No. 3: In the Emergency Room

searching for symbolism amidst the madness

NOTE: I had planned to write about something else this week. But then something happened that I need to write my way through. So, okay <deep breath> let’s go.

Island by Aykut Aydogdu

Years ago, at the tailend of a former life, I stood at a crossroads. I knew things weren’t working out the way that I wanted them to, but I didn’t know yet if I should keep pushing or change course—and, if the latter, what my options were. So, I did what the women in my family do when they find themselves in a similar situation: I met with a psychic.

The psychic (who has since become my psychic, and somewhat of a family friend) said several things that day that stuck with me—about my career trajectory, a geographical move that I hadn’t yet considered, and this: “What happened to your legs?”

“What?” I asked, startled. “What do you mean?”

“Something’s wrong with your legs.”

“No.” I looked down. “My legs are fine.”

“Hm. Okay.” She shrugged and changed topics.

At the time, I was in rehearsals for a theatrical production. It was a series of original shorts that my theater company had produced, and I was in two of them—one as the lead, and one in a minor role. In the first, I played a pregnant woman whose husband was having an affair. As part of my costume, I made a pregnant belly out of papier mâché and wore it beneath a dress. I spent hours walking around, adjusting the way I carried myself to accommodate my new silhouette, my imaginary weight. It felt so foreign, so strange.

One night, during a live performance, I was backstage between plays. I’d removed my pregnant belly, and changed into my second character’s costume. I stood barefoot on the carpeted floor, waiting until the last minute to step into the heels I’d wear on stage. The show was in full swing, but I was nearly done—just a few easy lines stood between me and a styrofoam cup of the room-temp jug wine we all drank to wind down at the end of the night. A colleague said something to me, and I turned to respond. My entire body turned except for my left knee.

Searing, blinding pain shot through me. I crumpled into a heap on the floor. Someone grabbed me from behind, and tried to cover my eyes—but it was too late. I saw my knee cap hanging in a hammock of loose skin, floating, dislocated.

I went into shock as someone called 911; as someone else said something (who knows what??) to the audience, confused in their seats. I don’t remember screaming, but was later told the sound could be heard from the parking lot. The sound of my screams.

Bad knees run in my family. Both my father and sister had dislocated theirs before. It had never happened to me, but I knew through their experiences that it needed to be reset ASAP. But the paramedics said they weren’t legally allowed to do that. All they could offer was a brace (that hurt like hell) and a ride to the emergency room (which I refused because I knew I couldn’t afford it; a friend at the company drove me.) By the time we reached Hollywood Presbyterian, the brace had nudged my kneecap back into place—but the delay allowed a lot of fluid to build up, creating problems, prolonging my recovery.

As I lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by a curtain and the sounds of late-night trauma, I heard it—my psychic’s voice, as clear as a bell: “What happened to your legs? Something’s wrong with your legs.”

That was my first trip to the ER. My second happened the following night, after my roommate’s car was totaled with me in the passenger seat. She was driving me back to the theater so I could collect my things (since I was obviously no longer in the play) and someone else ran a red light. Two nights in a row, I had to call my parents and say: “I’m okay, but I’m in the hospital. I’m okay. But.”

My third trip to the ER happened a few months later, when I ignored a UTI (because I was in another play; I didn’t have time to go to a doctor!) and it progressed into a kidney infection that shut down my body (and the play.) Friends at the company began to call me Calamity Jane, and I began to listen—not to them, but to myself.

I hadn’t yet made the decision to walk away from my acting career; from the thing I’d been wanting and working toward since I was 7 years old. But my body knew it was time. Each time I stubbornly chose the option to push through, my body (just as stubbornly) pulled me back; told me no; forced me to change course.

This is only part of the story of how I wound up in Colorado; how I wound up meeting my husband. When we first started dating, I was still reeling from the aftermath of a toxic relationship (or two, or three…) and was terrified of yet another going south. He was sure of us, but I wasn’t—and that discrepancy made me worry that we weren’t right for one another. But then, 8 months in, he was diagnosed with leukemia. It didn’t happen in an emergency room, but the following 3 ½ years of his recovery (and chemo’s countless side effects) took us to many, across several states—the most memorable being the one in Upstate New York, where we willingly surrendered our turn to an Amish guy who’d chopped off his hand. (His friend was carrying it, wrapped in cloth. There was so much blood.) And along the way, I saw that I’d finally (finally!) found someone who didn’t let the darkness win. Someone who didn’t run, or fall apart, or self-medicate into oblivion when faced with hard things. We celebrated the end of his cancer treatment by getting married—and two years later, after being told by multiple doctors that said cancer treatment would prevent us from doing so, we had our son.

This (and a million other things) brings us to last Sunday. Jason had been gone for several nights, and Arlo (in typical Covid Baby fashion) was cranky about it, but we’d survived. I was exhausted, but the weekend was over, Arlo was in bed at his usual time, and Jason was due back later that night. Everything would be back to normal.

I stepped out of the shower around 8pm and glanced at the baby monitor, mostly out of sheer habit. Arlo had a slight cold, but nothing alarming. When I saw that he was sitting up and coughing, I threw on a robe and headed down the hall, thinking I’d give him a sip of water and adjust his blanket. But when I entered his room, I found him choking and wheezing, struggling to breathe. Saliva streamed from his mouth. He was unresponsive, unable to answer or even focus on me. I pulled him from his bed and quickly got dressed. In my rush to get us out the door, I misplaced my phone. Without it, my ability to navigate is pretty much shot, but I didn’t want to waste time searching for it. I knew I could get us to Urgent Care, managing icy roads and fogged-up windows, frantically calling to the car seat behind me: “Just keep breathing! Make a noise! Cry! Any noise you can!”

Urgent Care was closed. It was after hours on a Sunday. I panicked in the empty parking lot, unsure of where to go next, unsure of how much time I had. But there was a pharmacy a few blocks away, so I took us there. I parked right out front and ran through the automatic entrance, carrying my son, screaming for someone to call 911. 

The employees sprang into action. Someone led us to a chair. Someone handed me a cell phone, the operator on the line. Someone offered to drive us to a hospital, but by then I heard the sirens. I saw the sirens. 

Paramedics rushed in, swept us into an ambulance, strapped my son to a gurney, an oxygen tank. They told me he had croup, just croup—possibly a severe case, but he’d be okay. His scared screams rang in my ears; a plastic mask too big for his tiny face pushed his cheeks up into his eyes. He reached for my hand; for both my hands. He’d be okay. 

“You’ll be okay,” I said, over and over. “You’ll be okay.”

By the time we got to the emergency room, he’d stabilized. He’d needed double the medicine the paramedics had predicted, based on his size. It was good I’d acted quickly, they said. I did the right thing, they said. He’d be okay.

ER nurses led us to a room. They brought us styrofoam cups of water; a coloring book.

“Oooh, Paw Patrol,” Arlo said. “My favorite.”

His voice was hoarse, scraped raw. I cried, shaking with relief. I hate Paw Patrol.

The next hour or so was spent cradling Arlo’s body, wrapped in cables and tubes, calling Jason every 5 minutes from the hospital phone. His flight was delayed 3 hours due to weather in San Francisco, and I don’t have anyone else’s number memorized. Finally, he landed and answered. I told him what happened. He drove straight from the airport, a toy cable car and stuffed dragon in tow.

It’s now been a few days, and we’re all mostly recovered but not quite. I’m trying to be gentle with myself about it—about the fact that I’m now behind on work, behind on writing.

“None of that matters,” Jason said. “You saved our son’s life.”

Did I? I don’t know. I’ll never know the severity of the situation, what would or could have happened if—if I hadn’t checked the monitor; if I’d spent more time looking for my phone; if Arlo had started choking a few hours later, after I’d fallen asleep.

One thing I do know is that while Sunday’s ordeal was one of the worst experiences of my life and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, it did give me a renewed sense of confidence in myself as a mom. It was a reminder that I don’t run, or fall apart, or self-medicate into oblivion when faced with hard things. I fucking handle them.

What’s more, I know that emergency rooms—those sterile, screaming stations of fear and pain and last resort—have historically marked major turning points, forcefully pushing me in directions that I’m afraid to take on my own. And yesterday, I received news that I’ve been accepted into a year-long writing program that could very well be the start of my next phase—a phase that I’ve been wanting and working toward for a long time.

Could that just be a coincidence? Maybe. But I don’t really believe in coincidences (I mean, I have a psychic!) So, we’ll see what comes next. For now, I’ll be okay.