(Excerpted with permission from Dr. Lance Fogan’s novel,
Dings)
Chapter
2
An elderly woman with bottle-blond hair
was sitting at a desk in the reception booth. The skin around her dark eyes and
throat was dry and wrinkled. She looked up from a magazine and opened the
Plexiglas window. “Oh, my! I’ll tell them inside that you’re here. Just let me get some information.” The
large round clock’s black hands on the wall behind her read twelve thirty-one.
“My son just had a convulsion. He’s
real sick. His temperature is over a hundred and three, almost a hundred and
four.” I turned my head and saw nurses in the emergency ward through glass
doors. “He needs a doctor! Now!”
“Yes. Just let me get some information
and then you’ll be able to go right in. They’re coming to get him.”
A gray-haired, unkempt woman dozed in a
maroon armchair along the wall on the other side of the room. She opened her
eyes, sat up straighter, dropped her hand from her cheek and addressed an empty
room: “Sure. Go ahead. Go ri-i-i-ght ahead. I’ve been waiting over an hour for
somebody to see me, and they just walk right in. For Christ’s sake, I’m sick,
too, you know! For crying out loud!” Her hoarse voice belied years of smoking.
I saw her sagging lower lip pull off to one side and her red, lower eyelids
drooped. Ivory-colored stuffing protruded through a small tear in the Naugahyde
where the woman had braced her elbow on the worn armrest. An unbuttoned cloth
coat hung loosely on her thin torso to expose an old pink housedress with small
blue roses printed all over it. Thick, flesh-colored stockings were rolled down
to her ankles and her puffy feet were stuffed into a pair of pink, terry-cloth
bedroom slippers.
Shut up! Shut up, won’t you? I snarled
to myself as I gritted my teeth and turned back to the receptionist.
The receptionist never looked up as she
wrote down my information. “Now, Mrs. Franklin, you can see this little boy is
real sick, with that bloody mouth and all. The doctor will see you soon. He
just took care of you two nights ago.”
I shifted from one foot to the other.
Conner slumped toward one side of the large wheel chair. I straightened him up.
“Can’t we go in yet? He needs the doctor, right now! It’s an emergency! Can’t
you see that?” What was she waiting for? What was she talking to that repulsive
old hag for? What was she doing?
The receptionist’s mouth twisted and
she was about to say something when doors whooshed open and a tall blond nurse
wearing tan scrubs came toward us. “I’ve got your little boy, Mrs. Golden.” She
took charge of the chair and wheeled Conner back through the automatic doors. I
took little skips alongside to keep up. I used one hand to support Conner in
the chair while my other hand tucked the blanket back around his body. Past
beds: old, pale-gray man upright in bed—clear plastic pronged-tubes plugged
under his nose—rapid breaths—hissing—eyes closed—youngish brunette woman
propped up on pillows reading magazine—dark red bag on a pole, dripping—needle
in her arm at end of red tubing.
The nurse called out, “Dr. Choy, we
need you.” Her voice was so much calmer than I expected. She wheeled Conner to
a bed covered with a gray blanket that spread out all tight and neat over crisp
white sheets. The pillow looked huge, full. Chrome side rails hung down. I
stood back and watched as another nurse came and they lifted Conner onto the
bed; one took his feet and the other held him under his arms.
The tall blond handed me our folded-up
blanket. “You’ll lose this if you don’t hang on to it. We’ll take care of him
now. You can wait there. We’ll just take a minute. The doctor on duty is Dr.
Choy. He’s coming.”
They left me standing outside as they
pulled cream-colored cloth curtains around Conner’s bed. I looked up when the
curtains squeaked on metal rods in a track on the ceiling. The curtains closed.
Bewildered and angry, I took a single step and stopped. I turned and surveyed the brightly lit
ward. Disinfectant and other hospital smells wafted into my senses. Nearby,
several nurses checked IV lines on poles, wrote in charts, or typed on
computers at the central desk station. Only three of the other eight beds in
the ward were occupied—all by adults. An elderly woman with blue-gray hair in
an unbuttoned tan coat sat next to the old man getting the oxygen through the
tube under his nose. I could make out black letters on the orange dust-jacket
of a closed book in her lap. I saw sensible low, thick-heeled black shoes. I
started to turn away but then our eyes met. She smiled. Compelled, I turned
back and returned the smile: perfunctory, superficial.
Now Conner was in one of these beds but
I was out here. I turned back and heard muffled words behind the curtain.
Before I could get what they were saying an Asian doctor was at my side chewing
on something.
“I’m Dr. Choy. I’m on duty tonight.
Mrs. Golden, right?”
“Yes, I am. Mrs. Golden. That’s right.
My son’s in there.” I jerked my head toward the curtain.
“Tell me what happened to Conner.
That’s his name, isn’t it?”
How’d he get that information? I hadn’t
seen anyone talking to him. A light-blue stethoscope draped around his
shoulders. Dr. Choy was about my height, stocky and clean-shaven with short,
straight dark hair. I saw no wedding band when he rubbed his nose. His right
index and middle fingers had deep yellowish-tan stains. He wore dark green
scrubs and had tan, wooden clogs on his feet. He must be American: he had no
accent.
“Yes. My son started with a cold
yesterday. He developed a real bad cough and was sneezing a lot. I took his
temperature less than an hour ago, I think.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “It
was a hundred and three point six. When I went to phone Dr. Jackson—he’s our
pediatrician—we heard this horrendous sound, this God-awful scream. We ran to
his bedroom and, my God, he was having a convulsion—at least that’s what my
husband thought it was. Conner was shaking and jerking all over. His mouth was
all bloody, too. I don’t know why. We drove here as fast as we could.”
He nodded. “It sounds like he had a
convulsion but it seems to be over now. I’ll examine him and then I think we’ll
be getting a head CT scan in addition to routine lab work. It will show if
there’s anything in his brain that could cause the seizure. Let’s go into the
conference room where we can sit down, Mrs. Golden.” There was an odd movement
when he spoke—his cheeks puffed out in a funny, quick, disturbing way after every
few words. It was peculiar, really odd. I’d never seen anyone do that.
“You think there could be something in
his head then? Like a tumor, or something, Doctor?”
“We usually don’t find a tumor, Mrs.
Golden, and that’s a fact.” He shook his head. “But I have to make sure that
there’s nothing serious going on, especially with his fever. It’s just a
routine test we do when people have a seizure.” He smiled wide and his eyes
narrowed; their sides wrinkled up.
His comment made me feel a little more
at ease. Maybe whatever was wrong with Conner wasn’t that serious.
I spotted Sam and Madison crossing the
large rectangular emergency ward. Sam had put Madison in the stroller that we
kept folded in the SUV. I waved with a side-to-side, jerking motion. He walked
toward us. Madison’s head turned from side to side. She watched the nurses and
sucked on her Binky. Sam took a deep breath. He looked pitiful as he peeked
through the opening of Conner’s curtain. I could see through the slight
opening, too. Conner was on his side: a gray blanket partially exposed his pale
back and bottom, and a nurse was taking his rectal temperature. An IV line had
already been inserted near Conner’s left elbow. It had some white bandages over
it and his arm was stretched out, taped to some kind of board.
“Sam, this is Dr. Choy. He said he’s
going to do a brain scan on Conner, and some other tests.” My voice sounded
higher-pitched than usual. I trembled inside. “The doctor said that the scan
will show if there’s any serious problem inside Conner’s head. But they usually
don’t find anything.” I left out “tumor.” The less I thought “tumor,” the less
chance there would be one. That’s how I manage tough, confusing situations:
don’t think about it. Magical thinking helps.
Madison squirmed in the stroller and
reached up to me. I lifted the toddler and held her close.
“There, there, honey. Mommy’s got you.”
I patted her hair and kissed the top of her head. I breathed in that scent. Mom
used the same baby shampoo on me and it always took me back to that time
whenever I smelled it on her. Madison
rested her head on my shoulder and sucked on the pacifier like nobody’s
business. She clutched her stuffed giraffe to her chest. Her head dropped to
the crook of my neck. I smoothed her hair and kissed her ear. I shifted my
weight from one foot to the other as I held her, a little dance that usually
soothed her.
The men shook hands. “Yes, Mr. Golden.
I’m Dr. Choy. How are you? Your wife just told me what happened. I’ll be taking
care of your son.”
I saw a tiny particle of white rice fly
out of the doctor’s mouth. I also detected the pungent aroma of garlic and
ginger coming from somewhere.
Sam’s eyes looked at the ID tag pinned
to the doctor’s scrub shirt: SAMUEL CHOY, M.D., Ph.D., Emergency Medicine. His
gaze fixed on an open pack of cigarettes bulging from the pocket behind that
tag. He looked up into Dr. Choy’s face. That look—that near-sneer that had
become too familiar in our home—said everything. How did Sam ever get along in
Iraq? So many soldiers smoked.
The doctor didn’t miss his expression,
either; it seemed like he temporarily lost his train of thought. Dr. Choy
stared for a second. Then he looked down, cleared his throat and turned his
attention back to me as a nurse slid open the curtain around Conner’s bed.
Conner was on his back now. The gray blanket covered him up to his chest. He
seemed to be in a deep sleep, breathing softly. The blood was gone from around
his mouth, thank God.
“He’s ready for you now, Doctor,” she
said. “I’ll get his vitals into the computer. They’re normal, except his rectal
temp is one hundred and one point six. The five-percent IV D and W are going in
at a slow drip.”
Our eyes met. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She smiled and touched my hand as she and her colleague walked past us toward
the nurses’ station.
Sam looked pale. He gripped the back of
a chair. His jaws clenched when Dr. Choy said, “Mr. Golden, a little while ago
your wife described what happened to Conner at home. It sounded to me like he
had a grand mal seizure.” I clasped Sam’s hand. The doctor turned his head and
looked at an open door of a nearby room. “Here, why don’t we sit down? We can
go into the conference room.” He took a step forward. “Has Conner ever had one
before?”
Sam
and I looked at each other but before he could answer, I interjected, “No,
Doctor. I—we—want to be where we can see Conner. Can’t we stay here? No. He’s
never had a seizure; of course not!”
I
saw the doctor’s eyebrows pull up and his eyes opened wider after I said that.
I realized I had shouted that. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m a bit upset and
topsy-turvy now. No, Conner’s never had anything like this before.”
I saw this calm demeanor that doctors
acquire. His face relaxed. He directed a slight smile at me, accompanied by
several little nods. “Okay. We wouldn’t be far away but I understand that you
want to stay close to your son. We’ve done vitals on him and drawn some blood
for tests. We’re also collecting urine and I’ve started him on a medication
that should prevent any more seizures.”
Medicine! What medicine?
Without seeming to pause for breath,
“The CT scan will be done in a little while. The scanner is in the radiology
department down the hall. They’ll come for him shortly. It’ll only take a few
minutes. It could tell us why he had this seizure.”
Why he had this seizure? We would know
that…right now…good...
“Your son has a moderate fever; his
temperature has come down a bit from what you said it was. Now, please tell me
everything that happened before you brought your little boy in.”
“Well, Doctor, as I said, Conner was
sneezing last night. He was coughing a lot, too, and...” I told him everything.
I know I sounded rushed, and I kept looking at Conner as we all stood next to
his bed. Conner was on his back with his eyes closed; the IV dripped a clear
liquid into his arm. A clouded plastic bag hung from the side of his bed and
pale, yellow urine ran into it from a clear tube coming out from under the
sheet covering him. “Is that tube stuck
inside my son’s bladder? That’ll hurt, Doctor. Why’d you have to do that?”
“No, Mrs. Golden. Don’t worry. The tube
is not inside his bladder. It’s a condom catheter stuck onto the end of his
penis. Urine will just come out naturally. No, nothing’s inside him. So, what
happened?”
Sam blinked hard a couple of times and
wrapped his arm around my waist. His cheeks bulged as his jaws clenched.
Dr.
Choy glanced at Sam, and then he leaned over and coughed into his fist.
“Sorry.” He looked at me and smiled. “We’re going to take good care of your
son. He’s going to be all right. Seizures are quite common and they’re not
always serious. Conner can be perfectly fine afterward.” There were those funny
little blowing cheek puffs again between his words.
The doctor coughed again and covered
his mouth with yellow-stained fingers. He cleared his throat and stepped away
from Conner’s bed. “Why don’t we all sit down in our conference room while the
scan is being done? I need to ask you more questions about your son’s medical
history.”
Sam and I nodded. Conner seemed
comfortable now. Dr. Choy escorted us to the conference room just steps from my
son’s bed. He waited at the doorway and extended his arm to usher us inside. I
carried Madison and Sam pushed the empty stroller into the room.
“Would your little girl like some milk
or juice?”
“No thank you, Doctor. She just needs
to sleep. I would like to take her to the bathroom. She’s potty-trained but I
don’t want to over-test her. Where is it?”
I put the blanket that I had been
holding
down in the stroller, excused myself
and carried Madison to the bathroom. My soles squeaked on the linoleum floor. I
set her on the toilet and waited. The mirror reflected my drawn and worried
expression: my muddled auburn pageboy, cut off above my shoulders; my brown
eyes, pink from shed tears, starkly contrasted with my clear, pale complexion.
I wondered if that old rash would break out again with all this stress. The
taste of pasta salad from supper came up in the back of my throat. I tucked my
blouse back into my slacks and pulled down my sweatshirt. I really have to lose
these extra fifteen pounds... “That’s
a good girl, Madison, honey,” and I pushed the flush handle. We washed our
hands.
We passed Conner’s bed. It looked like
he hadn’t moved. The IV dripped and it seemed like his urine bag was filling up.
In the conference room, I sat Madison back in the stroller, eased the back down
and covered her with the blanket. She closed her eyes and rhythmically sucked
on her pacifier. She was fast asleep.
Sam and the doctor sat opposite each
other at the rectangular wooden table. There were four dark, hard-back wooden
chairs on each side and one chair at either end. I sat beside Sam across from
the open door. I wanted to see Conner. Madison slept in her stroller behind me
next to the wall.
Dr. Choy chuckled and slid several
containers of Chinese-takeout to the other end of the table. Their top flaps
winged upward and a set of wooden chopsticks stuck out of one of the white
boxes. The containers featured drawings of vicious-looking dragons with open
mouths and Chinese writing in bright red. “I’m sorry. I was having my lunch
when you arrived.” He smiled. The pungent aromas of garlic and ginger filled
the air.
Sam smiled back. I set my mouth in a
grim line. I could barely see the foot end of Conner’s bed.
I noticed red blood splotches on my
sweatshirt’s right shoulder where Conner’s bloody mouth had touched it in the
car. As I looked down at it, Dr. Choy said, “You can get that spot out pretty
easily, Mrs. Golden. Just dab milk on it. That’s a trick I learned from nurses
early in my training. It works every time. The milk enzymes break down the
blood cells.” He had a broad smile with great looking teeth, sparkling almost.
“That sounds like a neat trick. I’ll
try it.”
Conner’s nurse appeared in the doorway.
She briefly surveyed our little group and announced, “CT can take him now, Dr.
Choy.”
“Good. I’ll finish the physical exam
when he gets back. It looks like he won’t need any sedation; he’s still postictal.”
Postictal? I raised my brow and looked
at Sam.
Dr. Choy picked up on my quizzical
expression. “That means that Conner is still in a stupor, Mrs. Golden. It’s
routine after a convulsion. He’ll sleep, probably for a few hours. He won’t
remember most of this when he wakes up. The radiology department will finish
with his scan in a few minutes. After they bring him back I’ll take a look at
it.” He alternated his gaze between Sam and me. I liked him. He explained
things.
The second
half of Chapter 2 will appear in a future blog.
Lance Fogan, M.D. is Clinical Professor of Neurology at the David Geffen School of Medicine at UCLA. “DINGS” is his first novel. It is a mother’s dramatic story that teaches epilepsy, now available in eBook, audiobook and soft cover editions.
