Emergency!

I hate hospitals. It’s not an irrational hatred or a paralyzing fear reaction, and it’s certainly not a lack of respect for the fine individuals who provide such necessary and life-saving care, but like most people I simply would prefer never to step inside one again. Of course, I rarely get what I prefer.

Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”

Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.

To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”

Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.

There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.

The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.

The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.

We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.

After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?

I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.

We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.

While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.

To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.

A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.

After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.

There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.

After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.

A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.

Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”

When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.

Pondering...

I am a fortunate man. I may not have great looks, wealth or fame (or many of the other attributes that people associate with men of good fortune), but when I take the time to stop and look around, I know that I am blessed beyond what I deserve.

I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.

The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.

No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.

I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.

I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.

I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.

I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.

Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.

I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?

It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.

I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.

I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”

Because of their example, I have always known better.

And on the seventh day...

I don’t remember it myself, but I’ve been told that I was first taken to church when I was two weeks old. Since it was my mother telling the story, I tend to believe it. From then until I got married, I didn’t miss a lot of Sundays, and very few Wednesday nights. Church was as much a part of our life as eating or breathing. I never knew anything else.

Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.

As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”

If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.

As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.

We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.

In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.

I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.

When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.

Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”

When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go.  It was our rebellious period.

In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.

We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.

As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.

At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that.   Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.  



(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)