emergency

Dylan,

It's Tuesday night and you're in bed asleep. Our fingers are crossed, hoping you'll get a good night of sleep without vomiting up the grape-flavored pedialyte we finally got our hands on.

The last 48, wait, make that 49 hours have been hard. After spewing all your dinner Sunday you threw up again in the middle of the night. Mommy got up and cleaned everything while I slept through it.

All day Monday you were out of sorts, unable to hold down even a teaspoon of fluids, heaving nine or ten times throughout the day -- sometimes even when you'd ingested nothing since the last stinky episode. Mom stayed home with you, towels at the ready in every room. Uncharasterically, you sat sedately on the living room floor for long stretches, uninterested in your toys. You even took a 2 hour and 45 minute nap.

The Advice Nurse said "blah, blah, blah" and we followed her instructions, but after almost 27 hours of no effective food or drink, at about 10:30pm we decided it was time for your first trip to an Emergency Room.

We thought about the hospital closest to the house, but decided the hospital where you were born, where your doctor is based, and where Mommy works was a better choice.

The waiting room was crowded, and an unsavory place to be. The employees sat behind thick panels of bullet-proof glass, with a permanent police presence -- they even moved in on one trouble-maker while the woman nearest us swore repeatedly under her breath, complaining about waiting more than five hours for pain killers.

After nearly two hours, and a scouting expedition to the other ER, we moved to a new, cleaner, friendlier, and sparsely-populated waiting room at the hospital we originally passed over. It was a good move -- they didn't have to reach through a small rectangular opening in the safety glass to take your temperature. In fact, they appeared entirely unprepared for gun violence.

Even in a well-lit room, however, it was stressful to see you suffering. Hot and dry, you smacked your parched mouth in vain hopes of finding another drop of saliva in there somewhere. Wisely, Mom sent me home to get some sleep. It was almost 6:30am when she called for a ride home, exhausted.

Meanwhile, they'd poked, prodded, and probed you. From the rectal thermometer to the IV to the catheterization it was a slew of new firsts. All things considered, you didn't look too bad, and you suffered gracefully. One nurse (at 3:30 in the morning, **AFTER** being instructed to start an IV), had the gall to suggest that you "didn't look that bad" and probably didn't need it!!! But when the doctor got your test results back he was "this close to admitting" you for more care.

So you spent another day at home with Mom while I went to work. You both went to Grandma's house for some TLC and got much needed naps. You managed to hold down the stingy bits of fluid they doled out for much of the day, but around five o'clock you gave most of it the old heave-ho. As much as you clearly wanted food and drink, you picked an odd time to get picky -- refusing to drink either the pedialyte or the gatorade -- all the while jabbing your index finger into your opposite palm asking for "more", as in "more options, please".

The discovery of grape-flavored pedialyte was a relief. You'd've sucked down a pint of the stuff, I'm sure, given the chance. You've been down now for two hours and all seems well. We're not over the hump yet, but tomorrow is a whole new day.

Dad