BY TRACY BECKERMAN
Trips to the emergency room are one of those things that seem to be a parenthood’s right of passage.
Whether it is sports-, playground- or sibling-induced, the end result is usually the same: Three hours in the ER, crutches or stitches, and then a stop at the ice cream parlor for the kids and a glass of merlot for the mom.
We have already had our fair share of visits to the hospital in the past, so you think I would have known the drill the day I got a call from the school nurse telling me my daughter had hurt her wrist.
Of course, this was one of those days when I had 10 things to do and four hours to do them in.
But it is a law of the universe that a crisis always happens at the worst possible time.
However, my daughter needed an X-ray. The problem was I needed to be at a store before 5 o’clock to pick up a dress she was wearing to a big event that weekend. After 5 p.m., the store would be closed until Monday.
It was 1 p.m.; the store was an hour away; the clock was ticking.
"Which one of you is the patient?" asked the check-in lady in the ER.
Let’s see. There was me, standing there somewhat calmly and seemingly in good health. Then there was my daughter, crying and moaning with her arm in a sling.
I could see how it would be difficult to tell which of us needed medical attention.
"Her," I said, pointing to the girl with her arm in the sling.
"And what seems to be the problem?" asked the observant lady.
"Um, she hurt her arm."
She looked at the arm and then took my daughter’s temperature because, you know, even with the whole sling thing, it still must not have been clear to her whether my daughter was actually sick or injured.
After filling out 10,000 forms and then getting a quick X-ray, we were led into a small room to wait for the results.
Three hours later, we are still waiting.
Now my daughter was calm, and I was the one who was losing my mind.
I looked at my watch; it was 4:10.
Throwing down the hospital’s 2-year-old copy of Dollhouse magazine I’d been reading for three hours, I stormed out into the hallway.
"It’s a good thing I’m in a hospital," I bellowed, "Because I’m going to have a HEART ATTACK if I’m not out of here in five minutes."
Five sets of eyes looked up at me from the nurse’s station. I stood huffing and puffing with my hands on my hips.
They went back to work.
But then, over the loudspeaker, a voice came on.
"Paging Dr. Couldn’t Careless. We have an irate mother in Room 5."
Within moments, a doctor appeared, read the X-ray, gave us the all-clear, and sent us on our hurried way.
As we ran down the hall, I happened to glance into one of the other rooms and noticed anther mom from my daughter’s school.
"Hey, what’s going?" I shouted into the room.
"My son fell on the playground," she said, gesturing to a bored-looking child on the bed with his arm in a sling.
"We’ve been waiting for an X-ray for three hours!"
I looked around, pulled her off to the side, and whispered in her ear.
"You might want to mention that you have to pick up a dress in 15 minutes."
