RN, Take Me Away
The E.R. is my day spa.
by Kris Malone Grossman
March 5, 2007
The next time I hit the ER, two years later, a broken finger took me in, which I'd snapped flying down the fastest slide in Ridgefield with my two boys. But this time, rather than calling a friend to babysit and having to worry about getting back, I fed the kids dinner, read them The Tale of Jeremy Fisher and waited for my husband to come home to start their bath. When he arrived, I kissed him bye. "Where are you headed?" he said. "The ER," I said. "Don't wait up."
After ushering me past the triage area, the hushed, curtained-off treatment cubicles, and back to my own private room, This whole place was paradise, from the heights of the maternity ward to the bowels of the ER. the admitting nurse again burritoed me in those oh-so-tasty pre-warmed ER blankets. Again, she handed me a stack of magazines. But this time, rather than a juice box, a Dixie cup of ice chips materialized. One Proustian crunch, and all the high points of my most recent hospital experience rushed in: my latest maternity stay, which included a round-the-clock assortment of juices (from plastic gallon jugs, though my memory insists fresh-squeezed). A stainless steel bassinet on wheels, which I could deposit, with pissed-off, screaming baby inside, in a sound-proof nursery. Pristine bed sheets, which I never had to bleach or change and which were, appropriately, tucked impeccably into taut hospital corners. Lactation consultants who sported lipstick and Birkenstocks and who gently parted my hospital gown to gaze admiringly at my breasts. Cold packs and hot compresses and motherly nurses and cafeteria workers who coaxed me to order heaps of scrambled eggs, buttered bagels and extra packets of jam. So this whole place was paradise, from the heights of the maternity ward to the bowels of the ER.
A physician's assistant came in to inspect my finger. Outside, spring rain battered just-budding trees. But inside this windowless ER, my injury, my demanding toddlers, became nothing but a receding interlude, presently supplanted by a searing desire to stay. Especially when a fresh-faced orderly appeared and insisted that he actually wheel me to X-ray. "It's just a broken finger," I said, kicking off the blankets. "Let's not take any chances," he said, pulling them back over me. My greatest lament: that the ER wasn't hopping that night, which meant I'd be treated, and therefore discharged, far too soon. That, and that I hadn't thought to bring a book.
I've been back a couple times since those initial visits, once for another migraine, and once to have a wood particle removed from my right eye, which I got from a pulpy all-natural tissue while teaching my two-year-old how to blow his nose. Each time I've learned more about the ER's restorative attributes. And each time I've wondered why I haven't availed myself of them more often. Sure, the place could really use a child care center. And an oxygenating facial wouldn't hurt. But then again, you don't have to tip. And you don't need an appointment.
©2007 Kris Malone Grossman and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Kris Malone Grossman earned a BA in English from the University of California, Berkeley, and an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College, and has taught writing at Hofstra University. Her work appears in the anthology The Maternal Is Political: Women Writers at the Intersection of Motherhood and Social Change. She makes her home in Ridgefield, CT, with her husband and three sons. |
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