer) stepped in. She asked me what my son was wearing and what he looked like.
I released the scum behind the desk and answered.
She replied, "He was in bad enough shape that we didn't admit him here. They took him immediately to the back. Let me show you where he is."

Now, I am not one that is quick to anger.
I understand that the lady behind the desk was more than likely under a lot of stress, especially with the high volume of non-English speaking "patients". But that doesn't mean that she can brush someone off because she doesn't feel like going back and taking a look.

After an epi-pen injection and a good shot of Benadryl, Charlie's swelling subsided. We spent the night at the hospital, and we were sent on our way home.

Going to the emergency room is more than likely par for many parents who have a son. I spent my fair share of time in the emergency room, from busted ankles, almost severed toes, and even a crushed hand. More often than not, the care givers are very polite. But lately, not so much.

Today we enjoyed some much needed alone time with Charlie. He's in the tub now, and I must go and wash his hair so we can make sure that the staples stay in his head.

Y'all have a great evening.
Goodnight, Texas. Be safe.
And be independent.