Elijah Takes Ochsner (Our latest trip to the ER)
I thought it was going to be a nice, calm day. I got out of bed at 5:00 a.m., fixed my coffee and laid out my clothes for work. I had to be there at 7:00 but only had to work until noon. A short day, out of the heat before it got too bad or made the customers too cranky. The rest of my day would be free to write, clean my house and create some type of spectacular epicurean delight for dinner. I should have known better. I live with a three-year-old where nothing ever goes as planned.
When I got out of the shower and noticed my bedroom door open, my first thought was “uh oh”. Elijah has broken into my room again. As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, the child safety knob is no match for my boy. And when he gets in, there’s always something misplaced, mishandled or downright broken. After a quick scan, I found him hiding under my blankets. Then I noticed the little cup I use for my vitamins was knocked over. Out of five pills that I had put in the cup, four remained and the one that was missing was my blood pressure medicine. I don’t usually get them out until I’m ready to take them but I was tired and didn’t want to forget, never expecting him to wake up so early. Ok, fast forward to panic.
I yelled for his mother who was, of course, still sleeping, threw on some clothes and we were out the door in five minutes. Fortunately for us, the emergency room is only a few miles away. And we already know the way there since this is our third trip since moving to Louisiana in November. First the spilled hot tea and then the infamous pasta in the ear incident. The staff in the hospital are getting to know us well. Not exactly a good thing I’m thinking. So we roar into the parking lot, I push my daughter out of the car with him and find my parking spot with shaking hands. As I run to the door, I’m half expecting to find my little angel in a coma or having seizures.
No, not my boy. He’s entertaining the admissions nurse with tales of whale sharks and unicorns. He’s picking out which examination room he wants and asking questions about the equipment in the one he’s finally placed in. When the doctor comes in, he plays with the stethoscope, rubber gloves and whatever else he can get his many hands on (I know he only has two but there always seem to be more). After the doctor calls poison control (why didn’t we think of that?) and assures us that there will be no side effects to his indulgence (if they don’t affect a three-year-old, why the hell do I take them?), we emerge to the office area where our boy makes phone calls to the same nurse and takes a pleasant ride in a wheel chair. All the while, another nurse is advising my daughter that if this is the way he normally acts, she should abstain from having more children. I agree. He’s one of the reasons I take those pills in the first place.
So they pretty much kick us out of the place before he can cause too much destruction and, after a much calmer me drives home, Elijah plops himself down on the couch and orders breakfast (oh, yes he did). When I collapse beside him, he puts his arms around my neck and says, ever so sweetly, “Yaya, let’s have some coffee and watch the Mover’s. You’ll feel better then.” No, Elijah, I’ll feel better when you are twenty-five and we’ve successfully gotten through the toddler years…and all the years in between.