Under the Weather

My eyelids opened to a semi-dark room which made me think it was earlier than my usual wake-up time. It wasn’t, though. Slate gray clouds were pouring out rain; I could hear the drainpipes working overtime. Going through my calendar in my head, I remembered that my husband had a lunch meeting. What a day for a long drive! My thoughts turned toward what Zach and I would do that afternoon. I considered taking him out to lunch, but a cozy lunch at home seemed more fitting. I formed a loose plan to make lox with capers on paleo bagels and spend some time doing art, playing K-LOVE in the background.  

Plan set, I went about my morning routines. My husband left early for his lunch meeting, and I had a moment of unease as worry rose up like smoke inside me. I chalked it up to concern about the driving conditions; he had about an hour’s drive on wet freeways, and his track record for getting rear-ended was not good. But I always felt that momentary concern whenever he was driving a long distance. So I dismissed the unease as best I could and went about my day.

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Just as Zach and I were starting to assemble our lunch items, I got a text. I glanced down, saw it was my husband, and continued to set out our food. I then realized I expected him to be “busy” longer…was this a message saying he was heading home already? Please don’t let it be an accident…

I quickly wiped my sticky hands on a towel and opened the text. My eyes darted right to the words not feeling well although I did not know if he was referring to him or the friend he was dining with. Regardless, my stomach pinched. Had he driven all that way in the rain for nothing? As I focused and read the message, I realized he was the one not feeling well. He said he was nauseated and had pretty severe abdominal pain. He felt fine before he left. So it seemed strange. Food poisoning would not set in so abruptly.

We texted back and forth and then my stomach did more than pinch. I think I need the ER were the next six words. There he was, about an hour from home, a storm raging both in the skies and in his body. I envisioned “throwing” Zach in the car and driving to wherever he was to retrieve him. 

But, he did not want to wait for that to happen. He expressed that he wanted an ER as soon as possible, and that is unlike my husband. He is content to tough it out. To deal with pain on his own. To not get involved with waiting rooms and doctors and tests. For him to want to go to an emergency room indicated something was really wrong.

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My hands starting to tremble. I am good in an emergency; somehow I can keep my mind focused on what needs to be done, and I do it. I may cry heavily afterwards but I can usually assess a situation and figure out what to do and how to do it.

So I controlled the trembling and stood still in the kitchen, breathing for composure. My mind started rattling off the things I should gather, and the list didn’t include lox or bagels, so back in the fridge they went. Zach was instructed to “stay right there” (which he did) while I zig-zagged around the house with a canvas bag. The plan was for him to drive to the nearest ER, and we would meet him there. He assured me he would pull over if the pain became unbearable. He called me, and we remained on the phone until he parked his car, walked in, and made contact with someone at the ER.

After I got Zach, the bag, and our coats in the car, I did a scan…toaster unplugged, refrigerator closed, back door locked, TV off. I knew Zach would be somewhat confused by what was happening, but I figured first-things-first. I’d explain on the way to the hospital. 

Zach has been in emergency situations, and he has done well. Whether it was a 6.0 earthquake at 2 AM that turned the contents of our house upside-down and had us sleeping on the street til dawn, or a super long delay at an airport bursting with noise and commotion and bright lights, he seems to take shake-ups in stride. Not only that, but he is inclined to help and becomes cooperative and supportive. He’s been my ally on numerous occasions, intuitively sensing that his role was a crucial one. His presence and assistance has kept me steady. The Woodstock to my Snoopy.

Peanuts characters by Charles M. Schulz

As we carefully ventured to the hospital, the wind kicked up and the rain came down in buckets. The road spray was reducing visibility, and even on max speed, the wipers were not keeping up. I really did not have any good alternative routes, and Siri was assuring me that I was on the fastest route. As I drove, I explained to Zach what had happened and why we needed to leave so quickly. He nodded in understanding. His eyes in the rearview mirror reflected a bit of fear. I had given him a GoMacro® bar but it remained unopened.

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Once parked, Zach got out without delay. Sometimes getting him out of the car can take a while, as he’s given to organizing seatbelts and floor mats. I realized how much stuff I was carrying. I was trying to hold the umbrella, too, so we wouldn’t be soaked walking two city blocks in heavy rainfall. I looked at my Woodstock and said, I need you to carry this heavy bag for me. Don’t let go of it. His fingers curled around the straps and his eyes checked mine as if to say I’ve got this, Mom.

On the street, the gusts quickly turned the umbrella inside-out. We were being pelted by wind-driven rain, and my face hurt. I slipped a bit at one point and willed my body to NOT fall. Falling on pavement in the rain was the last thing any of us needed. Intuitively, Zach took hold of my elbow. Mr. Rogers once said to look for the helpers in an emergency; I had mine right by my side.

We reached the sliding glass doors of the ER and were met with a blast of air in our faces. I wanted to sprint and find my husband but two uniformed guards began telling us to remove anything metal and empty my bag of electronic devices. Zach did not want to give up his communication device, which was dripping wet. Nor did he want to remove his noise cancelling headphones, which are not metal, but the guards believed were. So they had to come off. It was not unlike going through a TSA checkpoint, so I handled it, and Zach, like we were going through a line at the airport, and Zach complied with all directions. We’d flown enough times that he knew the drill. In fact, he kangaroo-hopped through the metal detector, causing the stern security guards to crack smiles.

Zach repositioned his headphones and repacked items that were removed from the canvas bag. He dutifully put the bag back in his grip. We proceeded to the check-in line, where once again we had to show ID and sign in before we could proceed to wherever my husband was. In DMV style, the guard there had to snap photos of us, and that is easier said than done with Zach. It took the man four tries before he declared he got it and moved us through. We left a giant puddle on the floor.  

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Someone directed us through a large beige door, wide enough for medical gurneys to navigate. I happened to look to the right and saw people of varying ages in various states of illness, crisis, pain. Some were asleep, some were crying. Others were rocking, and one was doubled over and covered by a white blanket. The scene in this room and my drenched jacket caused me to shiver. 

Zach scampered off, spotting his dad through a glass window. He too was in illness or crisis, and definitely in pain. He was leaning back and holding his stomach. The color of his skin matched the shade of the yellow-beige door.

“I’m waiting for a CT,” he murmured. “They took blood and did an EKG.” 

“OK.” I replied. “Tell me all the symptoms. Did you talk with a nurse or doctor yet?”

Only an intake person had taken a few notes, he said. And he barely had time to explain his symptoms to her. I was still experiencing “handle it” mode, so I began Googling symptoms. Many led straight to appendicitis. My gut (no pun intended) was telling me appendicitis before, and now, seeing his pain in action, I believed it to be so. I said a silent prayer that surgery would not be necessary. A blaring announcement of a “code blue” broke the silence in the room.

I looked out the window. Outside, the wind was bending a lone, thin-branched tree out of its natural stature. The finger-like leaves were being whipped and twisted around its branches. As I stared at it, I felt awe over the tree’s ability to withstand this dramatic display of nature’s power. It was a smallish tree with a thin trunk. With every subsiding gust, the stressed tree resumed its regular stance. It seemed the delicate leaves had but three seconds of reprieve before the next gust lashed out. In the midst of windy torment, the tree retained strength and fortitude. 

More than 90 minutes had passed when the ugly beige door swung open and my husband’s name was called. Zach sprung up to go with him. I assured him Dad would be back after the test. And when he returned post scan, there was more blood to draw. Zach watched with fascination. I wondered if he was recalling all the blood draws he endured as a child. I cannot watch blood being drawn. As I watched Zach watching the phlebotomist, my eyes were drawn to his hand. His slender fingers were still wrapped around the straps of the canvas bag. He had not let go.

It was close to evening, and my stomach was growling. I realized Zach had not eaten all day, not even the MacroBar®. I was running on toast and a handful of cereal. In that moment, my husband asked, “What if anything have you guys eaten?” He certainly did not want food at that moment, but also claimed the pain in his belly was easing. He could think of food without waves of nausea rising up.

The rain was still coming down, but the need for food topped the desire to remain indoors. We knew of a good burger joint down the street, and it was a guarantee Zach would eat there, so my trusty companion and I zipped up our still-soggy jackets and headed out. My husband would text upon getting results, and we could be back in a jiffy if surgery was the next step.

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Before I consumed a quarter of my burger, Zach’s burger disappeared. He devoured a side order of fries in no time flat. Luckily our server was perceptive and asked if more fries were in order. Yes, please! Before I finished my meal, Zach was on basket #3, this time sweet potato fries.

Next thing we knew, in walked my husband. His cheeks were rosy again, from either the cold outdoor air or the absence of crippling pain (or both). 

“What did they find? Obviously, not acute appendicitis,” I asked.

“No, nothing, really. There were no remarkable findings. The nurse practitioner made some guesses, but that’s about it.” 

“Huh. What guesses?”

“It might have been a kidney stone. One that made its way through…?”

We both just nodded at each other. “You’re alright? How’s the pain?”

“Actually, it smells pretty good in here. I might order something.”

I nodded again. That was a welcome statement.

Zach finished his third order of fries and gulped an entire glass of water. He was ready to move on and go home. I didn’t blame him.

I was still tossing diagnoses around in my brain. Should we go home? Did they discharge him prematurely? Would the pain come back? What if they missed something? After a few minutes of scrutiny, we decided to go home since the scan, the bloodwork, and the exam all showed that everything was alright. It may very well have been a stone.

As we stood up to leave, Zach paused. We had placed the canvas bag in the corner behind us, and he was unrelenting in his duty. He zipped his jacket, gripped the bag, and skipped to the door. I watched two blond headed guys walk next to each other as I walked after them, feeling grateful that both were okay after experiencing a tough day. 

Zach and I had each other to lean on in the ER, and we all had our faith in God as our firmest foothold. I marveled at Zach’s determination to help, as well as his flexibility in the face of an unforeseen situation. He handled things on the spot, with no warning and little preparation. He was enduring gusty winds all day long, and he was able to sway and bend without breaking.

It seemed that the gusts coming our way that day, sending some stress, twisting our day into something unexpected, and bending our stability, had abated. Like the tree, we remained rooted despite the storm. 

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We drove home, one car following the other, while rays from a sinking sun, low on the horizon, made lingering raindrops look like tiny diamonds floating above the asphalt.  As we approached our exit, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a piece of a faint rainbow forming in the dusky twilight. 

I twisted around to face Zach, encouraged him to check out the rainbow, and noticed his hand still clutching the canvas bag. 

“Thank you, Bear Cub.” I said. “You did an awesome job today. You can let go now.”