E.R. Visit

Taking your kid to the emergency room, that’s crazy.

But if you are a parent, sooner or later, this is going to happen.

When my daughter was three, we got an up close and personal look that I would just as soon forget.

This story starts out in a pool. That is where my daughter spends much of her life as a competitive swimmer.

Like a tadpole, she has always been aquatically inclined.

I remember when she was barely 24 months old, I threw her in the deep end of the local pool.

Suddenly I watch as an old man jumps off his lounge chair and dives in.

“Hey what the hell are you doing?” I shout.

His facial expression and proximity to my daughter in the water indicate he thinks she is drowning.

I point to her emphatically and cock my head.

He looks and sees that she is floating, doing some version of a breast stroke. She is not only NOT DROWNING, but she is actually motoring across the pool.

The man laughs out loud.

“How old is she?”

Exactly.

By the time she is three, she has begun swimming for the local swim club. You have to be four, but the coaches suspend the rule because she is good and routinely beating the other little kids who swim like anvils.

And this is where my emergency tale begins, at the pool at the local YMCA.

My daughter is swimming across the pool like a dolphin on a ski-doo. Older children wearing neon colored floaties around their arms watch her natatorial prowess with jealousy and awe.

Like a chlorinated Evil Kenevil, she climbs onto the 3 meter diving board.

The first time the life guard sees her on the board, he blows his whistle, telling her to come down.

My daughter is insurgent like a Cuban defector in a row boat. She ignores his commands, runs to the end of the board and proceeds to do a front roll into the deep end. She then swims under water to the ladder.

The life guard is impressed. After that day, he put away his whistle.

But as we’re about to see, there’s a fine line between intrepid swimmer and careless risk taker.

Instead of jumping off the end of the board, she goes off the side.

WHACK! Six feet is a long way for a three year old to fall.

When her pristine baby face hits the side of the pool, it sounds like a sack of potatoes being hit by a golf club.

She screams for a moment, then submerges under the water. The life guard stands, and begins to dash forward, but my wife, an excellent swimmer in her own right, is all ready there. She pulls the child up.

The girl breaks the surface and lets out a wail that echoes through the enclosed swim stadium.

Her mouth is wide open and a jet engine of noise is pouring out of her little lungs.

That’s when we see the gaping hole in her chin. It looks like the inside of a partially devoured abalone. White, mucous-like tissue hanging out of her face like squid bait on a fisherman’s hook.

Bloody water surrounds the kid as blood pours into the pool. The stench of trauma is ripe in the air as chlorine sharks begin to circle, and a crowd of octogenarians wearing flowered bathing caps gather around my screaming toddler.

My wife realizes it is bad as she tries to quiet the child by the side of the pool. By this time the life guard has arrived with a first aid kit.

The child is panicked, jerking around like an electric wire.

“Shhhh!” My wife tries to console her, but it’s like trying to quiet a hissing cobra. She hollers, as they pick her up and place her on the mat. She is wide eyed and scared. A group of men hold her motionless as they dab the gauze pad on the gaping wound. The sterile white bandage quickly turns a sickly red.

“You better have that looked at,” the guard says quietly to my wife.

We go to the pediatrician’s office. The exam room resembles a scene from WWF as a doctor, two nurses and my wife are all hovering over the contorting child. They are trying to put a butterfly bandage across the grand canyon sized schism under her chin and she is gyrating around like an unbalanced washing machine. Her face contorts, and then she screams. It was a high frequency wail that sent shivers down my spine.

I watch as a gooey white substance resembling lard oozes from the soft pulpy area under her chin.

This is very bad I think to myself, as I look at the concerned faces of the medical staff who are not equipped to handle this serious a gash.

“We can’t handle her here,” the pediatrician says wiping sweat from her brow. “She’s so frightened and struggling so much, that even if we could get her to hold still, she’s going to need 3 or 4 stitches to close that and there’s no way she is going to sit still.”

The doctor then tells us to go to Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital.

“They’re equipped to deal with situations like this,” she says.

Situations like this? Why is this a situation I think to myself? I’m starting to make myself nervous.

Vanderbilt is a state of the art trauma facility in our region. Gun shots victims go there, window washers who have fallen off buildings go there, burn victims blown up by dynamite go there, motorists hit by trains go there. And now I was going there.

I was scared and feeling emotional as the child shivered and cries.

“I wanna go home, daddy. I wanna go home.”

We enter the kaleidoscope of the E.R. Sadness seems to be the theme. Sad faces of people hurt or sick or waiting to be seen.

In my book, a three year old who needs stitches is a major emergency. To the grizzled medical personnel in this arena, a few stitches is a watered down version of Bambi where the fire scene that kills Bambi’s mother is cut out.

The waiting room is pleasant enough. A small quadrangle of chairs and a table with magazines in the center. there’s an older model color TV fastened securely to the wall. Like zombies on Prozac, the children in the waiting room stare at the set watching the timeless antics of Shaggy and Scooby Doo.

My kids are the biggest cartoon zombies on the planet. As if hypnotized by the Cartoon Channel, they sit in the plastic waiting room chairs and stare without blinking at the screen.

My daughter has calmed down. Except for the extra mouth now cut into the bottom of her chin, she is happy as warm pudding. And she will continue to be happy as long as no one with a stethoscope or pastel colored pants comes anywhere near her. But that wasn’t to be.

After about an hour, Nurse Shirley approaches us with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader on Jolt Cola. She is wearing bright pink scrubs with happy faces and balloons on her shirt. Her smile is blinding as she looks at my little girl.

“Hi sweetie, I’m nurse Shirley. I want to take you back to a special room where we can play with some toys and maybe take a look at your boo boo ok?”

Surprisingly my daughter bounces up, grabs nurse Shirley’s outstretched hand and begins walking from the waiting room.

“OK, I’ll play with toys, but no one touches my chin.”

Nurse Shirley seems shocked by Kenzie’s assertive disposition. My wife and I smile meekly as we follow behind. We both know this isn’t going to be easy.

Nurse Shirley brings us to a room loaded with medical equipment, a hospital bed and toys all over the floor. My six year old son is with us and both children immediately perk up playing with a huge doll house and electronic cars.

“Here at the Children’s Hospital, we try and build trust with the children, so they don’t fear what we’re doing.”

I look at my wife and then to the festering volcano of exposed flesh under my daughter’s chin.

“That trust thing; how long does that usually take?,” I ask.

“It all depends on the child,” Nurse Shirley responds. “We don’t like to rush the children if we don’t have to. It’s easier to do the procedure if she doesn’t fight us.”

Doesn’t fight you? The words rang as ridiculous to me as a doctor prescribing a merry go round to a nauseous man. Doesn’t fight you? Doesn’t fight you? That’s what my three year old does best. She’s a creature designed to be combative and defiant. She’s a three year old heavyweight boxer living in WATTS. She a sock full of metal scraps smashing you in the temple. She’s a baby commando complete with bandana, lip quiver and camouflage paint smeared across her forehead. Doesn’t fight you? That’s like asking a pit bull not to eat a ham sandwich.

This lady is in for the shock of her nursing career if she thinks some child psycho-babble and a doll house is going to stop baby Satan from emerging.

It’s now about 7 p.m. and none of us had eaten. Since the hospital has a McDonalds, I figure I’ll make the most out of a bad situation.

I take my son and we walk across the interminable corridors and lobbies of this massive health care facility. Along the way, we pass people in wheel chairs stricken with a variety of maladies and injuries. My son never says anything, but he stares like a man who has just put his last quarter in the peep show box.

I clutch the piping hot bag of burgers and fries as we walk back to the Children’s Hospital. I am hoping that in the time it has taken to supersize it, the stitches are in and we’re ready to leave.

Fat chance! When my baby cried I felt her pain. I knew she was afraid, and there was nothing I could do to ease her discomfort. I was completely stressed about a few stitches. I felt guilty, thinking about the parents dealing with real trauma, and wondered how in the world they do it. Kids with cancer and gun shot wounds? How do they stay strong for their children and themselves?

When we return, my daughter is on the floor playing with Barbie dolls. My wife is sitting in a chair.

“Where’s the doctor?,” I ask while doling out hamburgers and fries.

“One of the interns came in,” she says exasperated. “The girl freaked out. Wouldn’t even let him listen to her heart, no less look at her wound.”

“I guess they don’t have her trust yet, do they?”

My wife laughs, as we all start to bite into the warm sanctity of burger.

Suddenly Nurse Shirley bolts in the door and rips the burger out of Kenzie’s mouth. Kenzie is shocked and begins to cry.

“What the hell….”

“She’s not allowed to eat.”

“Why not?,” I ask, my legs still quivering from the eight mile hike.

“If we have to sedate her, then she can’t have anything in her stomach.”

The only thing I can do for my baby daughter to comfort her in her time of need is buy her a hamburger, fries, and strawberry shake, and now these nursing Nazis are ripping the food right out of my child’s mouth.

I find myself growing angry, even though I understand the reality of the situation. I only wish they had told me this before I had made a big production out of going to McDonalds to cheer everyone up.

My girl has become hysterical. “Daddy I want my Donald’s burger. You promised I could have a Donald’s burger.”

Like a harpoon being plunged into my heart, the anguish is almost unbearable. I wrap up the food and usher my son out the door into the waiting room, out of my daughter’s view.

“Look,” I say to Nurse Shirley. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do here; build trust and all. But look. I know my daughter. You want to sew up her chin, then take the bull by the juevos and put her under. Knock her out. Sew her up, and let us get the hell out of here.”

Without waiting for a response I walk away.

Nurse Shirley looks a little taken aback. I don’t care. I am a dad standing on the precipice of crisis and it is time for some definitive action from someone not wearing balloons on their clothes.

My son and I go to an ancillary waiting room. The television only plays the Disney Channel, and unfortunately no cartoons are on. My son is bummed and bored. I tried to occupy his thoughts with a few scattered toys in the corner.

“Try that little wagon over there,” I say pointing.

The boy pulls the wagon to the center of the waiting area and climbs in. Crash! The rear axle falls off as he hits the floor with a thump.

I rub his back as he snuggles next to me in the hard plastic chair.

“Why is this taking so long?,” he asks yawning.

I pause allowing a frantic Nurse to wheel a gurney down the sterile corridors painted with rainbow colored dinosaur feet.

“Well little man.” I stop in mid sentence, searching for an age appropriate answer. His piercing blue eyes stare into my face. This is the look the Hebrews must have given Moses as he descended from the mountain carrying two pieces of granite scorched with God’s own finger.

“What’s taking so long?” I stammer. I stare at the tired episode of Family Matters playing on the television above me. I wonder what super TV dad, Alan Thicke would tell young Kirk Cameron in a situation like this.

Would he sugar coat his answer or give the boy the straight dope! After a short pause, and burst of obvious laugh track ambiance, I decide that Alan Thicke, would give his young son some serious reality.

“Well, boy it’s like this. Hospitals are notoriously slow. They are over run with sick people and understaffed with medical personnel. When sicker people come in, they get priority attention.

Fortunately your sister’s injury is minor, that’s good for her chin, but it means we might be here for a while. Essentially, she has been handed off to ER nurses while doctors ping pong back and forth from gun shot victims to auto wreck patients. On top of all this, they’re wasting half the night trying to win her confidence, with honesty and games designed to promote trust. You want my advice, boy. They should take care of business. Quit playing, and start sewing! End of story!”
My son takes a bite out of his cold burger. “Daddy. So why can’t we go home?”

I put my head in my hands and let my pulsing temples tickle my palms. “Eat your burger, son. Just eat your burger.”

I watched the rest of the show. Not surprisingly, the parents learn a lesson about raising teenagers and the teenagers learn a valuable life lesson, and all of it in the space of half an hour.

“Wait here, little dude,” I said getting out of my seat. “I’m going to check on your sister.”

As I near the doorway, I sense a surge of anxiety. Nurses are in combat mode and moving at three quarters gallop. The door opens and I hear the familiar wail of my daughter spill into the capacious hallway. Apparently, some where between Kirk Cameron’s girl problems and a Burger King commercial, the medical staff has decided to act on my direct request for action. I feel a cocky swagger envelope me as I enter the room.

Doctors storm the room like Navy Seals securing a beach. My daughter, realizing she is being assaulted from all sides, is trying to retreat in a machine gun volley of screams, punches and kicks. She is going ballistic, tearing up the butcher paper on the exam table. She squirms like an albacore on a dock as ten hands struggle to secure her. I feel a lump in my throat as a horde of adults swoop upon my baby girl who is confused and scared and being consumed by her own fear. She suddenly spots my caring face. She cries louder.

“Daddy. Help me. They’re trying to hurt me, Daddy! Please help me.”

I feel a tear fill my eye, and burning battery acid eat away at my stomach. Have I caused this fire storm of medical attention on my baby girl?

Like a Catholic Priest eating a pork chop on Friday, I am suddenly overwhelmed with guilt.

My daughter’s eyes are filled with fright so intense I think her head might pop off her shoulders. She looks like Linda Blair in the Exorcist right after her head does a 360 on her neck.

Nurse Shirley fights through the barrage of verbal artillery and crying shrapnel to sink the IV into the child’s hand. It’s like trying to give a galloping horse an enema.

It seems that every available nurse, intern and doctor is now in the room, holding the exorcised child down. At one point, I believe I see a janitor holding a mop in the back, but I can’t swear to it.

Eventually, someone is able to inject the medication into the IV. In seven seconds my daughter’s eyes roll up into her head, like two mushy cue balls.

It’s scary as hell to watch. Her eyes remain open, but she has transformed into a blank faced baby zombie. Her pupils are an oily black, like a viscous tanker spill slowly widening in a sea of margarine. It is surreal to see. My feisty little girl, always tempestuous and full of definace was a sedated lump of goo.

The doctor’s quickly sew up her chin. “She’s a wild one,” they will tell me over and over.

“It’s a good thing you brought her here. If you hadn’t, this gash would have left a very unbecoming scar.”

I nod, too exhausted to reply.

After five hours, heavy narcotics, and four stitches, it’s over. I feel like one of the soldiers in Saving Private Ryan as they get to the beach in safety.

Meanwhile my child looks like a heroin junkie coming out a drug induced fog. Her head is swiveling around on a spine made of silly putty. Like a drooling wolverine, she is sputtering, spitting, tossing out nonsensical, incoherent sentences, that make her laugh. Then, suddenly she gags, burping up air, and empty stomach contents.

“Mommy why do you have three eyes and two noses.” She will say.

Her little blonde head was bobbing and her eyes independently looking in opposite directions.

She makes several attempts to put her thumb in her mouth. Like a sleepy serial killer, she pokes, first her cheek, then her nose. She gives up trying to suck her thumb, instead focusing her attention on me.

“Daddy why do you have a face behind your other face?” I laugh, recalling a similar college experience.

“Hey look at the floor,” she continues. “It’s cool, don’t you see the floor moving, mommy?”

She raises her hands, dangling them in front of her wandering eyes.

“Ooooohhh, “look at that.”

“Don’t worry,” Nurse Shirley giggles. “This is a very natural reaction to the drugs. She’ll be back to normal in a few minutes.”

I thank Nurse Shirley once again and apologize for my inappropriate outburst. She tells me that I was actually pretty calm for a first time dad at the ER.

We take the girl home all exausted.