Seventy-Two Hours

by Stringham, C. P.

  I sat back using my hands to rest on the narrow bed while she peeled the sock off and began her examination. She performed similar actions to those of Chris’ from earlier. When she palpated the ball of my foot, I tried to jerk my foot away out of reflex. What she was doing hurt more than when Chris moved my middle toe from the very tip. Her face quickly turned into a frown.

  “I’m going to order x-rays, Mrs. Gardner,” she informed me while searching one of those cascading wall-mounted file bins. Selecting a form from the slot labeled, “Radiology.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” I asked knowing from past experience (I was the mother of three active boys after all) they didn’t cast fingers and toes.

  “I do,” she said as she leveled her serious gaze on me. “I agree with your husband. Based on my exam, it appears you have a fracture in your third metatarsal. An x-ray will take away the guess work. Judging by the general swelling and bruising, compounded with the sensitivity from palpation, you’re probably experiencing some significant discomfort. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to have it checked out.”

  “That’s my wife; always an eager participant and willing to play through the pain instead of sitting the bench. Aren’t you, honey bun?” Chris added.

  Dr. Kingsley seemed amused by Chris’ comment, but was interrupted by a harried nurse before she could respond. “Jill, we have a firework accident victim en route.”

  “Thanks, Meg. I’m on my way,” she told her before telling me to sit tight and then excusing herself.

  An hour later, I was leaving the hospital with one of those aircast boots that would permit me to walk on it. I refused Chris’ help. He was gloating. I wanted to knock the smile off of his smug face once we were inside his SUV.

  “Are you pouting because I was right?” he asked playfully.

  “You crossed a line.”

  He turned onto Main Street heading towards Route 14. “You were being so serious. I was just having some fun.”

  “At my expense,” I snapped. “I didn’t even know who you were back there. Since when did you turn into the man bragging about a make believe sex life?”

  “I wonder how Stevie Boy would have handled a trip to the ER with you. At least it was your husband making the inappropriate comments and not your boyfriend. That would’ve been really embarrassing.”

  Instead of physically attacking him, I found another way to successfully wound him. “I’m sure Steve would have been fine. He seems to get acclimated to new situations with ease. It was strange being with another man after being with you all of these years,” I disclosed while I watched the scenery pass by my window. “I was worried the kind of intensity we’d always experienced in the past couldn’t be duplicated, but I was wrong.”

  “And I crossed a line?”

  “You did that in front of a complete stranger.”

  “Lighten up. I was teasing. You’re just being a bitch.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not one for sloppy seconds.”

  “That prospect didn’t seem to slow you down yesterday afternoon.”

  We fell into silence as we drove through Watkins Glen. Apparently it was only a short break while I got my second wind of nastiness built up. I had no self control. Especially with what came out next.

  “When I was with him three weeks ago, we couldn’t even wait to get to a hotel,” I told him. “We drove off to one of the dirt roads, found a slightly overgrown logging road, and parked. There wasn’t enough time to get into the backseat or anything. Strategic clothing was moved out of the way and he took me right there on the front seat.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?!” he yelled sharply. “Why would you feel the need to tell me that?! That’s just so fucked up!”

  “Consider us even.”

  “I don’t know what I said to you last night. I wasn’t myself. What you’re doing now isn’t about getting even.”

  “Really? What is it then?” I replied.

  “It’s about striking out in the most callous way possible just to hurt me and you know it!” he shouted and then pounded the heel of his palm against the steering wheel. “And furthermore,” he grounded out, “I think the only reason you slept with him was to hurt me. You wanted me to find out so I could suffer silently until I finally confronted you. You flaunted your screwing around in a very manipulative way. My stumbling across what was going on was no accident. Discovering it was supposed to happen. That was your way of punishing me. You wanted to make me jealous.”

  “You stumbled across what?!?” I asked each word dripping with sarcasm.

  “The night you ‘accidentally’ left your Facebook page up on your iPad. Left it on our bed while you ‘ran to the store.’ Left it there for me to find. Left it where Carson or Clinton could have found it instead,” he said with distaste.

  “You had no business reading it. There’s no way you simply found a message open. I wouldn’t have left it on the screen,” I denied. “Besides, I wouldn’t need to worry about Clinton or Carson because they at least know how to respect someone’s privacy. You, on the other hand, must have huge mistrust issues due to your own past dalliances. They say a guilty spouse always assumes the person they’re married to is cheating. Why else would you pick up my iPad and scroll through messages that weren’t left up in the first place?”

  “Dalliances?!? Did you just fucking say dalliances?!?” he rumbled. “It happened one goddamn time when I was young, drunk, and stupid! I never slept with her!” he shouted as he looked at me for a beat too long because oncoming traffic had to blast their horns to get him out of their lane since he crossed the center line.

  I should have dropped it. Arguing in a moving vehicle wasn’t a smart idea. Not if we wanted to come out of our commute alive. I should have, but I didn’t.

  “Because everyone knows it’s all right to put your very married dick in some slutty co-ed’s mouth. The same dick you used the following weekend to impregnate your wife,” I retorted. “Herpes would have been nice or even syphilis to contend with during pregnancy. But it was just a blow job so it would have been all right!”

  “Jesus Christ!!”

  “Not that you’ll ever touch me again, but at least I had the intelligence and decency to use condoms!”

  “I guess that makes you a fucking saint while you were whoring around!”

  It was the back and forth of a tennis match. And just when I thought it couldn’t turn uglier.

  “You won’t have to worry about having a whore for a wife much longer. When we get home, I’m packing my things even if it takes me all night. You can have the goddamn house just as long as I don’t have to see you ever again!”

  “That’s fine! Don’t let the door hit you on your cheating ass when you leave!” he yelled hotly. “One thing’s for certain, the boys stay with me! Clinton doesn’t need to start 10th grade with the knowledge his mother’s screwing his history teacher!”

  “The only way he’d find out is if you told him! And you can’t make decisions like that! He’s old enough to make up his own mind, you jackass! You’re delusional if you actually think he would prefer living with you over living with me! He doesn’t even know you because you’re never home!”

  He was quiet. No return lob. That was when I noticed he was decelerating for no apparent reason. I looked at him to see his left hand at his chest and a pinched expression on his face. It took a moment before realization struck.

  “Chris?!? What’s the matter? Are you okay?” I asked as I put a shaky hand on his arm.

  “Can’t breathe,” he said on an uneasy exhale.

  “Relax. Pull off the road and get the car stopped,” I instructed as all the anger of moments ago became a distant memory.

  “Take…take the wheel,” he gasped. “Dizzy.”

  And I had to take the steering wheel from the passenger seat. He left me with no other choice as he left go completely.

  “Chris, you need to slow down faster!�
�� I yelled not wanting to startle him, but I needed to get my point across.

  We were still going too fast when I began to steer over to the shoulder. He hit the brakes hard and it jerked us in our seats. He seemed to regain his wits and applied the brake slowly with just the right amount of pressure on the pedal. The SVU finally came to a controlled stop. I reached the center console and put it into park.

  I got out of my seatbelt and turned toward Chris who was perspiring heavily. So much so, he had soaked through his shirt in spots. His hands were shaking and his breaths were coming in short, hard gasps.

  I met Chris’ panicked green eyes and he said, “Think it’s…heart attack.”

  I knew I needed to switch places with him so I could drive back to the hospital. It would take too long waiting for the ambulance to find us. And even then, it may be too late.

  Chapter Eighteen

  April 8, 1997 – Elmira, New York

  I hated missing school when I wasn’t sick. I always felt guilty when I made that 6:30am phone call to take the day off. But I was glad I did. Clinton’s simple cold had turned into something more sinister overnight. The cough he’d had for three days had tightened up and he was struggling for each breath he took. I had spent the night beside his crib too afraid to leave his side. Chris thought I was being silly. He told me it was just a cold and he echoed the words of the pediatrician that examined Clinton on Saturday, “It’s a viral and it has to go its course.” And, yes, by the third child, I didn’t panic when the kids got sick anymore. But this was different. It wasn’t a simple cold. That was confirmed shortly after the on-call doctor placed his stethoscope on Clinton’s back. We were then sent to the local medical center where I waited for someone from radiology to call Clinton in for x-rays. And, while I waited, anger began to replace fear for first place in my emotional repertoire.

  Despite my protests that morning, Chris left for the airport on a business trip. It wasn’t a simple business trip either. He was going to one of their Asian factories. I couldn’t talk him out of it. He actually patted me on my back like he was placating a child when I told him how Clinton’s night was and how I feared it was no longer a simple cold.

  A woman in scrubs with cats printed on them collected us from the waiting area and led us to the x-ray room where another woman in scrubs waited. The first woman had me strip Clinton down to his Huggies diaper and then she held out her arms for him. Clinton was not at all impressed with the cold temperature in the room and began a pathetic, boggy cry that led to a dry coughing spell between the tears. The other woman began to sympathetically explain to me what had to be done to get chest films. I watched the other technician take my nine month-old son and basically put him in a clear plastic cylinder that came in two pieces that fit together long-ways. When the two pieces were joined, an oval-shaped opening was left cut out for his face, and his arms were forced to stay straight up over his head. The sight was horrific to say the very least.

  Clinton’s face was bright red as his labored crying kicked into high gear. The tech closest to me told me that it was the best, safest way to get a chest x-ray. Squirming infants would force numerous x-rays and that was unhealthy. Even while she explained its necessity and my mind processed this information intelligently, it didn’t stop the tears from streaking down my face while I helplessly watched my baby’s legs being inserted into a ring and the tube holding him tight was locked into place so he was in an upright position.

  “Mommy, we’re going to go into this room over here. It will only take a second to get our x-rays and then we can come out and you can get your son. Okay?” the older of the two women asked.

  I nodded accession even though my slow pace displayed my reluctance to leave. It took only five minutes. Five minutes that felt like a lifetime. When we went into the room, Clinton was still crying. However, his cries were completely muted having lost his voice sometime while we were behind the protective wall.

  They couldn’t give him to me fast enough. I knew the only way to probably calm him was to nurse him, but even that wouldn’t be easy since he couldn’t breathe out of his nose. That morning, he’d choked so hard on my milk, he’d spit up most of his breakfast.

  I held his body against me while I swayed and talked to him. After only a few seconds, Clinton was fast asleep. The ordeal had worn him out. I kept him upright, his little diapered butt seated in my left hand and my right hand holding him against my chest. His wispy hair tickled my neck. So as not to disturb him, one of the technicians packed his discarded clothes into the diaper bag while the other went to retrieve a blanket fresh from the warmer to wrap him in.

  I was sent to the waiting room. And waited. And waited.

  Forty-five minutes later, I was called to the checkin window for the radiology department. Clinton was being admitted and they needed me to take him to the pediatric floor. Someone from admissions would meet us there with paperwork and Clinton’s doctor would arrive shortly.

  I phoned my mother after we were settled into his room. She was sitting with Carson and would need to get Hudson off the school bus.

  Before I ended my conversation with her, I said, “Will you please get in touch with Chris’ office and tell them he needs to call me as soon as possible?”

  “I’ll do that as soon as we’re off the phone. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Save your worry for your grandson. He’s the one in a crib with an oxygen tent.” My voice caught.

  “No really, Jenny. Are you okay?” my mother asked again.

  I took a deep breath as I attempted to bring my emotions under control. “Not really. No.”

  “I’ll call Marti and we’ll make sure Hudson and Carson are taken care of. One or both of us will come to the hospital to keep you company,” she told me.

  I exhaled a shaky breath. “That would be nice.”

  “Okay, sweetie, you just hang on. Give my grandbaby a kiss and tell him Grandma’s coming, alright?”

  “Thanks,” I said wondering to myself what I’d do without my mom.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d come to my rescue in Chris’ absence. I was extremely fortunate to have such a loving and supportive family.

  Shortly after our call ended, Clinton’s pediatrician breezed in wearing a disposable yellow smock. He apologized for taking so long before opening the plastic curtain and talking to his patient in that animated way he always used. My children loved him. He was like Robin Williams in Patch Adams; fun and goofy with his patients while being thorough and professional. Although, you’d never know this from Clinton’s reaction. He wasn’t impressed at all by his doctor’s antics.

  He finished his exam and made notes in Clinton’s chart. I watched as he returned it to its holder on the crib. He removed and disposed of his gloves before encouraging me to take a seat. He pulled up another chair and sat across from me. “Clinton’s in great hands,” he said with a reassuring smile. “So that means you need to take a deep breath,” he paused and waited for me to comply, “No. Really. A deep breath.”

  I gave in and despite my worry, a smile formed.

  “See? Just from a deep breath,” he said about my smile. “Let’s go over Clinton’s condition.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  He put up quelling hands and said, “Relax, Jen. Clinton has Respiratory Syncytial Virus. It has a big, scary name, but it’s very treatable. For older children and adults, RSV comes and goes like the common cold. Sometimes in younger children, like Clinton, it goes into Bronchiolitis and the best place for them to be is in the hospital where we can monitor their oxygen levels and make sure they stay hydrated.”

  “Is he in any danger?”

  “Clinton has what we consider a mild to moderate case. He’s an otherwise healthy little boy. I have every faith that he will be feeling better in a few days. Someone from respiratory therapy is going to come in shortly and give him a breathing treatment from a nebulizer. The Albuterol will help open his bronchial tubes.”

  “Is
it contagious?” I asked worried about the other boys.

  “Highly. But unless it’s a small child, and preemies are more at risk, or the elderly, it will pass like the common cold,” he assured me. “I’m sure Hudson and Carson will be fine.”

  I rubbed my eyes. My sleepless night was catching up with me. I felt his hand on the edge of my knee.

  “Are you okay?” he asked and then he removed his hand to avoid any improprieties.

  “I slept on the floor of his room last night. We have a baby monitor, but I couldn’t leave him. I had to keep checking on him.”

  He moved to the edge of his seat and gave me a sympathetic smile. “You did the right thing bringing him in. There’s nothing more you can do for him at home. You did everything you were supposed to do. Let us take care of him now, okay?”

  I nodded. “One of my school colleagues was permitted to spend the night at the hospital when her daughter had her tonsils removed. Do you think they’d let me stay with Clinton?”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem. I’ll talk with the charge nurse and get it squared away. If one’s available, they even have chairs that fold out into a bed for parents.”

  I went over to Clinton and stuck my hand through the seam in the curtain. He reached out for my hand and grasped my fingers with both of his hands. Even sick, he gave me his lopsided grin. He was such a good baby. Always happy-go-lucky.

  It made my heart break to see him struggling for his every breath. His little abdomen was even working like a bellows as he used his diaphragm to aid in the breathing process. And then there were the wires monitoring his heart rate and another attached to his big toe for his oxygen level. It was a wrenching sight.

  Marti and my mother came in after lunch. Both of them suited up in disposable gowns. While my mom gave me a tight hug, Marti rubbed my back in a soothing manner before she had her turn. My father was taking care of Carson and Conrad would get Hudson off the bus. Everything was being taken care of which meant I’d be able to focus on Clinton.