THUNK…and no cry. I thought that sounded like a child fallen but there isn’t a sound so I must be wrong. Then Mark calls for me to come because it WAS a child, Elijah fell from the top bunk. “Mercy, mercy, Jesus, have mercy on my baby.” He is unconscious, slowly coming to, not breathing, then gasping, no crying, limp. I undress him to see if there is visible injury while Mark calls a taxi to the hospital. Elijah just lies there, motionless, grimacing, ashen. Mark takes the kids to the neighbor’s house and we wait. We wait. He pulls out our battery powered pulse oximeter and Elijah’s oxygyen levels are a little low, better when I’m holding him then when he is lying flat on the bed. No bones protrude, he moves fingers and toes, turns his head. He whimpers but is mostly silent and dazed. We Wait and pray. I dress him. We WAIT and keep praying. Finally the taxi arrives and the jolly driver assures us that our boy is fine, that all kids fall and are fine, but he’ll take us if we really want to go to the hospital.
We wind up and down the mountains. I’m used to the slow pace of congested one lane roads, but this is the first time the reality of it being an unchangeable pace hits me. There IS no faster way to get there. Elijah vomits all over me and himself, then seems to sleep, lying in our stew of bile and dinner. We open a precious packet of American baby wipes and I grab handfuls of the chunks of and throw them out the open windows, hopefully missing the pedestrians and motorcyclists around us. The driver knows a shortcut, we hope this is a shortcut up a tiny dark lane. We arrive at the hospital about an hour after he fell, jump out, and enter the waiting area of the Emergency Room, thankful we read Hindi so we know where to go. Of course the dark cement cavern is full of the usual: blankets set out on which families are eating, sleeping, chatting while waiting to know the fate of a loved one, and interested in what brings us into their world.
For a moment I forget it’s 2011 and I am a mother of four. My mind relives something that happened 12 years ago. We were in Norpur and I was very sick with a croup-like illness that threatened to close my throat. We rushed back about 10hr from Norpur to get to this very hospital, saw a young resident who wanted to give me some cough medicine, which I didn’t need. After begging for a simple nebulizer treatment and being refused repeatedly and ignored we instead got a nearby hotel room and my brand new RN husband ran around town to get our own nebulizer and meds and lovingly and effectively treated me in the hotel. Back into this current event, tears rush into my eyes and I blink them away, praying and hoping for better for my boy, heavy in my arms.
We skip the preliminary empty windows and barge into the ER where there are maybe 30 gurneys with people on them crammed into a smallish room. The Resuscitation Room door is closed with ominous sounds filtering out of it. A nurse redirects us out to get our paper before being seen, so Mark goes for that while I hold our boy and wait. We are quickly seen by a very professional and competent doctor who examines Elijah and orders a head CT, chest X-Ray, and abdominal ultrasound. We have to pay for these tests before we can proceed, so Mark does that, and it costs about $9 for everything. Heartbreaking to think of a family not being able to afford that and then being excluded from care. Then, in the midst of all his busy-ness, the doctor takes time to walk us to Radiology and tells the radiologist to take good care of us, a very thoughtful touch that means a lot to us. We sit in a row of chairs and I chuckle, noticing the cement wall behind each chair has a grimy outline of a head, wish I had a camera for this! They see us quickly and after positioning Elijah they let me hold his hand and stand there…even during the X-ray. No lead aprons here and the door to the hall is wide open. The X-ray is normal, thank you, Lord.
They send someone with us to guide us into the bowels of the building (how is there a huge blood spatter on the inside of the light on the elevator ceiling?!) where we wait on a broken bench behind which there is a suspicious latrine smell that is even stronger than the stench of vomit all over me and Elijah. Just in front of us they wheel a dead person sewn into a coarse blanket, a plastic bag of his personals next to him: boots, umbrella, half empty water bottle. Other live patients also wait for the ultrasound, a lady writhing in pain on a gurney, tossing off her blanket (you must bring your own everything here). We take off our shoes and enter a neat, small office to get the ultrasound, normal again, thank you, Lord. Elijah asks when we can go home.
Now we go down several more flights of stairs and wait outside the CT room for the ultrasound doctor to finish doing ultrasounds and then come and put on his CT doctor hat. Elijah snuggles into my lap, covered with a blanket because the open door lets in a lovely cool breeze, then falls sound asleep while we wait and pray, I feel nauseous from the adrenaline and the stench. The ultrasound turned CT doctor comes, opens the office, and Elijah is sound asleep for careful positioning on the CT machine, a gift of grace to make this a bit more peaceful. We do have to wait outside for this one, then we retrieve our still sleeping boy. CT is normal too, thank you, Lord!
We return to the ER where we are supposed to consult with the Surgery Resident. While we wait for her to return from wherever she has gone there is much to watch. A nurse tells an elderly man to take a seat on a single bed where there are already two people lying down. Then she gives him a big injection right in his vein instead of running an IV; he doesn’t keel over as I half expect. A young lady’s face is half burnt and she has other burn wounds. The traction for her foot is a brick cleverly tied on with gauze, dangling off the end of her bed, and we wonder if they sent the family out to scrounge up a brick for traction or if it’s included in their medical fees. It is crowded in here, the air is thick, and I can hardly even smell our throw-up. I overhear someone I don’t think we know telling a patient a summary of our life story: where we live, that we have other kids, etc. The Surgical Resident is pleased to see normal results and her only suggestion is to wake Elijah up and give him some dinner. We are so relieved that he is unharmed.
We go out to the front gate and get a taxi to go home. The driver turns up his local music as high as it will go and we just grin and bear it. This is one of those rides like I haven’t had in a while when I wonder if we’ll stay on the road. I figure if God spared Elijah’s life from a fall tonight, then probably his days to live aren’t up yet, which I’m hoping means we WILL stay on the road rather than fall off of it. About 30min walk (10 min drive) from our house I seriously contemplate begging Mark to make the car stop and let us walk the rest of the way. Concern for our other children, fear of wild dogs, and it being close to midnight keep my lips sealed and we screech home safely.
Mark collects our sleeping children (all curled up with our sweet neighbors) while I give a quick call to my parents (Elijah wants to talk too) and then shower to scrub off the various bodily fluids from this event and grime from the hospital. I am so grateful to wash chubby toes that are ticklish, attached to sturdy legs that support weight, and a sweet round belly that jiggles when he giggles. My baby can stand, sit, make his usual silly jokes. So many things I haven’t really seen in a while for the gifts that they are. I hope that in the days to come I can carry with me just how priceless these small acts are and have eyes to see many more.
