the ER

three minute read

mom is here…

I ran through the double sliding glass door into a waiting room full of sadness and sickness. I must have looked lost (although I'd been here many times before) and slightly crazed because the woman at the reception desk immediately asked who I was there for. I told her I was John's mom and he jumped up and put her head through a door behind her, simply saying, "Mom's here."

She turned back around and said the doctor would be right out. I'm not new to ER visits and knew that normally a nurse retrieves you from the waiting room - not a doctor. This made my stomach turn another knot and I paced and looked around, wishing I was there with one of the very sad and sick looking people sitting in battered, generic hospital waiting room chairs. Because I knew they were way better off than my son. 

When the doctor came through the doors that lead back to the ER rooms he looked grim and serious and said that he wanted to talk to me in a small conference-like room off to the left side of the hallway. My husband was still parking but I followed the doctor into the room and sat and tapped my legs up and down to keep myself from running down the hallway looking for John. My husband was finally escorted back to the little conference room and the doctor sat down next to me, lowered his head and rocked slightly forward on his knees. He drew an experienced breath, looked up, and asked what we knew. We explained that we knew John was here because he'd overdosed but that was all. The doctor nodded and gingerly asked, "Did you know this is the second time your son has been here this week?" I stared at him like he was a martian with three heads and was trying to process his question in my brain, which was already jumbled from the news I'd received an hour and a half ago. "What?" I asked flatly. I wasn't even sure I'd understood what he was saying. 

"John was here 48 hours ago, on Wednesday, also for an overdose." The doctor was purposefully talking slowly to let my brain catch up with the information he was giving us. "He OD'd on Fentanyl and Xanax. He made it through but he was here, and he also has a very serious case of pneumonia. I take it he didn't tell you?" By now my head was throbbing and I was wondering if this was one of my incredibly realistic dreams that happen on a regular basis - and are usually not happy, and often about John. My husband squeezing my hand tightly was my only clue that this was likely actually happening and that my son had now overdosed twice in three days. And I still didn't know if he was alive.

I shook my head no, but I don't think any words made it out of my mouth. The doctor didn't seem surprised that we didn't know about John's first overdose that week - how would we, he's an adult and apparently he had someone else pick him up when he was discharged from the ER. The only way I would eventually know is through the insurance claim that would come several weeks later. I'm grateful I did know, otherwise that Explanation of Benefits would have been a horrible shock to my system. 

The doctor nodded, took a deep breath and carefully told us that John had overdosed (again) on Fentanyl and Xanax, but was alive, and probably several other things, but all I heard was "alive" and my whole body shook and my husband squeezed my hand even harder. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would literally jump out of my chest. "He's not breathing on his own - the medics did CPR for 25 minutes and had to intubate him in the ambulance. The vent is breathing for him right now. It's touch and go, but you can see him - I just want to warn you about the tube, it doesn't look good." Unfortunately, because I have a friend who's son was in a tragic accident as a teenager I knew exactly what to expect and told the doctor I wanted to go see my boy.

John’s room was at the very end of the long ER hallway which was the definition of chaos. Friday night, almost 11 PM by now, the weekend was definitely kicked off and the hospital was responding. We got to John's room - it was huge and sterile with just one stretcher toward a back wall and lots of machines making lots of noises. I went in, heart still pumping like I'd just run a marathon. On the stretcher all I could see was Johns head - his mouth propped open by a clear plastic accordion-like tube that disappeared into his throat. The ventilator made a rhythmic sound when it sucked air in and pushed it out to fill his lungs. Some collection of machines were beeping in various tones and there were multiple IV bags hanging behind him. He looked like he could just be taking a nap except for the array of noisy machines connected to him and the cold hospital room setting. His hair looked longer than I'd expected but I hadn't seen him in over a month - we'd made plans several times to get together for breakfast or lunch but he'd either not showed up or canceled last minute.

I crossed the room and stood by the side of the stretcher just trying to comprehend what was going on. A surreal attempt to put logic or sanity to something that cannot make sense. Except for his head, the rest of John's addict-thin body was buried in layers of white blankets. A nurse who was orchestrating the numerous machines told me he was very cold when he was found so they were trying to warm him up to stop him from shivering. I don't remember if I cried or not, shock was probably setting in and I got as close as I could and bent over to kiss his forehead, squeezing my eyes and still hoping I was going to wake up. I immediately wanted to hold his hand and burrowed under the jumble of blankets and tubes until I found one - an IV poking out and tape covering most it. I curled his cold fingers around mine and started new prayers. Instead of prayers that he be alive, I asked that he somehow pull through this and have some sort of quality of life.