My daughter swallowed a marble tonight. You would think a mother of three would have the wits about her to make sure things like marbles don't make it into their child's mouth, but I do, and it did. I was in the middle of dinner (more mac and cheese) when I heard the gag. I reluctantly called my mother, who rushed over to sit with my other two daughters, and in a matter of minutes I was speeding away towards the emergency room.
Why do they call it an "emergency" room anyway?
There seemed to be no real emergencies in this room. At the risk of sounding snobby, it just seemed full of lathargic, pathetic souls looking for either sympathy, attention or a reason to not report to their minimum-wage jobs the next day. Two seats over sat a teen mom with an inconsolable baby. Accompanied by her mother, her mother's mother and a pack of likely illegitimate nieces and nephews, the doe-eyed mother looked around and absent-mindedly patted her baby's bottom. Maybe the nieces and nephews were the young mother's own siblings - who knew? Where I live, anything is possible. In the corner, a group of twenty-something thugs with freshly shaved heads yammered in Spanish about their tia who hadn't been seen because well-insured white people had come in. "Ya basta," they sneered. This was pointed at me; they had had enough. Since noon, they had been waiting with their aunt who was having chest pains. Have they ever heard of an ambulance?
I'm glad it wasn't really an emergency...my kid is close to shitting that marble already.
"Baa, blaaah mwaaa" was all you could hear now over the snippy Spanish mixed with screaming, half-clothed kids. The noise came from a woman well into her 50s. She was with her mother, who patiently sat in the waiting room, rocking her daughter who clearly had the mental capacity of a newborn child. Though indicipherable, other mothers were tuning in to her; she was just as loving and caring over her "baby" as we were over our children. They communicated through a secret language I hadn't heard since The Elephant Man; unknown to everyone around them except each other. The woman's husband sat next to her, disconnected from his daughter whom he had likely never shared a simple conversation with.
McKenna is getting wiggly. I wonder: how long does it take someone to poop a marble, anyway?
New blood walks through the automated sliding doors. It's a construction worker who got a little excited over a circular saw and lost a finger. His limp hand, cradled by his filthy other arm, was wrapped in a bloody Van Halen t-shirt. The finger was in a Blake's Lotaburger bag. "Did you put the finger on ice, Mr. Trujillo?" asks the triage nurse, who is directing traffic, juggling telephones and answering questions from a cop...all the while processing each "emergency" that walks in the door. "Nah, man. I just put it in the bag 'cuz it's all I had." This is not good news. The nurse explains that she'll have to take the severed digit to the back, while the body it once belonged to would have to wait with the rest of us.
The Elephant Woman just peed.
It's 9:00. My daughter and I walked through the door at 7:00, and had already been seen by triage, an x-ray tech, and the admissions people. The Elephant Woman's mother tells me she's been there since 3. I don't ask what they're here for, and I don't have to. A young blonde in maroon scrubs calls my daughter's name through swinging doors. It's my turn.
"So how did she swallow a marble?" sneers Young Maroon Blonde. Poor thing. She has no idea who I am. "Well, I suppose she just opened her mouth, popped the son of a bitch in there and swallowed." Maybe that wasn't a good idea, I thought to myself. "I understand you're frustrated, Mrs. Jameson, we're all just trying to do our jobs."
While Young Blonde tried to do her job, I thought about Tia, who may very well have had chest pains and still had not been seen by a doctor. Elephant Woman, sitting in her own urine. The dirty Van Halen fan who will never again be able to flip anyone off with his right hand. My daughter swallowed a marble. Was it really an emergency?
After a record 20 minutes in a private triage room, a lovely East Indian pediatrician stops by to see my baby. "I checked her x-rays, and I don't see the marble. Are you sure she swallowed it?"
I thought about this for awhile. I had a terrible day at work. My husband and I last talked over a heated financial argument. I really thought she swallowed a marble, but I couldn't be certain. I surely wouldn't bet money on it - hell, I didn't have any money to bet. I asked my daughter if she swallowed the marble and she said yes. Would a 2 year-old lie to her mother?
I showed the doctor a bag full of specimens much like the one I assumed my child had swallowed. She examined them closely, extracted one from the bag and disappeared to x-ray the marble by itself. Then, comparing it to McKenna's chest and abdomen films, she concluded that if my daughter had in fact swallowed a marble, it would have shown up bright and beautiful on an x-ray. There was nothing bright or beautiful about McKenna's x-rays, other than the fact that they showed a perfectly heatlhy two year-old child who was all mine.
"I guess maybe she didn't swallow it after all," I said. I was all I could offer. The doctor left me alone with my writhing child, now so fed up with "emergency" rooms that she was just about to pop. I wonder if that would certify a true emergency in this place? An exploding toddler in her pajamas?
With my bag of marbles and my daughter who was now certified marble-free, I was sent to the window where you pay for services rendered. "Okay," said the woman, typing feverishly on her keyboard. "Your emergency co-pay is 750 dollars, Mrs. Jameson. How would you like to take care of that?"
Now wasn't that the question of the night? Really, I wondered, what the hell did I get for $750? Peace of mind knowing my child's intestines wouldn't get clogged by a non-existent marble in the middle of the night? A crash course in Emergency Room sociology? Cheap conversation among strangers with whom I had nothing in common with, who were secretly wishing bad things upon me and my daughter because we were white and insured?
I wrote a check. I said nothing. My thoughts spoke volumes. McKenna and I drove home and I walked through my house to the smell of hot dogs. "Here, Sugar, eat a hot dog and relax," my mother said. She meant well, but hot dogs? I really wanted the bottle of gin I walked through the door with four hours earlier. The whole 750-dollar bottle. I plopped my 750-dollar bag of marbles on the table, kissed my mother goodbye, thanked her and put my children to bed. My house was clean, thanks to my 750-dollar mother/maid, and I curled up on the couch with my 750-dollar hot dog. I guess it's true that some of the best things in life don't come free.
Why do they call it an "emergency" room anyway?
There seemed to be no real emergencies in this room. At the risk of sounding snobby, it just seemed full of lathargic, pathetic souls looking for either sympathy, attention or a reason to not report to their minimum-wage jobs the next day. Two seats over sat a teen mom with an inconsolable baby. Accompanied by her mother, her mother's mother and a pack of likely illegitimate nieces and nephews, the doe-eyed mother looked around and absent-mindedly patted her baby's bottom. Maybe the nieces and nephews were the young mother's own siblings - who knew? Where I live, anything is possible. In the corner, a group of twenty-something thugs with freshly shaved heads yammered in Spanish about their tia who hadn't been seen because well-insured white people had come in. "Ya basta," they sneered. This was pointed at me; they had had enough. Since noon, they had been waiting with their aunt who was having chest pains. Have they ever heard of an ambulance?
I'm glad it wasn't really an emergency...my kid is close to shitting that marble already.
"Baa, blaaah mwaaa" was all you could hear now over the snippy Spanish mixed with screaming, half-clothed kids. The noise came from a woman well into her 50s. She was with her mother, who patiently sat in the waiting room, rocking her daughter who clearly had the mental capacity of a newborn child. Though indicipherable, other mothers were tuning in to her; she was just as loving and caring over her "baby" as we were over our children. They communicated through a secret language I hadn't heard since The Elephant Man; unknown to everyone around them except each other. The woman's husband sat next to her, disconnected from his daughter whom he had likely never shared a simple conversation with.
McKenna is getting wiggly. I wonder: how long does it take someone to poop a marble, anyway?
New blood walks through the automated sliding doors. It's a construction worker who got a little excited over a circular saw and lost a finger. His limp hand, cradled by his filthy other arm, was wrapped in a bloody Van Halen t-shirt. The finger was in a Blake's Lotaburger bag. "Did you put the finger on ice, Mr. Trujillo?" asks the triage nurse, who is directing traffic, juggling telephones and answering questions from a cop...all the while processing each "emergency" that walks in the door. "Nah, man. I just put it in the bag 'cuz it's all I had." This is not good news. The nurse explains that she'll have to take the severed digit to the back, while the body it once belonged to would have to wait with the rest of us.
The Elephant Woman just peed.
It's 9:00. My daughter and I walked through the door at 7:00, and had already been seen by triage, an x-ray tech, and the admissions people. The Elephant Woman's mother tells me she's been there since 3. I don't ask what they're here for, and I don't have to. A young blonde in maroon scrubs calls my daughter's name through swinging doors. It's my turn.
"So how did she swallow a marble?" sneers Young Maroon Blonde. Poor thing. She has no idea who I am. "Well, I suppose she just opened her mouth, popped the son of a bitch in there and swallowed." Maybe that wasn't a good idea, I thought to myself. "I understand you're frustrated, Mrs. Jameson, we're all just trying to do our jobs."
While Young Blonde tried to do her job, I thought about Tia, who may very well have had chest pains and still had not been seen by a doctor. Elephant Woman, sitting in her own urine. The dirty Van Halen fan who will never again be able to flip anyone off with his right hand. My daughter swallowed a marble. Was it really an emergency?
After a record 20 minutes in a private triage room, a lovely East Indian pediatrician stops by to see my baby. "I checked her x-rays, and I don't see the marble. Are you sure she swallowed it?"
I thought about this for awhile. I had a terrible day at work. My husband and I last talked over a heated financial argument. I really thought she swallowed a marble, but I couldn't be certain. I surely wouldn't bet money on it - hell, I didn't have any money to bet. I asked my daughter if she swallowed the marble and she said yes. Would a 2 year-old lie to her mother?
I showed the doctor a bag full of specimens much like the one I assumed my child had swallowed. She examined them closely, extracted one from the bag and disappeared to x-ray the marble by itself. Then, comparing it to McKenna's chest and abdomen films, she concluded that if my daughter had in fact swallowed a marble, it would have shown up bright and beautiful on an x-ray. There was nothing bright or beautiful about McKenna's x-rays, other than the fact that they showed a perfectly heatlhy two year-old child who was all mine.
"I guess maybe she didn't swallow it after all," I said. I was all I could offer. The doctor left me alone with my writhing child, now so fed up with "emergency" rooms that she was just about to pop. I wonder if that would certify a true emergency in this place? An exploding toddler in her pajamas?
With my bag of marbles and my daughter who was now certified marble-free, I was sent to the window where you pay for services rendered. "Okay," said the woman, typing feverishly on her keyboard. "Your emergency co-pay is 750 dollars, Mrs. Jameson. How would you like to take care of that?"
Now wasn't that the question of the night? Really, I wondered, what the hell did I get for $750? Peace of mind knowing my child's intestines wouldn't get clogged by a non-existent marble in the middle of the night? A crash course in Emergency Room sociology? Cheap conversation among strangers with whom I had nothing in common with, who were secretly wishing bad things upon me and my daughter because we were white and insured?
I wrote a check. I said nothing. My thoughts spoke volumes. McKenna and I drove home and I walked through my house to the smell of hot dogs. "Here, Sugar, eat a hot dog and relax," my mother said. She meant well, but hot dogs? I really wanted the bottle of gin I walked through the door with four hours earlier. The whole 750-dollar bottle. I plopped my 750-dollar bag of marbles on the table, kissed my mother goodbye, thanked her and put my children to bed. My house was clean, thanks to my 750-dollar mother/maid, and I curled up on the couch with my 750-dollar hot dog. I guess it's true that some of the best things in life don't come free.
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