There’s nothing like it.
The crisp scent of ammonia in the morning.
The precious squeak of white shoes on linoleum.
The fluorescent lights and the beeping machines. Nothing says vacation like the emergency room.
And this year, instead of wasting time with pedestrian trappings like sand castles or sailboats we simply unloaded the suitcases and the children and were on our way.
If you remember Jack Nickolson in Something’s Gotta Give,
then you’ve got a pretty good idea of how our first few nights at the beach went down.
We loaded up for the big road trip as planned, last Tuesday. The only addition to the car load of snacks, bathing suits and t-shirts was a bottle of ibuprofen for Dave’s unusual fever and stomach pain. Funny thing; his appendix, which burst somewhere between Iowa and Wisconsin, didn’t slow him down a bit. He sill managed a week’s worth of driving, basketball, jump rope and kickball games on the road out east.
The CT Scan tech asked me if he had a high tolerance for pain. I think he just hates the idea of missing a game.
Understandably, Dave didn’t sleep well the night of the surgery, but it was not the beeping machines or the nurses in and out of his room demanding vitals that he blamed. No, it was the screams of “STOP HIM HE’S GOING TO JUMP!” and “SOMEONE CALL THE ER, HE’S JUMPING!” that kept him up.
Turns out that one of the druggies from detox decided he’d had enough of the cafeteria food and thought he’d sail off into the sunset instead. Hard to blame him considering the tantalizing view from the hospital windows.
Don’t get any ideas, dear husband. My only wish is that you mend well and come back to me and then, I promise, we will sail off into the sunset together.