The following is an account of what will go down in our little family’s history as the “3 Krispy Kreme Incident.
Wed, 30 June, 2010, 7am: James complains that his stomach “feels funny.” I should have known then that this was my sign to change the plan. The plan included me dropping him with my friend, (who shall be referenced as “SuperNanny” to protect her identity) so that I could make my doc’s appointment and run errands, then later we would trade off, so SuperNanny could do her errands without kids too. I feed him a pancake and strawberry jam sandwich, take him to SuperNanny’s and let her know that I will call after my appointment because he said his stomach hurt, while he rambles out of the car shouting “hellos” at his buddy and grabs a shovel to play in the dirt with him. SuperNanny reassures me that I don’t need to call, because he looks fine, which he did. Errands and appointments finished I head home to prepare for my shift.
Wed, 30 June, 2010, 5pm: It is raining. SuperNanny pulls into the driveway, James slumps out looking tired, buts looks expectantly at the car for his pals to join him. SuperNanny tells me that they took a long time at the bowling alley, and afterwards got stuck at the Krispy Kreme waiting for the rain to stop. Since it was late and Brain was home, she was not going to leave the kids. I asked if she was sure, she says no problem, and “by the way, I let your kid eat 3 Krispy Kreme doughnuts!” We laugh.
Thursday, 1 July, 2010, sometime after waking up and before I have had coffee: James is in his bed. “My stomach is hurting.” I remind him that he ate 3 doughnuts the day before and not much else, so that is probably why his stomach hurt. I make him a smoothie and let him drink it in bed, with his mini DVD playing the Planet Heroes. Later, he is still in bed, in his undies and mopey. I call SuperNanny and let her now he is not feeling well and she tells me his buddy has red puffy eyes, so we both take a raincheck. Later finding nothing in the house suitable to feed a sick kid, I slide him into his sweatpants and take him to the HEB. Later I plop him in front of the TV with crackers, applejuice and miso soup, while he watches his Science Channel space geek shows. He mopes for the entire afternoon. I give him motrin and by 6pm he asks for Ramen noodles, gobbles that down. Brain comes home and now James is peppier.
Friday, 2 July, 2010 3pm: Brain has given me leave to get out of the house before my mood gets any worse. I come home later, have a bite to eat. Brain comes downstairs and informs me that James has been mopey and not eaten or moved much and watched muppet movies all afternoon. He suspects appendicitis and suggests we go to the ER. James comes down the stairs sliding on his butt, baby-steps to the couch and wants to watch his show about the black holes in space. I put it on, go upstairs to get some books and toys, and try to change into appropriate “hospital attire.” For some reason the comfy pants and t-shirt I am wearing are not suitable, so I put on jeans I haven’t worn in weeks, a clean t-shirt, grab multiple sweaters, socks and a couple of pairs of tennis shoes. I end up choosing a flimsy green sweater and uncomfortable shoes which I curse myself for entire night.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, 4:30 pm: Sitting in the ER at Brook Army Medical Center, James is reading about space, and occasionally offering trivia tidbits to us.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, 5:00 pm: Sitting in the ER at Brook Army Medical Center, we hear James’ name being called and follow the red haired nurse into the triage room. James is taking baby-steps, and I am thinking “okay I should carry him, but this will help him get a bed sooner…good work James!” the red-head asks the basic history, how he feels, what he ate, etc. all the while James is staring at the wall behind me, scrunching his brow. She points out the pain chart, the rainbow colored one with the little faces that go from purple smiley to red crying face with big tear drops. This is what he’s been fixed on. She asks him to pick a face that shows how he is feeling. I know he is reading this chart carefully, and weighing his decision pretty heavily on what he thinks everyone else wants to him to choose, and not what he really feels. “James, stop reading the words and pick the face that looks like what you feel!” James is pale, with purple bags under his eyes and has not smiled with any sincerity in the last 24 hours, so I am thinking he is definitely the super sad face, maybe just bordering on the last teary eyed red face. We are all staring at James…“Um…blue, I think.” Brain looks at me knowingly. “Are you sure?” all 3 of ask him. The nurse suggests the red one and makes a notation.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, later sometime, in ER bay #11: James is laying on a gurney wearing an adult size hospital gown and is very concerned about whether or not anyone can see his underwear.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, even later sometime, in ER bay #11: After the nice male nurse (with the bone tattoos on his arms) takes his vitals, we meet Dr. Gibson. He is goofy, has navy blue Crocs on, James remarks “just like mine,” and makes him laugh during the exam. He orders an x-ray, and ultrasound to check his appendix. James thinks he is the 2nd best doctor in the universe, after Brain of course.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, much later, in the X-ray waiting room: James wanted Daddy to go in with him, so I am watching Fox news dishing out propaganda polls about how the administration is handling the “Crisis in the Gulf, Day 74.”
Friday, 2 July, 2010, sometime after the X-ray: We are in the ultra-cold, ultra-sound exam room looking at fuzzy images of James’ guts and he says, “Wow, it’s very active. It looks like Ganymede!” Radiologists come in, look some more, and tell us they don’t see anything. They think we could go home.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, sometime around 9ish or 10ish, maybe: We are in the ortho-room of the ER now, with little aluminum crutches hanging on the wall. After seeing a surgical intern, (who was very nice, but looked like he was 12) we are waiting. After some hemming and hawing and seeing some older surgical residents (like teens, not tweens) we are now waiting for a CT scan. James will need an IV.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, time??: James took the IV like a champ. He sucked it up. He didn’t cry until afterward when everyone told him how brave he was. He whimpers “I wish people didn’t have to get sick.”
Back down the hall into the CT exam, which is frigid cold, James again chooses Daddy to be with him, who puts on the lead apron, and I watch James ask the tech questions from behind the glass. It is just like the big doughnut Dr. Gibson said it would be. I am looking at pictures of the inside of my son, looking for the appendix, but it all looks like Hubble images from outer space to me.
Friday, 2 July, 2010, after 11pm I think: Back in the ortho-room, Dr. Gibson says he didn’t see anything, but will need to confirm with radiology (dullish), and surgical team (they are so cute!). More hemming hawing, talking with bosses; and we wait. James is so sleepy and punchy, still saying he is “uh, feeling better” while wincing during the prodding and exams. He is hungry and so we discuss food options. I can’t remember why, but he says “too bad I’m not a grown-up.” Brain says he likes that James is not a grown-up and that he is still cute or something. James says “yeah, but soon I won’t be cute anymore. You guys aren’t cute anymore.” They (the cute surgical team) decide to admit him for observation. Upgrade!
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, midnight: Pediatric Unit, 5th floor. James flirts like a geek with the nurses, who think he is adorable. My communication has broken down into short phrased demands, “Cold room…more blankets… call Brain to bring food.” I manage to read Mr. Funny and Mr. Cheerful to James, who promptly falls asleep, when 2 pediatric residents come in all perky and caffeinated, and ask me to repeat the same medical history we have recited all night. James sleeps through their exams, yet is still able to tell them how it only hurts “a little worse” when they poke his belly.
Brain sleeps on the extra bed, but only after I tell him to take it “because I am going to read.” Eventually I turn off the light, and begin to precariously arrange myself between the end of James’ bed and the world’s most hideously uncomfortable chair. With James’ feet under my face, I wake up when the nurse comes in to take vitals and check his drip. “Your son is so cute, and smart…most 6 year olds can barely speak when they come in.” I contemplate this uncomfortably and try another position.
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, 7am-ish: Do I hear cute surgical team chatting outside? I am scrunched fetal style at the bottom of James bed. They enter the room, make some cute exams, and cutely allow us to feed the boy real food and he can probably go home, or something cute like that.
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, 8am-ish: I call to order James’s breakfast, and Brain goes to cafeteria to bring up ours. James is awake and hungry. He watches Thomas the Tank Engine, without complaint.
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, 9am-ish: We grudgingly eat our breakfast, while waiting for James’ breakfast that has not arrived. James is now starving and has seen all of Thomas and Bob the Builder, and is now watching a “Bob Ross” like watercolor painter guy, (who is annoying).
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, 10am ish: I brush the fur off my teeth, and go to the nurse station. “When is my son’s breakfast going to arrive?” I ask with a smile. The day shifters look nervous, as they tell me there was confusion about his being able to eat or something and apologize profusely. The little one takes me to a kitchenette and offers jellos, yogurts, juice and milk cartons. She pulls open a drawer of broken graham crackers and cocoa packets. The bigger one calls the cafeteria and a tray arrives a bit later. Where is that cute surgical team?
Saturday, 3 July, 2010, Noonish: James is buzzing around the room after much bad cable TV. Brain muscles the nurses, and eventually we are cleared for release. James finally makes a bowel movement. The IV is pulled, while he makes little “ow” noises that sound like a kitten crying. Stuff is gathered, and we go home. He is upstairs playing with Brain and his Planet Heroes and singing “Starman” while I type this.
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