My Mom Got A Lousy Birthday Present

Happy New Year from Salem Hospital!

Yes, Salem Hospital, land of nine hour waits between doctor visits for non-life threatening emergencies. The gorgeous, wireless-signal blocking architecture. Grouchy admissions staff who are too busy being upset they have to work on New Year's Day to notice that the people they are admitting probably had better plans for the day too.

I kid sarcastically, but I'm glad they're only a fifteen minute drive away because my Mom couldn't have been driven much further and retained consciousness through all the pain.

About half an hour after calling her to see if she could sit for Oliver so that Amanda and I could go to a movie with our friends, she calls me back, crying, saying, 'I can't, I can't, I can't!' Wailing in pain, she tells me that she can't watch him after all because she's in so much pain.

Probing a little deeper, I ask what's wrong and find out she has excruciating pain down her left side and in her kidneys. Doubled over in agony, vomiting from the pain, the biggest emotion she has, by far, is the sadness that this means she won't get to come see her grandson today.

What a classy lady.

I kiss my wife goodbye and run to the car, driving faster than I should to pick her up. I make the ten minute drive to her house in about six minutes, where she is waiting at the door for me. I help her stagger to the car and buckle her in, and we drive off.

'Don't speed,' she whispers through the pain.

The drive is quick for me, most of the traffic lights being green, but it was a lifetime for poor Mom, doubled up in pain with eyes closed.

'I wish I was just in labor,' she says. 'Labor wasn't this bad.'

We arrive at the emergency room, where we approach the admissions desk. We are met with a vaguely appraising stare, which is attached to the face of a dowdy admissions nurse. Nurse Dowdy looks us up and down, this middle-aged woman leaning on her son for support, whispering, 'It hurts, it hurts, it hurts...' and shows the world why she is just an admissions nurse by asking, 'Need something?'

'Yes,' I say after punching her in my mind, 'we have some pretty intense pain in the kidneys and wondered if anyone could help with that.'

Nurse Dowdy is not impressed. 'Last name?' she asks.

We give her all the vital information, which she enters into her system with the speed of a DMV line. Her sole duty in life fulfilled, she raises her head from her computer screen and, compassionately, nods her head for me to turn around.

'Wheelchair,' she offers.

I smile my best, 'Maybe-your-son-wouldn't-care-about-you-but-I'm-a-little-worried-about-my-Mom' smile and thank her. Seating Mom in the chair, I tell our savior that I parked illegally outside to get her in here, and would like to move the car now. Nurse Dowdy says she'll take care of her and begins to wheel her away, behind The Swinging Doors. I return to the car and park at the nearest spot, which is only technically still in the Pacific Northwest, geographically. A quick seven-day journey back to the emergency room from the car, and a different nurse is taking Mom's blood pressure and asking her about her allergies.

We are admitted, and wheeled back to a room separated from the triage ward by a sturdy curtain. This room, we will soon discover, has been stripped of most of its comforts and supplies by other nurses.

"Salem Hospital: Where Someone Else Will Always Be Our Priority."

The nurse we get to help take care of Mom is actually very nice. Nurse Becky talks with my Mom about the joys of grandchildren between bouts of pain and does her best to accommodate Mom's general weirdness of conversation.

Over the next two hours, Nurse Becky and our doctor determine that Mom is passing a kidney stone. I present an excerpt from the conversation:

Doctor: 'Well, the good news is, the stone is almost done with its journey, so most of the pain is behind us.'

Mom (heavily medicated): 'Ooh, thaab gwoo.'

Doctor: 'The bad news is, there are still a few up there.'

Mom: 'Whhhhhh...'

Doctor: 'But they're much smaller than the one you just passed!'

Mom: 'Ahhhm.'

Doctor: 'Except for one of them. It's actually much bigger.'

Mom: (collapses in agony)

Some different medication was brought in by a different nurse, and it put her to sleep pretty quickly. The administering nurse must not have been paying close attention to my or Mom's face because she surprised me, as she was filling out some paperwork, by asking, 'You're the husband?'

'Excuse me?'

'I asked, are you her husband?'

Disbelievingly, all I can manage to say is, 'Son.'

'Oh! Well, yes, I guess you would be,' she stammers as she gets a closer look at our thirty years-separated, clearly related faces. 'Sorry. All I saw was the wedding band, and I...I assumed.'

'It's okay,' I answer, deciding that if a nurse is going to have such a large lapse in judgement, I was glad it was about our relation instead of accurate dosage or procedures.

After three hours, by far the shortest visit I've ever had to Salem Hospital (Where Even the Visitors Have to Work Eighteen Hour Shifts), we are excused and sent home with medication and strict cranberry juice requirements. Mom stays with us for the night in case of a relapse.

I bring her home and Amanda greets her with Oliver in her arms. Oliver smiles at Mom, then reaches out to grab her face.

'Thank you, little man. I needed that.'

She really did, too.

Happy birthday, Mom. Feel better.