The ER was loud. Beeping on top of beeping in a non-rhythmic, unending rhyme that never stopped. Still, it felt weird to be there for pneumonia. We couldn't figure out why they were making such a big deal. His x-ray at urgent care hadn't looked fabulous, but ER worthy? They took him for a cat scan while I ran around the hospital looking for a vending machine. I found some awful generic Cheetos mix thing that seemed to be the only thing that was reasonably priced and got us each a bag. We'd eat more when we got home.
When we met back in our ER room, we quickly Facetimed the girls while we waited for the results. We chatted happily, and assured them we'd be home soon. Another moment I will never forget is the look on our three year old's face when she saw her daddy in the hospital gown. She cried, and asked why he was wearing that. It seemed small at the time, but later, after the doctor had talked to us, my husband said, "She knew."
She's always known things. It's eerie. She's like a real-life barometer. She'll say something ridiculous like "I'm going to have a tiny airplane today" and we'll tell her no, what is she talking about, and then later in the day someone will give her a tiny airplane. She never seems to know she is predicting the future with her wild life claims, but somehow, many of her random statements come true. It's like she has a sixth sense.
The doctor hovered slowly outside the room while he waited for us to get off the phone. Have you ever had an ER doctor wait for you to end a phone call? It felt weird, and at the time I was very bothered by it. Why wouldn't he just come in? He's a busy man, and we're just talking to our kids to say goodnight. We'd see them soon. Once we were off he came into the room slowly, pulling the sliding door behind us. He could tell we were talking to our kids, he shared, and he was going to be making a similar phone call to his own soon. He looked sad at that statement, which for a brief moment - until I heard his next words - I assumed was just his working-dad guilt.
Then he told us. He explained the cancer. It wasn't pneumonia. It was cancer. He thought. They couldn't be sure until we saw an oncologist, but they'd be admitting us into the hospital that night. I didn't hear much of what he said. His lips were dry, and I kept waiting for him to leave. Doctors are busy right? They aren't supposed to spend this much time with you. This was too much. Why? Why was he still talking?
At one point I told him that he was supposed to be telling us it was just pneumonia, and sending us home. "I hear your words but I don't understand what you are saying," I said, dumbly, interrupting him. "You are supposed to send us home. Back to our kids."
We saw another doctor that night - a cancer one, I think. Then they admitted us and I ran home to pack an overnight bag.
The hospital was so loud that night. We were across from the nurses station, and I'm not sure we slept at all. The beeps kept us up most of the night. The beeps and the fear. We both lay silently in bed, processing the "maybe cancer" diagnosis, having no idea how to possibly wrap our minds around the future.
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