Hospitals

I was born in a hospital. I went to a hospital when I was in second grade to have my tonsils removed. I almost cut my finger off in 1978 and had to spend the night in a hospital. There have been a few emergency room visits for stitches. Just 3 that I can remember: the circular saw through the knee stunt, the broken glass in the bottom of the garbage bag trick and the attempt to cut frozen chicken with a double edged knife fiasco. The scars on my hands suggest there may have been others that I don't remember. Oh yeah, and surgery on my knee. And maybe a few x-rays or other tests.

Other than those few times, I have only been to the hospital because of someone else's illness or injury. There are no pleasant memories. My sister's best friend got in a bad car accident in high school. She survived but was in traction. There were weights hanging from the end of the bed. I played with them and inquired what they were. The girls screams of pain led me to follow the cable from the weights through a bunch of pulleys, to the pin inserted in her knee. Oops! My bad! I haven't learned. I still have to touch all of the equipment when the nurse leaves the room.

Not such a bad experience. She wasn't family. She recovered. She's okay.

1984 marked the beginning of 25 years of bad memories. Some of you might recognize the coincidence of the beginning of my bad experiences with hospitals and the birthdate of my favorite son. It is not a coincidence. The emotional trauma of almost having my son die in my arms, leaving my wife behind to die on the bed of a stranger, having to make the choice of who would die without me, "Eddie's Choice," has left wounds that reopen upon the slightest provocation, such as writing about it in a blog.

Unfortunately, that event was not in a hospital, but we ended up there. The nurse wanted, no, needed, to take this unnamed child away from me. I would not let go. Not without a lot of gentle coaxing. After standing beside him for 10 hours in the neonatal intensive care unit, changing his first diaper through holes in the side of the isolette, and being near collapse after 60 hours with no sleep, I was pursuaded to go have dinner and some sleep at Margo and Jeff's house. After a couple of hours laying there staring at the ceiling, I got up and went back to the hospital and stayed there until Nathaniel could leave with me.

A couple years (ish) later, back in the hospital again. Nathaniel is sick. He's got another fever, he's vomiting again. Typical childhood stuff, right? No. Dr. Roe notices a funny rash and needs some spinal fluid. "Dad, I need you to hold your son down so he can't move while I stick this huge needle in his back to get some fluid out." The result, meningococemia. Fatal in 15% of people who catch it. Back to the hospital.

1987. Another beautiful child. Another horrible trip to the hospital. Miles and miles of walking up and down the halls to have gravity help the process. Pitocin injection, blood curdling screams of pain heard, I'm sure, throughout the hospital. If they keep records, I'm sure JoAnne made the top 10 in decibel rating.

There was the swingset to the eye that got Heather a few stitches in her face. There was my Dad coming out for a visit and getting an infection in his elbow. Then came soccer. I should have got a season pass to the hospital. Concussions, torn menisci, bone bruise to the tibia. If it wasn't my kids it was one of the ones who were good friends.

Then the worst trip. I heard the news that one of my good friends had been in an automobile accident with her husband and three kids. One of the children was dead. I went to the hospital. I don't know why. I was newly divorced and very vulnerable. I don't know why, I just had to go. I met the mom at the door before I went in. She was physically okay. I asked how her other daughter was. The news report was wrong. Both 8 year old girls were dead. Her husband's back was hurt, he was staying in the hospital. She drove away. I sat down outside the hospital door and cried. I later went up to see Jim. His back was messed up. He had been a logger. He wouldn't be any more. I couldn't say anything. I just stood there and held his hand and cried some more.

Lately, there has been Heather. Although I would not let her go to the hospital without me, I get knots in my stomach at the prospect. There is never anything simple. If Dr. House was real, Heather could be several of his cases. I guess it all started with the elbow to the ribs. The resulting chest pain could not be diagnosed by specialists in at least a half dozen fields. Then the foot pain. It, too, was a mystery for a long time before the surgeries for the neuromas. Then the headaches. Then the adbominal pain. Now the headaches again. The chest and foot injuries were not life threatening, they were dream threatening. I don't want to see my baby lose her dreams. The first round of headaches was more serious. There were many tests, some scary results. One doesn't even want to utter the words of what it could have been. Then the abdominal pain. Once again, possible life threatening in the worst case. Also possibly motherhood threatening. Finally the new headache. Getting reminded that previous tests had shown abnormalities that needed to be checked occasionally. The old worries resurface.

I try to wear a brave face. I try to say the right things that will calm and encourage. I play with the equipment to keep my mind off of my worry. But my gut is churning. I can't lose my baby. I don't even want to think about losing her. I hate hospitals. And government agencies.