PoetTree
10-18-2011, 12:21 PM
You'd think the hospital would be a quiet place at 3 AM on a Sunday night. You'd expect to hear the quiet hush-hush of exhaling oxygen machines, the soft squeak of nurses' shoes on the linoleum floor, and, if you listen closely enough, perhaps the watery burble of the exotic fish tank by the receptionist's desk.
Which is why I am surprised when the sliding doors open to reveal the bright and bustling ER. The receptionist is talking on the phone, but she looks me up and down with a keen, practiced eye, noting the bloody dishtowel pressed to my brow, and my swelling lip. She leans over the desk to peer at Grace, who is still dreaming in her carseat. Satisified that neither of us are likely to die before we've filled out the proper paperwork, she thrusts a clipboard across the desk.
I grab it with my free hand and turn to the bank of plastic chairs against the wall. There are a few other people waiting, and none look up at me. We're a sorry lot all, ashamed of what indulgence or folly has landed us here at this hour. I set Grace's carseat on the ground beside me, and rock her gently with my foot as I fill out the pages. I don't know how she can sleep beneath these glaring lights, the buzz of intercom announcements, the wail of an approaching ambulance… but then, she's used to sleeping through noise, shouting, sobbing. She's a good baby.
I wait meekly until a nurse calls my name (must she say it so loudly?) and follow her down the hall to a tiny room with two cots. One is occupied by a middle-aged woman, dozing or unconscious. The stale odor of booze permeates the air. The nurse opens a drawer and hands me a paper gown. "Undress fully and put this on. The doctor will see you in a few minutes."
I stiffen, holding tighter to Grace's carseat. "No," I say, too emphatically. The nurse raises one eyebrow. I lower my voice. "No, it's just this cut. It won't stop bleeding."
The nurse sighs, then says gently, "Are you sure there's nothing else, honey?" I swallow tears and shake my head. She stands quiet for a moment, waiting. She sighs again and leaves the room, and I try to ignore the humiliation spreading thick over me. I glance at Grace; her pink lips puckering, sipping at a dream-bottle. She's a beautiful baby.
The doctor comes in without knocking, frowns when he sees I'm still dressed. I hastily explain that it's only the cut I need him to look at. He doesn't speak as he puts on a pair of gloves, then rolls a stool to the cot. He turns on an overhead lamp, then motions for me to remove the towel. He examines the cut for a moment, then asks how I got it. I'm ready for this.
"I was vacuuming, and tripped on the cord and fell," I report with conviction.
The doctor gives me a sad smile. "You were vacuuming at two in the morning?"
I swallow, nod. "It helps Grace sleep. She likes the white noise," I explain. This is mortifying.
"Uh-huh," he says neutrally. "And what did you land on?"
"The trashcan," I reply promptly. "A metal wastebasket."
He gives me the sad smile again, then asks softly, "What else?"
I hesitate, unsure of what he means. "What else?"
"What else did you land on? The trashcan cut your forehead; what happened to your mouth?" He's palpating my lip with skilled fingers, lifting it to investigate the underside.
"Toys," I say when he's finished. "Grace's toys."
He looks down at Grace for the first time, and I feel like smacking that sad smile off his face. "She's fine," I say sharply.
His expression turns cool. "Most people would pick up the toys before they begin vacuuming," he says. His voice is condescending and it pisses me off. Anger is good. It strengthens my resolve, and I sit up straight.
I ignore his remark. "I thought it might need stitches," I say.
"You thought right," he says, and proceeds to silently sew me up. I gaze at Grace and try to empty my mind of everything but her, try to soak up the peace that follows her like a cloud. The doctor finishes up, removes his gloves, and says, "I'll have the nurse print up your discharge papers, along with some information about how to care for your stitches. Meanwhile, I'd like to send someone in to talk with you for a moment." I shake my head vigorously, but he's already out the door. Damn, damn, damn. I consider picking Grace up and just leaving, but decide that would just bring more attention to myself. Besides, they know my name, my address, my phone number…
I'm relieved to see a plump, tidy woman enter, I was half-expecting a cop. She perches primly on the doctor's stool and says, "Hello, dear. I'm Annie, and I'm a social worker. I'd like to speak to you about what happened tonight." She pauses, waiting to see if I have some dark secret to confess. Nope. She tries a different tact: "What a darling baby! How old is she?"
"Nine months," I say, crossing my arms. I remember that I'm angry.
She leans down and strokes Grace's cheek. Stupid woman, everyone knows you shouldn't mess with a sleeping baby. "Are you married?" she asks. I nod. Snoopy old bat. She sees I'm not going to budge and comes out with it. "The doctor has some concerns about your injuries," she begins.
We both know where this is going, and I'm not going there. I interrupt her. "He's printing out aftercare information," I say. We sit silently, sizing each other up. I know that she knows. She knows that I know she knows. And there's nothing left to say.
Finally she rises, hands me a card. "My number," she says simply. I accept it, wait for her to leave before I stand and gather up Grace.
The woman in the other cot stirs, raising a head that wobbles on thin shoulders. "What the hell happened to you?" she asks. I've had enough of this place. I toss out the social worker's card as I leave the room. I pick up my papers at the counter and walk through the sliding doors, into the still night, speckled with stars. We'll sleep in the car tonight, but Grace is cozy in her carseat, she won't mind.
She's a good baby.
Which is why I am surprised when the sliding doors open to reveal the bright and bustling ER. The receptionist is talking on the phone, but she looks me up and down with a keen, practiced eye, noting the bloody dishtowel pressed to my brow, and my swelling lip. She leans over the desk to peer at Grace, who is still dreaming in her carseat. Satisified that neither of us are likely to die before we've filled out the proper paperwork, she thrusts a clipboard across the desk.
I grab it with my free hand and turn to the bank of plastic chairs against the wall. There are a few other people waiting, and none look up at me. We're a sorry lot all, ashamed of what indulgence or folly has landed us here at this hour. I set Grace's carseat on the ground beside me, and rock her gently with my foot as I fill out the pages. I don't know how she can sleep beneath these glaring lights, the buzz of intercom announcements, the wail of an approaching ambulance… but then, she's used to sleeping through noise, shouting, sobbing. She's a good baby.
I wait meekly until a nurse calls my name (must she say it so loudly?) and follow her down the hall to a tiny room with two cots. One is occupied by a middle-aged woman, dozing or unconscious. The stale odor of booze permeates the air. The nurse opens a drawer and hands me a paper gown. "Undress fully and put this on. The doctor will see you in a few minutes."
I stiffen, holding tighter to Grace's carseat. "No," I say, too emphatically. The nurse raises one eyebrow. I lower my voice. "No, it's just this cut. It won't stop bleeding."
The nurse sighs, then says gently, "Are you sure there's nothing else, honey?" I swallow tears and shake my head. She stands quiet for a moment, waiting. She sighs again and leaves the room, and I try to ignore the humiliation spreading thick over me. I glance at Grace; her pink lips puckering, sipping at a dream-bottle. She's a beautiful baby.
The doctor comes in without knocking, frowns when he sees I'm still dressed. I hastily explain that it's only the cut I need him to look at. He doesn't speak as he puts on a pair of gloves, then rolls a stool to the cot. He turns on an overhead lamp, then motions for me to remove the towel. He examines the cut for a moment, then asks how I got it. I'm ready for this.
"I was vacuuming, and tripped on the cord and fell," I report with conviction.
The doctor gives me a sad smile. "You were vacuuming at two in the morning?"
I swallow, nod. "It helps Grace sleep. She likes the white noise," I explain. This is mortifying.
"Uh-huh," he says neutrally. "And what did you land on?"
"The trashcan," I reply promptly. "A metal wastebasket."
He gives me the sad smile again, then asks softly, "What else?"
I hesitate, unsure of what he means. "What else?"
"What else did you land on? The trashcan cut your forehead; what happened to your mouth?" He's palpating my lip with skilled fingers, lifting it to investigate the underside.
"Toys," I say when he's finished. "Grace's toys."
He looks down at Grace for the first time, and I feel like smacking that sad smile off his face. "She's fine," I say sharply.
His expression turns cool. "Most people would pick up the toys before they begin vacuuming," he says. His voice is condescending and it pisses me off. Anger is good. It strengthens my resolve, and I sit up straight.
I ignore his remark. "I thought it might need stitches," I say.
"You thought right," he says, and proceeds to silently sew me up. I gaze at Grace and try to empty my mind of everything but her, try to soak up the peace that follows her like a cloud. The doctor finishes up, removes his gloves, and says, "I'll have the nurse print up your discharge papers, along with some information about how to care for your stitches. Meanwhile, I'd like to send someone in to talk with you for a moment." I shake my head vigorously, but he's already out the door. Damn, damn, damn. I consider picking Grace up and just leaving, but decide that would just bring more attention to myself. Besides, they know my name, my address, my phone number…
I'm relieved to see a plump, tidy woman enter, I was half-expecting a cop. She perches primly on the doctor's stool and says, "Hello, dear. I'm Annie, and I'm a social worker. I'd like to speak to you about what happened tonight." She pauses, waiting to see if I have some dark secret to confess. Nope. She tries a different tact: "What a darling baby! How old is she?"
"Nine months," I say, crossing my arms. I remember that I'm angry.
She leans down and strokes Grace's cheek. Stupid woman, everyone knows you shouldn't mess with a sleeping baby. "Are you married?" she asks. I nod. Snoopy old bat. She sees I'm not going to budge and comes out with it. "The doctor has some concerns about your injuries," she begins.
We both know where this is going, and I'm not going there. I interrupt her. "He's printing out aftercare information," I say. We sit silently, sizing each other up. I know that she knows. She knows that I know she knows. And there's nothing left to say.
Finally she rises, hands me a card. "My number," she says simply. I accept it, wait for her to leave before I stand and gather up Grace.
The woman in the other cot stirs, raising a head that wobbles on thin shoulders. "What the hell happened to you?" she asks. I've had enough of this place. I toss out the social worker's card as I leave the room. I pick up my papers at the counter and walk through the sliding doors, into the still night, speckled with stars. We'll sleep in the car tonight, but Grace is cozy in her carseat, she won't mind.
She's a good baby.