Emma in the ER

Not Emma's actual doctor

Not Emma’s actual doctor

ONE MONTH.

Seriously, Mommy?  You could not find a SINGLE thing to write about in the past MONTH?  What about that adorable thing I do when I have half a bowl of cereal left in front of me and I cock my head and say, “Mo’ cereal, Mommy?”  (Hey, some of us still have a Depression-era mentality.  What if the cereal runs out?  Don’t give me that look, woman.  I’ve seen the way you shovel this stuff down your throat.)  And how about when I’m playing hide-and-seek and as soon as I hear you coming I jump out of my hiding spot and yell, “TA-DA!” . . .?  And don’t you think America needs to know that I can now count to ten in Spanish?!?  (English, not so much.)  AND. WHAT. ABOUT. THE. FACT. THAT. I. NOW. HAVE. VISIBLE. HAIR?!?

Really?   NOTHING?

DO. I.  NEED. TO. WRITE. THE. BLOG. POST. FOR. YOU!?!

Apparently, America, I do.

Okay, people.  Don’t panic.  But I do have some news to report.  Last week, I was rushed to the hospital.  It’s okay.  I’m fine.   (But, just to be on the safe side, you should probably still send flowers.  And get-well snacks.  Don’t forget to throw in one of those cute little raisin boxes.  Gracias.)  Here’s the story.

It was Tuesday night, around 11:30pm.  There I was in my crib.  Asleep.  Minding my own business.  (And apparently coughing like a barking seal.)  When suddenly, I was rudely awaken by Daddy.  Who yanked me out of my bed.  And started making all sorts of complaints about my breathing.  And my coughing.  RUDE, PEOPLE.  Just RUDE.  Not for nothing, Daddy, but I’m not a huge fan of the way YOU sound when you’re asleep either. And anyway, who wakes another person up in the middle of the night!?!  (What’s that, Mommy.  Oh PUH-LEASE.  I was just a baby.  GET. OVER. IT.)   Anyway, sometimes Mommy and Daddy get all bent out of shape about nothing.  So I calmly explained to them that I was tired and wanted to go back to sleep.  For some reason, my words came out sounding . . . how do I put this?  Oh yes: like I was crying hysterically and barking like a seal.

Mommy and Daddy started discussing which hospital in our new city to take me to.  I didn’t have a preference. Because, frankly, I haven’t written Yelp reviews for ANY of them yet.  Then they started talking about who would take me.

Daddy: I think I should take her.

Mommy: Well, I guess you do know how to get there . . .

Daddy: And I will probably do better on less sleep.

So it was settled.  Daddy would take me to the hospital.

OH, HELLS NO.

Me (screeching): MOMMY!

Mommy took me to the hospital.  (I didn’t really care who took me.  But someone needed to remind these people who’s in charge.)

We got to the hospital around midnight.  Nobody was there. Seriously.  Nobody.  Which is kind of creepy.  Did the other sick people know something that Mommy and Daddy didn’t know . . .?   Like maybe another hospital down the street was giving out free get-well puppies.  Or ice cream.  WHY AREN’T WE GOING THERE, MOMMY?!?  I’m just saying.

The woman at the registration desk waved us in.  (What the heck else did she have to do?)  She put a name bracelet on me.  I screamed.  WOMAN, I’M WEARING MY JAMMIES.  CLEARLY, I’M TRYING TO GO INCOGNITO.  If anyone from preschool shows up and sees me in out in public in my jammies I will be MORTIFIED.  Fine, FINE, so none of them can read anyway.  Not the point.  I kept screaming.  For a long time.

The registration lady told me I had croup.

Then we went back to the waiting room.  There was a big TV screen and the people on the TV were playing music.  LOUD music.  Mommy called it hard rock.  People, I couldn’t take my eyes off of that TV.  It was like watching the kids at my preschool play.  Only louder.  And with more hair.  (And with no bath nights.)  IT WAS AWESOME.

Mommy: Emma, do you like this music?

Me (speaking in a whisper, in deference to those musical gods): Yesssss.

Mommy made a weird face.  Don’t judge, woman.  I’ve heard the crap you listen to.

The triage nurse called us in to her booth.  And asked Mommy a bunch of super personal questions.  Like how much I weigh. (Rude.)

Then she told me I had croup.

Mommy and I went back to the waiting room.  But a few minutes later a nurse came out to bring us to the part of the emergency room that was for kids.  Or at least I think it was for kids.  It was hard to tell.  SINCE THERE WEREN’T ANY KIDS THERE.  It was just a big open area with lots of doctors and nurses.  You would think we would be waited on right away.  We were not.  (And no one brought me crayons and a place mat to color on OR a complimentary bread basket.)  Mommy and I sat on a bed in this area for a looong time.  Meanwhile, the doctors and nurses did something very important on their computers.  Maybe they were watching an Elmo video.

I want to be a doctor when I grow up.

Finally a nice doctor came in and talked to us.  He had a light on the end of his little pointy-tool thing.  And used it to look in my ears. (Feast your eyes, sir.  What you’re seeing in there is PURE BRILLIANCE.)  Then he looked in my mouth.  And listened to me breathe.  (No disrespect, but how boring is this guy’s job if he entertains himself by listening to people breathe.  I felt a little sad for him.  Maybe I don’t want to be a doctor.)

And then he told me I had croup.

Did the lady at Registration squeal?  Which brings me to my next point.  Not for nothing.  But if healthcare costs are getting out of control, WHY NOT JUST CUT OUT THE MIDDLE MEN AND LET THE LADY AT REGISTRATION GIVE OUT THE MEDICINE?!?  (You’re welcome, America.)

And, by the way, what the heck is croup?

Whatevs.  All I know is that a nice nurse-lady gave me something to drink and then she gave me a green popsicle.  Which matched my green jammies.  I made Mommy take a picture of it.

Me: “Mommy, SHOW DADDY”

He’s going to be SOOOOO jealous he missed this.  I mean what else would he possibly want to be doing at 2:00am?

2 thoughts on “Emma in the ER

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