Easter 2008, Part III

Part I

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.

 

Easter 2008, Part II

Part I

At the hospital emergency room the Saturday night before Easter, Marcel and I were quickly ushered through triage to a room. The room was large and the wall separating us from the hall was made completely of sliding, glass doors. It was the kind of room that a lot of people can get into and even provides a view for the people that can’t fit. At that point, however, it was just Marcel, eventually my mother, and I.

The first person to enter was a young doctor who asked me a lot of the same questions that the triage nurse asked. Then, she explained what was to happen. Marcel would have to drink charcoal. She would then drink a fluid that would flush everything—including my father’s blood pressure pill that Marcel may have ingested—out of her system.

The doctor continued that if she refused to drink the charcoal and fluid, then they would be administered by an “NG tube.” That tube would be inserted into her stomach through her nose. Eventually, we learned that once the fluid ran clear in her diaper, we would have to repeat the process, again.

As far as I was concerned, this would be even worse than the stomach pumping that I feared. So, when the liquid charcoal came, I begged Marcel, as calmly as I could, to drink it all. Bless her heart. She tried. She had two or three sips, but that was all she could muster down.

I could’ve made it tough on her. I could’ve insisted that she drink the horrible looking concoction. I knew, however, that this was just the tip of the iceberg. So, we scored some surgical gloves—she likes gloves—and quietly played, instead. Then, it got worse. The technician came in and informed me that Marcel would have to get an IV.

Marcel hates needles. She’s always hated needles. She hates them so much that she absolutely loathes the inoculation nurse at her pediatrician’s office. She gives that particular nurse a very hearty good-bye when it is time to leave the doctor’s office. But she couldn’t say good bye to the technician. We had to hold her down for them to get that IV into her and tie a board to her hand to keep her from mangling it.

Then the nurse came back and informed us that Marcel would have to have the NG tube, whether she drank the charcoal or not. Apparently, there was too much fluid to drink. The jar that it came in was as big as Marcel. So we had to hold her down, again.

You would hope that, after these traumas, things would go smoothly. Things did not. The nurse administered the charcoal with a syringe into the NG tube. The charcoal was so thick, however, that it wouldn’t go, easily. She had to push. And push. And push. Then, the syringe exploded.

Charcoal was everywhere, including in Marcel’s hair, all over her body, all over me, and all over the nurse. Shocked and embarrassed, the nurse left to get towels to help clean up the mess. She cleaned what she could then she went to get the fluid that would flush out the charcoal and the pill, if any were actually inside Marcel. With charcoal dripping from her face, the nurse hooked the fluid up to the IV.

As they wheeled us to a new room for our overnight stay, I pointed out the charcoal to the nurse. I had assumed that she didn’t realize her condition but she had and she had decided to muster on, regardless. I suppose it was her way to make solidarity with my daughter who, too, would have to muster on through the night, regardless.

The third, and final, part, next week.

 

Easter 2008

With a scream, my wife tore down the stairs holding my father’s pill case. She found the case on the floor in our den, where I had left her and Marcel to play on the computer. She was convinced that Marcel had taken one of his pills.

However, Marcel hadn’t gotten into them when I was in there. In fact, she wasn’t in the room, at all, for most of the time I was there. And I didn’t leave the room until I coaxed my wife in to replace me as Marcel’s computer helper. Given that monitoring coverage, there was no way for Marcel to get into that case. Plus, the case wasn’t opened.

My wife wasn’t convinced, though. Apparently, Marcel told her she had eaten “a white one.” That wasn’t convincing to me. My wife has a very bad habit of asking leading questions. I warn her that that, like torture, leading questions will only get her the answer she expects, which is not necessarily the truth. Unfortunately, she can’t break the habit.

Now, for any other situation, I probably would patronize her. But this wasn’t any situation. This was a trip to the hospital emergency room. More and more, I hear stories about people actually getting sick at hospitals, rather than getting cured. In fact, the last time that we took Marcel to the hospital she got pink eye from another kid in the small waiting room. We had to spend the next week engaged in the very difficult procedure of applying an ointment to the inside of her eyelid. And the illness du jour was a flesh-eating bacteria. I didn’t want to risk Marcel getting THAT .

Worse, this was poison. That meant Marcel would have to ingest charcoal and, I thought, get her stomach pumped. This would keep us in the hospital, I thought, for hours. I feared that this would be torture for Marcel and, thus, I didn’t think this level of patronizing was worth it.

I gave the case to my father for him to count his pills and, assuming that would settle the matter, I went off to the supermarket. But it didn’t settle the matter. My father momentarily couldn’t find one blood pressure pill, which could be fatal to a toddler. Poison control insisted that my daughter go to the hospital for “observation.” So they called me at the supermarket and demanded I come home. I was furious.

I left my pregnant wife home–no sense in her getting a flesh eating bacteria for this–and took Marcel to the local children’s hospital emergency room. When I showed the triage nurse the pill case, Marcel piped up, clear as day, that she hadn’t taken any medicine. Twice. But the die had been cast and the hospital was now in control.

Part II, next week.