24. The Industrial Conveyor - rattlesnake bite PT.4

After a short time in the emergency room corridor, we were told our bed was ready in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Sylvia had finally dozed off in her bed as the credits rolled on the tiny screen at the edge of the room when the whirlwind of staff returned to usher us into our new room.

The hospital was a maze. Every hall looked like the last, with long dim-lit walkways and a thousand doors. At every intersection was a pair of nurses with their noses pressed to their respective computer screens. It was quiet everywhere.

Left, right, right, left,

our new home.

This room was much bigger than the last. It was reminiscent of a delivery room with a couch under the window and a small sink by the door. There was a large privacy curtain half pulled across the room. The nurse drug it out from the wall as she entered. I prefer to see who was entering the room before they confront us so I pushed it back slightly after she left.

"The last time we were in the hospital was for Sylvia's birth," My husband reminded me. That was more than three years ago. I think that's pretty impressive for an adventure-family with four free-range children. But as we well know accidents happen. I couldn't help but berate myself periodically, thinking was this somehow my fault? Did I knowingly put my family in danger? I swept that curb with the flashlight just seconds before she sat down. I didn't see the snake; who could have?

The craziest part to me, when I hear her cry ringing in my ears, is that it was not an unusual cry. Everyone says that a mom can hear the difference in tone and delivery with each cry. We know if their feelings were hurt. We know if they stubbed their toe. Or if they just don't like the color of their shirt. We know instinctively when they are in real danger and if they're going to be ok.

Sylvia's cry did not say pain and danger. It said 'worry'. It said 'I need Mama'. Pain and fear registered much later as we were running towards the house.

Our new attending nurse introduced herself. She was very bubbly and alert for 4am. She ran through the details of our room fairly quickly, then left us to our own devices. Her desk was just outside the door facing us with a large picture window so she could keep a very close eye on Sylvia as we all slept.

I don't remember falling asleep...

but I awoke to our nurse measuring Sylvia's swollen leg again. She seemed like she was having some trouble, so I sat up and offered to help.

She was trying to get the measuring tape around Sylvia's calf without waking her, occasionally provoking a slight groan. The ER doctor recommended that we try to keep Sylvia's leg elevated so it was currently propped up on a pile of blankets and pillows. I slid the pile away from her body to reveal a little pocket for the measuring tape to slip through. The Nurse slid it around to take several measurements and gave the leg a couple pokes then finished with a small sigh.

"I'm going to have to call the doctor," she said. "The measurements don't look good. At this rate she is in range for another dose of the anti-venom." Her voice was disappointed and full of compassion.

"Ok." I said while rubbing my eyes. She began to leave and I looked over at my husband who was asleep on the cubic couch across the room. Another flashback of our last hospital stay passed through my mind.

It wasn't long before our attendant came back to fiddle with the IV embedded in Sylvia's arm. All the activity woke her enough to recognize she needed to go potty. She has been toilet-trained for a long time now but she had wet the bed in her sleep. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember the last time any of us used the bathroom. I felt bad. She was quickly upset that she was wet and insisted on going to the bathroom. The staff had supplied us with diapers and wipes for her in a neat pile by the sink. Sylvia refused to wear them.

She wanted to go to the bathroom across the hall. I peered through the window imagining the daunting task, and pleaded with her again in favor of the diaper solution. She wasn't having it.

Using the bathroom was quite the event: unplugging all the machines, untangling the cords, finding my shoes, and picking her up from the bed without provoking the injury. The first several times it was a three-man job; one to carry the baby, one to roll the IV stand, one to hold each door on the way to the bathroom. On top of that we were given homework. They wanted to measure the liquid output. We were asked to use a "hat" in the brim of the toilet and save all her wet diapers.

Sylvia was wary of the hat. I'm sure she was thinking to herself why do they want to keep my pee? Or maybe she just held distrust for its flimsy nature. It took mild convincing and the urge to pee overtook the hesitancy. She went successfully, crying all the time. Poor girl couldn't even sit on the toilet without interference from her pains.

We finagled our way clumsily back into the room where they had already changed the sheets. Since Sylvia's pants were wet I convinced her the only option was a diaper and she reluctantly agreed until Grammy could bring her a change of clothes.

Because time was irrelevant and we were already awake, I switched on the TV. The only kid's channel available was Paw Patrol en Español. She didn't complain.

During our stay, time slipped away quietly into the wee morning. Suddenly all those nights I spent complaining about sharing my bed with a toddler became a memory from a past life. I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. I spent the night in and out of consciousness constantly peeking over my shoulder at my sleeping baby girl beside me.

My mom and dad brought the kids for a visit in the late morning on the second day and although we were far from comfortable the place felt like home. The urgency and daunt of our situation faded away because we were whole again. They stayed for several hours. My dad converted his anxious energy into rough-housing with the kids. I had to remind him, although we are in the right place if someone hits their head, we were trying to go home at some point; extending our stay was not ideal. He obliged apologetically.

My husband and I were slow to stir the next day. I greatly appreciated the fact that they let us catch up on sleep. I didn't feel like we were being pushed along on an industrial conveyor belt for once.

The doctor eventually came into the room with his thick Nigerian accent, "Wow, you guys

slept late." 10:00a.m. wasn't an unusual start time in our household but I understand why a doctor would think so. We tend to stay up late as a family and play hard during the days. Another reason why we chose to home school: the early start times just were not going to work for us.

This day followed about the same pattern as the previous, sans kids and grandpa. We made frequent trips to the bathroom across the hall and were now proficient enough that it became a one-man job and Sylvia was instructing Gramy which cord connected where from memory. I noticed now, on the third day, she didn't complain when she sat anymore and I saw that as a good sign.

We took the opportunity of my mom's visit to go back to our hotel. We had spent only one night there and now three in the hospital. You think they would have given us a refund if we asked? Wishful thinking. We packed up everything and showered. Then we checked out and returned to hospital. Everything we owned was thrown haphazardly into the back of the car.

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Sometime later the doctor returned and he was not alone. With him was a young doctor-in-training. They began their assessments on the tiny patient and I watched closely from across the room. He asked what she saw and she describe it aloud. Although I couldn't understand some of the terminology it all sounded like positive assessments. They went on as if we were not in the room. Sylvia stayed sleep until they were just about finished with it all.

On the agenda we had many different meetings and assessments with specialists. If they went well the doctor would return for the final time with the ultimate authority. His was the news we were waiting for. We stopped the painkiller drip after asking Sylvia how she felt. Nobody had noticed it ran out quite long ago.

During lunch, Sylvia told me she wanted to go home. We spent most of the day just waiting between trips to the bathroom and visits from specialists. The occupational therapist spent the longest with us. And she was the last approval needed before the boss. She was an ardent individual. If people look like their dogs, she would probably own a red Cocker Spaniel.

I had just sent my husband out for some real coffee when she came for her assessment. Together, she and I untangled the bionic toddler. I was instructed to carry her to the couch where she comfortably sat on my knee. The OT handed me some instructional homework that we were expected to perform after we left. She was already considering discharge, another good sign.

My husband just walked in the door when I was asked to put Sylvia on the floor to stand freely. I was glad to see him. I looked at Sylvia and asked if she was ready to stand. She was nodding as I let her feet grace the floor. Her knee buckled immediately but she did not cry or lift it off the floor. Instead, she turned to me.

"Up!" She croaked. She immediately appeared two years younger. Now, it reminds me of The Last Time poem for parents. This time we spent in the hospital was a gift.

I leaned down to hug her and that was enough of a moral boost. She remained standing as the OT and I spoke. Gradually her foot settled into the floor. It was exactly what we were looking for. Now she was asked to walk. I was more skeptical than Sylvia at this point. I stood and instructed her to walk to the bed. It was about a four-foot span. Daunting for someone who has spent more than 48 hours in a bed.

Sylvia did not hesitate. All of her lovies were beckoning from where she had once laid. She quickly limped her way to the edge of the bed. The OT and I were impressed. When she was asked to walk back to the couch, however, she had to be coaxed by Daddy's open arms. She was able to stay off her leg for the rest of the assessments which included more poking and wiggling. We chatted for a while then the therapist gave us the ok. She concluded that we would probably have to reign Sylvia in instead of push her to do her homework stretches.

She was not wrong.

Our OT left the room with lighter air than she had found. Discharge took several hours but they flew by in several seconds. We packed up our belongings and cleaned up our messes. We really made the place our home in such a short while.

The time came for the IVs to come out and my husband and I were grinning from ear to ear.

Sylvia was not.

For starters, we had turned off her new favorite snake movie. Like, what gives?

Then the tape. I get why, but there was so much tape. The tape was, for sure, worse than the needles.

The nurse was surprised at Sylvia's reaction. Not a peep. Just the meanest scowl you've seen this side of the Mississippi.

After we told her, "We get to go home," her demeanor changed drastically. She was ready to go swimming and someone had promised her ice cream.

"We get to go home!" she repeated over and over as my husband carried her toward the door. We got a beautiful bubble send-off and followed all the murals to the exit. Sylvia made sure to point out each desert critter, especially the "cutie" snakes.

The double doors opened and our last breaths of hospital air were exhaled as the Arizona heat punched us in the gut.

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