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Feb. 10th, 2009
Things You'd Rather Not Hear
Feb. 10th, 2009 10:00 amSometimes, the things a child says may be things you'd rather not hear. Two nights ago, little Jay had a really bad asthma attack. He was sleeping on the bed next to me when it started. At first, I thought it was just the congestion from the head cold he'd had for the past several days. Then, I heard that barking sort of cough that signals something more serious.
He didn't wake up, right away, so I got out of bed and put together the tubing, mouthpiece and reservoir for the nebulizer and opened an ampule of his medication. Then I woke him and told him we needed to do a treatment. He was having trouble holding the mouthpiece level, so I sat on the edge of the bed, leaned his slight little body against me, and held the mouthpiece while he breathed in the medication.
Several times, he coughed that horrible rasping cough and, perhaps sensing my own anxiety, started to cry. When I asked him what was wrong, he couldn't talk. That really alarmed me and, although I didn't want to leave him alone, I ran upstairs, woke his dad, and told him we might have an on-going emergency. Then I ran back downstairs to sit with the little boy until his dad could get there.
While his dad finished administering the meds, I ran outside to start the car. When I got back inside, the little boy's dad was sitting on the bed talking to him. The meds had run through and there was no noticeable improvement. I asked how soon he could have a second treatment and his dad said, "Right away." So I opened another ampule and refilled the reservoir.
His dad started the second treatment and then stopped. Bundling him in a blanket, he carried him upstairs to the bathroom where he ran hot water in the sink and tub to produce a moist vapor. While he was doing that, I called my wife at work. Her feeling was the same as mine, that this was nothing to mess with, that if he didn't respond to the treatment, he needed to be gotten to the hospital immediately.
After ten minutes or so, his dad brought him back downstairs, sat him on the bed and talked calmly with him. That's one thing his dad is good at doing, not panicking, or at least not showing it, in an emergency. Still, there are those times when a little panic makes sense. At that point, I said, "C'mon, I think it's time to go."
His dad put him in the car seat and sat with him for the ride to Upstate Medical Center. With the state-mandated re-alignment of critical care facilities, Upstate now has the pediatric emergency department that used to be at St. Joe's. Luckily, there's very little traffic an Syracuse's streets at 4 AM so, after getting off the highway, I was able to get through the red lights without a problem.
(As I drove, I thought about the recently announced closing of Lee Memorial Hospital in Fulton, based on the same commission findings that had closed the pediatric ED at St. Joe's. What if I were a parent or grandparent riding in an ambulance through daytime traffic, from Fulton to Syracuse, watching my precious child suffocate because the oxygen being administered wasn't being absorbed by his congested airways?
How much validity would your f*cking demographic studies have then? And, since you seem to be in the business of playing God with our lives, would you also be able to mandate my child back to life if he didn't make it? Or would you simply say, like that evil little penguin in Madagascar, "Those are numbers I can live with?")
When we got to Upstate, little Jay's dad said I might as well go home because they'd likely be there the rest of the night. But I said I'd go in with them and at least wait for them to be processed. After that, I did leave because Upstate doesn't have emergency room parking and I didn't have the money for a spot in their palatial parking garage. Another circumstance mandated, no doubt, by the state commission.
I was still up, of course, when my son called for the ride back home. We put the little boy back to bed with the "Snuggle Bear" and blanket his Aunt Katherine had sent him from California for his birthday. I sat up with him while he slept because, even though he'd received an oral medication and been cleared to leave, his breathing was still not completely normal.
In the morning, when he got up, he said to me, "Poppa, I'm really glad I'm still alive." And the next night, as he was being put to bed, he asked his dad and I what would happen if he couldn't breathe and I had left to pick up his grandma at work in the morning. Those are the things you'd rather not hear from a six-year-old, the words of a child who is suddenly and profoundly aware of his own mortality...
He didn't wake up, right away, so I got out of bed and put together the tubing, mouthpiece and reservoir for the nebulizer and opened an ampule of his medication. Then I woke him and told him we needed to do a treatment. He was having trouble holding the mouthpiece level, so I sat on the edge of the bed, leaned his slight little body against me, and held the mouthpiece while he breathed in the medication.
Several times, he coughed that horrible rasping cough and, perhaps sensing my own anxiety, started to cry. When I asked him what was wrong, he couldn't talk. That really alarmed me and, although I didn't want to leave him alone, I ran upstairs, woke his dad, and told him we might have an on-going emergency. Then I ran back downstairs to sit with the little boy until his dad could get there.
While his dad finished administering the meds, I ran outside to start the car. When I got back inside, the little boy's dad was sitting on the bed talking to him. The meds had run through and there was no noticeable improvement. I asked how soon he could have a second treatment and his dad said, "Right away." So I opened another ampule and refilled the reservoir.
His dad started the second treatment and then stopped. Bundling him in a blanket, he carried him upstairs to the bathroom where he ran hot water in the sink and tub to produce a moist vapor. While he was doing that, I called my wife at work. Her feeling was the same as mine, that this was nothing to mess with, that if he didn't respond to the treatment, he needed to be gotten to the hospital immediately.
After ten minutes or so, his dad brought him back downstairs, sat him on the bed and talked calmly with him. That's one thing his dad is good at doing, not panicking, or at least not showing it, in an emergency. Still, there are those times when a little panic makes sense. At that point, I said, "C'mon, I think it's time to go."
His dad put him in the car seat and sat with him for the ride to Upstate Medical Center. With the state-mandated re-alignment of critical care facilities, Upstate now has the pediatric emergency department that used to be at St. Joe's. Luckily, there's very little traffic an Syracuse's streets at 4 AM so, after getting off the highway, I was able to get through the red lights without a problem.
(As I drove, I thought about the recently announced closing of Lee Memorial Hospital in Fulton, based on the same commission findings that had closed the pediatric ED at St. Joe's. What if I were a parent or grandparent riding in an ambulance through daytime traffic, from Fulton to Syracuse, watching my precious child suffocate because the oxygen being administered wasn't being absorbed by his congested airways?
How much validity would your f*cking demographic studies have then? And, since you seem to be in the business of playing God with our lives, would you also be able to mandate my child back to life if he didn't make it? Or would you simply say, like that evil little penguin in Madagascar, "Those are numbers I can live with?")
When we got to Upstate, little Jay's dad said I might as well go home because they'd likely be there the rest of the night. But I said I'd go in with them and at least wait for them to be processed. After that, I did leave because Upstate doesn't have emergency room parking and I didn't have the money for a spot in their palatial parking garage. Another circumstance mandated, no doubt, by the state commission.
I was still up, of course, when my son called for the ride back home. We put the little boy back to bed with the "Snuggle Bear" and blanket his Aunt Katherine had sent him from California for his birthday. I sat up with him while he slept because, even though he'd received an oral medication and been cleared to leave, his breathing was still not completely normal.
In the morning, when he got up, he said to me, "Poppa, I'm really glad I'm still alive." And the next night, as he was being put to bed, he asked his dad and I what would happen if he couldn't breathe and I had left to pick up his grandma at work in the morning. Those are the things you'd rather not hear from a six-year-old, the words of a child who is suddenly and profoundly aware of his own mortality...
There was a single fudgie left in the box in the freezer. Little Jay had chosen a popsicle for his after-school treat so I figured that, just maybe, I had a shot at the last fudgie.
Turns out that, even though his grandma provides the income and I do the shopping, there are certain things, in the fridge and in the cupboards, that are somehow inherently Little Jay's. That would include, but not be limited to, juice boxes, Ritz crackers, Fruit Roll-ups, Chef Boy-ar-dee single-serves and, of course, the fudgies.
I can't tell you how hilarious it is to watch an aunt or uncle or grandmother being taken to task over the misappropriation of one item or other from Little Jay's private stock. Or how annoying it is to be the one held hostage by a belligerant six-year-old's acute sense of ownership. But this time, as I said, I thought I had a shot at it.
"So, how about it?" I said.
"How about what?" Little Jay said, as if we'd been discussing the full range of issues surrounding a free trade agreement.
"The fudgie," I said, trying hard not to betray my impatience. "The last one," I reiterated.
He looked at the soon-to-be-empty box as if the party standing in front of him were solely responsible for its, well, soon-to-be-emptiness.
"It's the last one," he said, as if making a crucial, last-ditch effort to ensure that all present were fully aware of that circumstance.
"Yes," I said for the third time, "the last one," still thinking there was some hope.
"Welll, I was really saving it for Aunt Sarah," he said, and closed the fridge.
Turns out that, even though his grandma provides the income and I do the shopping, there are certain things, in the fridge and in the cupboards, that are somehow inherently Little Jay's. That would include, but not be limited to, juice boxes, Ritz crackers, Fruit Roll-ups, Chef Boy-ar-dee single-serves and, of course, the fudgies.
I can't tell you how hilarious it is to watch an aunt or uncle or grandmother being taken to task over the misappropriation of one item or other from Little Jay's private stock. Or how annoying it is to be the one held hostage by a belligerant six-year-old's acute sense of ownership. But this time, as I said, I thought I had a shot at it.
"So, how about it?" I said.
"How about what?" Little Jay said, as if we'd been discussing the full range of issues surrounding a free trade agreement.
"The fudgie," I said, trying hard not to betray my impatience. "The last one," I reiterated.
He looked at the soon-to-be-empty box as if the party standing in front of him were solely responsible for its, well, soon-to-be-emptiness.
"It's the last one," he said, as if making a crucial, last-ditch effort to ensure that all present were fully aware of that circumstance.
"Yes," I said for the third time, "the last one," still thinking there was some hope.
"Welll, I was really saving it for Aunt Sarah," he said, and closed the fridge.