The Multi-Sensory Urgent Care Experience
September 8, 2015
A few days ago, Hutton bent down, scooped his newborn brother up off the floor, and dropped him. From a standing position. All within a span of .23 seconds.
The only thing that kept Davis from smashing his head on the ground was my catlike mom reflexes catching him by his arm mid-air.
So that’s how it’s going. That’s how we’re adjusting. We’re literally just trying to keep the newborn alive in a home with two older brothers who have big, detrimental love to give.
This fence helps in our endeavors.
We’re only 2 1/2 weeks in to this thing, but I still maintain that going from 0 to 1 child is the hardest transition. Physically, emotionally, socially…it changes everything.
By 2 to 3? Especially another boy? It’s already a circus…what’s one more?
So, really, it was no surprise that within the first 2 weeks of #3’s life, #2 poked #1 in the eye hard enough to warrant a trip to an urgent care. Because brothers.
12+ hours after the alleged eye pokage, Beck’s eye was still red, swollen, and leaky. A call to our pediatrician landed us at an after hours clinic to make sure his cornea wasn’t scratched.
Do you know how they check this? Glow-in-the-dark eye dye.
(His baby blue is totally fine but the greatness of this picture was totally worth the $50 copay.)
Let me back up to first few minutes before this picture was taken, because the doctor at the urgent care was having some issues.
More specifically he was having some, shall we say, tummy troubles.
When he came into the shoebox of an examination room, he had obviously been relieving some internal pressure in the hallway because he drug in the nastiest, stankiest, most palpable fart cloud. Like, take-your-breath away smell.
We went from 1 eye problem to every-eye-in-the-room-is-now-burning problem.
For the first few minutes after he walked in, no one spoke. It was this sort of silent judgment we were stunned into. We all knew what had happened – no words needed to be exchanged about it – we just needed a minute to gather our thoughts. And breath.
It reminded me of the time a man at work came to my desk to ask a question and all he got out was “Hey Sar —” before the air behind him wafted in. He immediately stopped talking and we made eye contact for a few seconds before he simply turned around and walked away. Some moments are to monumental for words.
The same happened in that tiny urgent care room.
The doctor, obviously embarrassed, stayed on his side of the room, we on ours. You could cut the tension (and the fumes) with a knife.
Once the air cleared a bit, he finally walked over and introduced himself and began examining Beckett.
So we’re just going to go back to business as usual then? Fine. But my nose hairs are still singed.
He ended up being a nice guy and great with Beckett and I felt kinda bad for him…but still. I had to relay the story to Taylor when we got home.
“It was fierce, babe. I can still taste it a little bit.”
“That’s gross. I bet he was mortified.”
“He has to be. It was one of those times everyone just looks at each other, speechless. There was no denying the stifling stench.”
Beckett, who was seemingly disengaged from our conversation, suddenly joined in.
That it was, in fact, not the doctor’s toot cloud.
It was his own.
Which means that in some household, around some dinner table, there is a doctor telling his family the exact opposite of this story.
A story in which, no doubt, I am the culprit.
No way that putrid smell came from a precious 4 year old boy. No. It surely came from the only other adult in the room.
“And then, you guys, I thought I was walking in to examine a preschooler’s eye but was greeted instead by a wall of fart. I had to stay on the clear other side of the room – closest to the fresh air of the hallway – in case she decided to drop another bomb.”
I feel sure with 3 boys we’ll have a frequent shopper card at our local urgent cares. And I really, really like this particular one.
It’s a shame I can never show my face – or falsely accused intestines – there again.