One day a year and half ago, I was at work and I got a call from my honey. "Just to let you know," he starts out, and I think, Oh shit! All of his You're-going-to-freak-out-because-I'm-freaking-out stories start with that phrase.
"What?"
"Well, Chris was making Ramen soup, and Diana pulled it over on her," he says. "I rinsed it off with cold water, but her shoulder where she spilled it is red. What else do you want me to do?" He's not an overt panicker, he is controlled and focused, kind of like how he is now. He's got this under control, so I have him give her Tylenol, and tell him to call me if she develops blisters. I have sunburn crap in the closet, and I have him rub it on her shoulder.
About 20 minutes later, he calls me back, Evidently, she also spilled it on her hand, and it didn't get rinsed off right away, and she has blisters starting. "I'm on my way," and I come home. I check it out, and take her to Redi-Med, which is advertised as quicker than the emergency room. I show them the hand, and she's calm, because Mommy has got her, and is not freaked out. Then they tell me blisters are bad, and they utter this memorable phrase, "We don't handle burns here, you have to go to the burn unit." What? What is this place, that can treat broken bones, but not burns? WTF? OK, I'm a little panicky.
"What do you mean, you don't handle burns? This is a mini-trauma area, right? Well this is a trauma, handle it!" Well, they couldn't handle it, so, "I'm taking her to the hospital," I say, and leave. We go to the hospital, and we get in a room. The nurse comes in. My little toddler is still calm, whimpering a little every once in a while, still holding her hand straight up, where I told her to hold it.
"We don't handle burns here, you have to go to the burn unit," she tells me. OK, now I'm pan- I mean, pissed, "This is a Level 1 Trauma Hospital, right? What, you handle Level 1 emergencies only?"
"Well, we handle all emergencies here except burns. Those have to go to the burn unit downtown."
"What if someone's in a car wreck and is burned, what, you ship them via ambulance to the burn center?" Ok, this is officially the stupidest fucking hospital ever! I am not panicking!
"Well, we do handle some burns, either minor burns, or life-threatening burns, but this is neither, and she has to go to the burn unit." FUCK! Fine! She gives her more Tylenol, except this has codeine in it, and we leave. "Go straight there, they'll be expecting her," she tells me, like I was planning on grocery shopping on the way. Stupid moronic bitch, of course we're going straight there, because evidently no one else in this city of 300,000 handles burns, so we're off to see the damn Burn Wizard, who holds court in the Emerald City! He is evidently the only person who can treat her and send her home.
By the time we get there, it's been about an hour and half. Yes, I just drove that fast, three hospitals in an hour. My poor munchkin is feeling no pain by the time we get there, but I'm ... a little upset, yeah, not panicking. I AM NOT PANICKING! I go straight to registration, darting in front of an inattentive elderly person. And Diana starts talking, "Circles, Mommy, circles!" Her medicine is kicking in, I guess.
"Yes, pumpkin, circles. Good job!... No, I don't know her social security number off-hand."
"Red circles, and blue circles, and green circles. Look at the circles, Mommy!" my drugged-out toddler tells me.
"Yes, pumpkin, I see....wait, this isn't her name. Whose stuff is this?"
"Circles, mommy, circles!"
"Yes, sweetie, I see the circles, pretty... What?! You have to print the registration packet again?" I am not panicking! JFC, her hand is going to fall off, and we are stuck in registration! She's only two, for God's sake! Get her to a medical professional before I completely lose it!
"Look, Mommy, Squares!"
"Yes, honey, I see the squares... What do you mean the printer went down? Can't you fix it?" Or, here's a thought, send us up right now!
We sit in registration for 50 minutes. 50 LONG minutes, and I'm about to climb the wall, burrow through the ceiling, or just plain punch this guy who can't figure out a fucking printer, and how to print the right name-slash-packet. Or climb over the desk and fix it. But then I start to remember...
Now, I have a traumatic memory from my childhood I'm going to share. When I was 3, I fell and split my eyebrow. I remember riding in the car to the hospital, my mother panicking in the ER, and, more specifically, I remember my mother being dragged out by orderlies when I have to get stitches. Because she was panicking, and I was screaming because she was panicking. Kids take their cues from their parents, and I had better get my shit together! My daughter will not have that memory, she's got enough on her plate.
So, I start taking deep breaths. I am not getting dragged out by orderlies! I try to stop panic-I mean, not panic, and we finally get upstairs to the burn unit, where the doctor has just left. Mother Fucker! No, Mother Fucking Cock Sucker! The nurse starts taking a history, "No, she doesn't have any previous injuries...no, she doesn't have any health problems...no, no allergies that we know of yet.. no, she doesn't have a history of mental illness, not unless you count the terrible two's.. NO, SHE DOES NOT HAVE ANY SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES!!! SHE'S TWO, GODDAMMIT, FIX HER FUCKING HAND!" And it broke me. I was going to panic, and get dragged out by my hair! I'm sorry pumpkin, Mommy's just a freak, it's ok. If you need me, I'll be in the locked ward down the hall.
But evidently that was the end of the stupid questions, and she took her into a sterile room, and peeled the skin off of her little tiny hand like a glove!! Let me write that again. She peeled the skin off of my two year old's hand like she was taking off a glove! I vomitted in the bag she gave me, and my daughter cried a little. A little. A tiny bit, a whimper more like. Wow, what a trouper, better than Mommy, that's for sure. Well, she had drugs to help her, but she still did a fantastic job! She gets a lollipop, her hand bandaged like a frog-face, and I get the fuck out of there, after making an appointment for the following day.
And I didn't panic. AT ALL! Vomitting doesn't count, right?
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