The hard part

Oh, silly me. In my last post I wrote something about "now the hard part is over," meaning the long drive from Boulder to Columbia, Missouri. Silly, silly me. 

I'm typing this late Saturday afternoon, a very hot and humid Saturday afternoon, that I have mostly spent sitting around -- reading the paper, playing games and reading the news on the computer, washing tub after tub of dishes. I'm so tired and I don't feel up to taking the kids somewhere, even though I feel intensely guilty about that.

Rocket Boy is in the hospital.

Yesterday morning, Friday, which seems about a thousand years ago, I was reading the Friday "GO! Magazine" section of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. At the front they have a little section where some of the contributors say what they're going to do that weekend. Two people said they were going to go to Origami After Dark at the Missouri Botanical Garden. We had been planning to go to "MoBot" that afternoon and were wishing you could go later than 5 pm, after the heat breaks. And here I find out that you can, but only on Thursday or Friday! So I got online and bought us tickets for that evening from 6 to 9 pm. We arrived at the gardens right at 6 pm and spent a happy hour and a half exploring. So beautiful. It was still hot and humid, but not beastly as it would have been earlier.

Toward the end of our time there, RB said both his legs were hurting. I didn't think a lot of it. We had promised the kids we'd eat out, so he drove to the City Diner downtown. But while we were there he suddenly felt a lot worse. He wasn't hungry, always a very bad sign, and just ordered a Caesar salad, but then he could only eat a little. We took it to go and headed home -- oops, but first we needed to go to the grocery store. We were almost out of milk. I did the shopping by myself, and when I got back to the car, RB had switched seats -- he wanted me to drive us home. It was my first time driving his car and my first time driving in St. Louis. I got us home.

I did mention the possibility of going to an emergency room instead, but I had no idea where one was, nor whether that was the right thing to do.

He could barely climb the stairs to the apartment, and the twins and I had to carry up the groceries (usually RB does most of the carrying, while I struggle just to drag my body up the steep flight of steps). Once up there, he lay down on the sofa (where Teen A has been sleeping). He seemed only half conscious, and asked me if I could close all the windows so it could be warmer. I refused -- the apartment was stifling. "You can put on a long-sleeved shirt," I said firmly, still not realizing what we were dealing with. I left the room for a moment, but Teen A urged me back, telling me that Dad was going to throw up and needed a bucket. I found a big green bowl in the kitchen -- appropriately, RB used it to vomit up his salad from the City Diner.

Somewhere in there, the boys got into pajamas and Teen B went to bed in the little room off the kitchen. Rocket Boy also managed to get into bed and I covered him up with various blankets. His forehead was almost painful to touch, it was so hot, but the old thermometer I had in my toiletries bag registered at only 99.5. Should have bought a new one at the grocery store.

And then the delirium. He started calling me "Ma'am," as in "Thank you, ma'am," and "I'm sorry, ma'am." He started muttering, "Please help me." I tried putting a wet washcloth on his forehead but it disturbed him. "That's not good, ma'am," he said, still trying to be polite. Wide-eyed, he kicked off some of the blankets. I stood just a little farther away from him than I normally would, not trusting those eyes and those kicking feet, not totally sure he wouldn't get violent. His thoughts began to wander. He was trying to solve a math problem, probably something for work, counting up numbers and then asking me to "integrate" them. At one point he wanted a helicopter.

It was Teen A who finally convinced me to call 911. I kept thinking of the cost of an ambulance. I should drive him to an emergency room myself, but how would I get him back down the stairs? Should I get Blue Cross's approval before calling for help? I found my Blue Cross card and my phone, but couldn't get myself to dial the number. I have mentioned before that I am not good in emergencies. I just don't know how to make those crucial decisions. I overthink things, panic, and the world falls down around me.

I finally dialed 911 and immediately began crying. Help was coming, help was on the way. A very kind man spoke to me first and then transferred me to a very kind woman. I believe both of them were Black, but the three firefighters who showed up first were all white. I don't know why. 

The paramedics (also all white -- why?) eventually came and they got RB down the stairs and into their truck. They told me they would take him to South City Hospital, which was under new management and very nearby, like five minutes away. So I could have taken him to an emergency room. Maybe.

The kids and I (Teen B had awakened when all the men arrived) went back upstairs and sat around in the terribly hot apartment. I emailed my sisters and niece and they helped me get some clarity about what had just happened. Aunt Nonny called the hospital for me and then the doctor called me directly to tell me about RB's condition. Because he had an infection, they decided to admit him, so I didn't have to go to the hospital that night. This was good, since RB had unintentionally taken the car's key fob with him in a pocket of his jeans. His nurse drove it over to me today -- special Missouri service, I guess.

He may be coming home tomorrow. He may be fine by then. We may end up having a nice last full day of our visit (Monday) and going home Tuesday as planned. We may leave Teen A behind, as planned, to spend a couple weeks alone with Dad. I don't know. A little too soon to say.

I'm just struck by a couple of things.

1. Rocket Boy is so alone out here. He has a friend or two at work, but has never socialized with them. There is no one I feel I can call for help, other than professionals.
2. Rocket Boy is so alone in general. He has a dysfunctional brother, a few distant cousins, and me, the twins, and my family. My family was very helpful in this crisis. He has nothing like that, only through me.
3. I am (as I've said over and over) terrible in an emergency. I don't like to be the one in charge -- I like people to take care of me! I'm the one who's supposed to be having health problems right now, with the diabetes and the parathyroid issues. But oh, no. Rocket Boy is the fragile one -- he really is. I am the mom and the one who has to be strong. It's really really hard for me, but too bad, it's what it is.
4. You never know when a bad thing will happen, and they don't come in threes, they come in whatever number they feel like coming in.
5. Teen A is really growing up. Teen B is a little behind, as he is also in height and weight. It'll happen, just not there yet. But Teen A is beginning to think like a grown-up, not always such a little kid. It's appreciated. By me.
   

And with that, I must fix something for dinner. Leftovers, bits of this and that. It'll be fine. I wanted to go to the hospital again, but I guess I'll just go tomorrow. It's in a somewhat shady neighborhood. Don't want to be there on Saturday night. I hope I can sleep tonight. We've got windows open and ceiling fans running, anything to get some air circulating, even though it's still in the upper 80s. By bedtime I hope it will be bearable up here. If I can sleep, I can do what I need to do.