Wrong Hospital

"For me?"  I ask somewhat taken aback.
"Yes, you can use that phone over on the far wall.  It'll ring in a minute for you."

It rings.  For me.  In the emergency room.  That's crazy. 

"Hello?"
"Is Mike there, yet?"
"What?"  (Oh no, here we go again...)

All I said was 'Hello' and already this conversation wasn't making any sense.

"Who is this?"

There is some hesitation on the other end of the line.

"It's Michelle."

Michelle?  I don't think Mikey's ever mentioned someone named Michelle.  Maybe I'm just a bit vengeful, but by golly if I could not have access to my own son when I am in person in the emergency room, this Michelle character is going to have to tell me who she is before I let her talk to my son lying bleeding on a gurney.  Maybe she had something to do with this.  I've never heard him - or any of his friends - mention anyone by the name of "Michelle".  But, maybe I didn't hear her right.

"Michelle who?"  I ask.
"Just....Michelle."

No;  no, no, no!  Look, I'm not one of those moms who has to know every little detail of my grown kids' lives, but because I have never heard him mention a Michelle ever, and because he is actively bleeding in this emergency room, and because I have no idea who shot him, why he was shot, or how he could be in a situation to even be shot...without a full name, she will not be talking to Mikey.  I have decided.

"Well, ok Michelle, he's over on the other side of the room, and I just got here myself and haven't had a chance to talk to him, but his sisters are here..."
"No, Mike is on the way there -"

Mike is on the way?  What is this girl talking about?  I am not in any kind of mood to play games with these people who don't want to tell me who they are, and then say weird things to me.

"He went to the wrong hospital, but he's on his way."

Wait a minute.  Mike is on his way?  He got lost?  This is not Mikey's friend...this is Mike's new wife.  Oh geez...she didn't want to tell me her last name because it's the same as mine now.  Seriously?  My son could be dying not 10 feet away from me and we're going to go there?  How shallow and hateful does she think I am?  Why would she think that I would care that she would be giving me information?  Wow.  Just wow.

"Michelle!  Oh my god, don't do that to me!  You're talking about Mike not Mikey!  What do you mean he went to the wrong hospital?"

And the conversation goes from there.  I don't know whether to be glad or mad or what.  So, I am relieved.  Relieved because finally the conversation makes sense - sort of.  At least it's understandable. I thank her and tell her to tell Mike we are in the emergency room and that he should just say that he talked to me and I told him to come.  I don't want him to have to go through what I did.  And, apparently, he's been trying to get hold of me, and my cell phone wouldn't ring - which explains why I got the phone call in the emergency room...well...no it doesn't, really, but I'm finding that as long as I don't try to think too hard, things will go better inside my head.  I need something to go better somewhere.

Did you receive a call from us?

We arrive at the hospital and park by the emergency entrance. That's where I assume he is. I just cannot believe that the hospital hasn't called me. Why did the hospital call "Mike's roommate's mom" but not me? Is Mikey that out of it? No, he can't be. He was conscious and coherent in the background. And when he had said, "I've been shot...I'm gonna die," I heard unmistakably in his tone that he was joking. That is what I'm clinging to, actually; he is OK enough to joke about this - he must be ok. [No, I wasn't thinking about his "steel balls" joke not even a year previously; he had been "hours away" from death at that time...I'm glad I hadn't remembered that tidbit of information at that moment.]

The girls and I walk inside the doors. There is a semi-circular desk right there at the entryway with the word, "information" in big letters right on the front of it. There is a nurse and a guard sitting there.

"I'm here to see my son. He's been shot and I was told he was here." They both look up, startled.

"Who are you?"

"I'm his mother. These are his sisters."

"Did you receive a call from us?"

Something is not right, here. How come they didn't look at their list (there is a clipboard of names on the desk), see his name and take us back? Why are they looking at each other with those weird expressions? Why would they ask me if I had received a call? Even though I'm STILL not really believing all that is happening, I don't think that in the emergency room, the first question after, "Who are you?" should be "Did you receive a call from us?" What is going on?

I tell them that Mike's roommate's mom called me on her cell phone to tell me about my son. (In retrospect, I'm sure that sounded strange. I didn't say, "Sheri", or "Cindy", or "Marvella", but "Mike's roommate's mom" - you know what? I still don't know her name!) When I say this, the nurse leaves the desk, and hurries to a row of intake windows to the left. She confers quickly with another nurse and that nurse looks up at us with the same weird, startled look. Somebody had better start talking to me. Nurse number one looks at us and motions us to the window.

"Now, who did you say called you?" Really? REALLY?!

Oh No!

Oh No! Oh NO! That's him! That's definitely Mikey's voice; what am I gonna do? What am I gonna DO?!

"Ok. Ok. What hospital did you say? St. Francis? Ok. Ok. I'll get there. Tell him I'll get there." I hang up.

"MIKEY'S BEEN SHOT!!"

So, that's how my girls learn about their brother. In a nice, calm, rational manner. The house phone rings. My recent graduate answers it. You guessed it - the dryer is on the way.

"Get dressed; April, you have to stay for the dryer. Tabby can stay here, too. I'm going to St. Francis, where Mikey is."

(Both girls together) "NO! I'm coming!"

Of course they're coming. What was I thinking? I have no idea what to think. I'm still stuck on, "Your son's been shot several times. You should come." "What??!??!"

"Ok, both of you get dressed. You're coming with me. I'll call grandma and grandpa to wait for the dryer. Hurry!"

Yep, my parents are still in town because of April's graduation 2 days before. This is good. I dial their cell phone number. My dad answers. Can you say, "instant replay"?

Me: "Dad. You and mom have to come now. The dryer is on the way and Mikey's been shot. We have to go to the hospital right now. Please can you just get here in 5 minutes??"

Dad: "What?"

He thinks he's put the phone to his bad ear. He puts mom on the phone. I repeat myself. Mom says, "What?" It's like PeeWee's Playhouse. "The word of the day is 'what'. Whenever you hear anyone say 'what', scream real loud!" And I want to. But I can't. I explain that they need to please come. Please. Now. I have to get to Mikey. Please. That is all I can say to them. After an eternally long 5 minutes, they understand and will be at my house within 10 minutes. Good. Because I still need to get dressed. Instead of doing that, however, I call my good friend, Charity.

"Hello?"

"Charity, this is Melissa. Mikey's been shot and he's at St. Francis hospital. WHERE IN THE HELL IS ST. FRANCIS HOSPITAL???"

That's right. I have forgotten the location of the hospital. I need someone with a calm voice to tell me how to get to the hospital. Now, I know very well where that hospital is. Everyone in Tulsa knows where the pink hospital on the hill is. I could have driven there practically with my eyes closed any other day of the week. Not today. She understands at once. (She does NOT say "what". I do not have to "scream real loud".) She tells me how to get there, and then asks me if Mike is still in town. Mike? Mike? Oh, Mike! My ex-husband. Mikey's dad.

"MIKE! He's still here! I have to call him!"

Can someone be rationally hysterical? I think maybe I was. I knew what I had to do. I'd logically thought out everything. I needed everyone to get dressed. I needed to inform everyone about where I was going, figure out how to get there and explain why things were urgent. I even needed to get someone here for the dryer delivery. Why think about the dryer? Because I had to. The phone call for the delivery had come in as my mind was in the process of shifting into "emergency" mode. It had become part of my emergency. What if my parents had not been available? I honestly don't know what I would have done. Everything was of equal importance in my mind at that time. Everything was an emergency. That sounds strange, but there were no number one priorities. Everything was equally important. I'm just glad my parents were around to help me solve the delivery problem. It would have taken me longer to get to the hospital because I would have had to take the time to sort out priorities; I was not in any condition to do that - obviously.

I hang up from Charity and call Mike. He says, "What?! Wait a minute. He was WHAT?" The word of the day.

I finally make him understand that he does NOT have time to take a shower (I had woken him up), that he needs to get to St. Francis hospital. Yes, he remembered St Francis hospital. No, he didn't need directions; he still knew where it was. He would go there right away. He would probably be there before I got there because he wouldn't have to wait for someone to show up to accept delivery of a dryer. Ok. Good. I go to the bedroom to get dressed.

The delivery van and my parents show up at the same moment about 5 minutes after my conversation with Mike. The van blocks me in - naturally. The desperation and panic must have immediately shown on my face. Mom says, "Take the car. Just go." The girls and I jump into my parents car. It's been 15 minutes.

"Mom, I can't do surgery,"

I have my list, I have my cell phone, I have my son in the front seat. He is sweating, so I turn on the air conditioner - the one in the car actually works. He reaches over and turns the vents away from him. This is a first.

"Are you cold?" I ask incredulously.

"Yeah. I've got cold chills. I think I have a fever."

A fever? Man. That isn't good. Not with pain in his groin. This might be more serious than I thought. I pull out my cell phone and call my boss. I tell her that I won't be coming in today after all. She laughs and says, "I told you so." Then, I explain about Mikey. "Oh. That's not good. You'll be sitting there all day. Shouldn't you take him to the emergency room?" I explain that he has no insurance, and that we will be going to full service clinics. She does not sound impressed. "They'll all be full and you will end up at the emergency room anyway." What is she, a psychic?!

Two full free clinics and a text message later about the Roto-Rooter guy needing payment, and we are on our way back to the house. I am more than a little frazzled.

"Why are you being so picky!" I remember yelling at him. "These are FREE CLINICS...they are not posh, upscale places. You can't just look at a place and turn your nose up!"

"But mom. They looked...unsanitary."

Oh my gosh. This is my son? My son whose apartment looks like a bomb exploded in it? You are kidding me! Still, I don't know why I am yelling at him...they had both been full, anyway. It was just the fact that he had made the comment about not wanting to go to the one, and had been unwilling to stay at the other to see if he could be seen later in the day. And let's not forget that I had people coming over to fix my plumbing and air conditioning unit! I had things to DO! I did mention that my middle name is not "Grace", right?

The Roto-Rooter guy is done with his fix - 15 minutes worth of work for $101.60 (I'm in the wrong line of work, obviously) - and Mikey is lying on the couch...with ice on his crotch. With no idea when the McBee guy is going to get here to fix the air conditioner, I decide to go online and look up 211.org. I make many notes and make a few calls. I also get frustrated. Most of the other clinics require appointments and they only see patients after 6pm. I call one more out of desperation, and I actually talk to a live person!

It's a wrong number. What? You're kidding me! Nope, she's not. I have dialed the right medical center, wrong phone number. This number is for regular appointments. Yes, they do see patients with no insurance, but there is a waiting list. She asks me a few questions and then says, "Look, this sounds serious. I think you should take him to the emergency room. Don't worry about the cost; he cannot be turned away. A social worker will see you and you can fill out Title 19 paperwork. When you fill out that paperwork, you can then choose a physician. If you want to use our clinic, that will be the time to let them know. Please, don't worry. Everything will be fine. Just go to the emergency room. A 23-year-old should not be in this much pain."

Those were the words that I needed to hear to jolt me into reality. I repeated them to Mikey, and he said, "Let's go."

The car ride was relatively quiet. During the ride, he said, "Mom, I really hurt bad."

"I'm sure you do, honey. We'll be there shortly."

"Mom...what if everything is dead in there? The left side hurts more than the right, but both sides hurt. I don't want to be sterile. I want to have kids, someday."

What can I say to that? What can I possibly say? I cannot guarantee that he will not be sterile. I can't say that he will have lots of kids, someday. I feel terrible. I say, "Honey. Whatever is wrong has already happened. Everything could be fine and everything could be dead. I wish I could tell you that you won't be sterile, but I just can't. I'm so sorry."

We are both silent. He turns to look at me and says, "Well, if they're both dead, I want steel balls to replace them."

My son is contemplating losing his testicles and he jokes about steel balls. Oh my. Maybe this is not as bad as I think. His sense of humor is definitely intact.

Miracle of miracles, when we get to the hospital at 10am, there is only one person ahead of him. The intake is quick, and then, he goes to the back - alone. I am not one of those mothers who has to know everything. He is 23. I am the mom. I will wait for the doctor to come out to talk to me. After all, this is a delicate situation. I haven't seen these parts of him since he was a toddler. I figure we should keep the record clean.

Soon, I get a text message. It's from Mikey!

"Mom. It is infection. Firm and hard is infection."

A bit later: "Antibiotic IV"

Still later: "It'll be about an hour with the IV. He's talking surgery. I can't do surgery."

What, is he out of his mind to say he can't do surgery?

I text him: "Can u do death?"