Part II
After about three hours in the hospital, the insertion of an IV and a NG tube, the administration of charcoal to protect the stomach and intestines from the possible ingestion of my Dad’s high blood pressure pill and the start of the administration of fluid that would flush it out, completely, Marcel was wheeled to a room in the short stay wing.
This was the Saturday night before Easter. For a variety of reasons, I had not been to church in months. I had very much look forward to going and, because the pastor likes my parents so much, to bringing them with me.
Instead, we were wheeled to a semi-private room in the short stay wing because the hospital wanted to monitor Marcel for 24 hours. That meant we would be in the hospital until 8 pm Sunday, at least. Marcel would miss Easter eggs, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and the giant, stuffed Easter bunny that my sister had sent along with our parents.
By this point, however, Marcel was beyond caring about any of that. By this point, she had stopped crying. She didn’t whimper or fight back in any way. She didn’t initiate any communication and her only response to anything was just a stare. She appeared to have surrendered to her condition and her condition soon included vomiting.
Through the night, Marcel was expected to digest so much fluid that it filled a jug that was bigger than she. The doctor and nurses tried to regulate the speed in which it passed through the NG tube and into her stomach. However, they felt some pressure to speed the flow because poison control wanted two administrations of charcoal and fluid within the twenty-four hour period. The result was that her stomach was often filled to the brim. When it got to be too much, Marcel would retch.
The retching was involuntary. We were never swift enough to catch the clear and viscous fluid, even after we left a bucket in her lap. Afterward, her gown and bed linens were always left soaking. We would change the gown and linens and wipe her down but I doubt she could ever feel truly clean. But she also never broke her silence—not even a whimper—and she never broke her gaze.
Through that night, the vomiting was joined by black diarrhea. Because we didn’t know exactly when she had a bowel movement, and she would say nothing, I often found her sitting in a cold puddle. I learned to just check without asking.
To ease what surely must’ve been horrible, the nurses and young doctor joined my mother and me in offering television cartoons, sweet lollipops and expressions of concerns. Marcel, however, kept her silence and cold stare. Eventually, what I had feared was surrender, I came to recognize as defiance. My little warrior would not break.
Marcel was supposed to only be observed for twenty-four hours. But she was also to be given a second administration of the charcoal and flushing fluid after the first ran clear. As the night, however, turned to dawn, the dawn to day and the day to nightfall, again, Marcel’s bowel movements remained stained with the black of the charcoal. I began to wonder if her torment, and mine, would be prolonged.
Fortunately, Marcel never exhibited any of the symptoms associated with having taking my father’s pill. Her blood pressure remained normal through the night. It became clear that she probably had not eaten any. The “short stay” wing’s doctor started our paperwork early so that she could send us off before the end of her shift at 8 pm.
Nurses help us remove Marcel’s IV and NG tube. I dressed in her pajamas and picked her up. She wanted to walk, though. We did a little victory lap around the ward, saying good-bye to the professionals that got us through the night. She even spoke. She said, “thank you” to our doctor.
I grabbed her hand and my mother and I guided her out of the wing, down the elevators and to the car. As we approached the front door, Marcel pulled her hand away. She walked on her own two feet to the exit from this place, following her own guide. She seemed to even lift her chin a little higher.
My little warrior was now victorious.
