August 31st.
The actual last day of August.
Allegedly.
Because at this point, I don’t trust the calendar.
I haven’t slept in days. My youngest is home recovering from surgery, I’m running on caffeine, anxiety, and whatever tiny piece of my brain is still functioning, and today I needed to take my newly 21-year-old daughter to pain management for rheumatoid arthritis.
Because apparently when your children become adults, the appointments don’t stop.
They just get more complicated.
And nobody gives you a sticker afterward.
So we’re driving to the appointment, and I’m staring at the GPS trying desperately not to miss the office building because I’m currently operating with approximately three working brain cells and two of them are fighting.
I’m watching the road.
I’m watching the directions.
I’m looking for the building.
And a police car comes toward us from the opposite direction with its lights flashing.
I don’t pull over.
I KNOW.
Before anyone comes for me, I ALWAYS pull over for police cars, ambulances, fire trucks—all of it. I obey the law. I use my turn signal. I return my shopping cart. I’m basically a model citizen.
But apparently on August 31st, my exhausted brain saw a police car with flashing lights coming toward me and just… didn’t process what was happening.
We keep going, find the pain management office, and pull into the parking lot.
An unmarked car pulls in behind us.
Okay.
Normal.
Except the guy gets out and informs me that he’s a police officer.
Of course he is.
Because why would the random person directly behind me when I momentarily forgot one of the most basic rules of driving be an accountant?
No.
Also a police officer.
Apparently he had heard the call come over the radio, knew the police car coming toward us was responding to something, and very kindly—although incredibly embarrassingly—reminded me that I was supposed to pull over.
Sir.
I KNOW.
I am so sorry.
I swear I am not normally out here casually refusing to yield to police cars.
I haven’t slept in approximately four days and I’m currently trying to locate a pain management office with a brain being powered almost exclusively by anxiety and caffeine.
And here’s the best part:
HE WAS GOING TO THE SAME OFFICE.
Because nothing makes walking into your daughter’s doctor’s appointment more comfortable than walking in alongside the police officer who just gave you a roadside etiquette lesson in the parking lot.
So now I’m thinking, Great. Is he a patient? Is he someone’s husband? Does he work here? Are we about to sit next to each other in the waiting room?
Do I apologize again?
Do I pretend we never met?
Do I move to another state?
Thankfully, I didn’t get a ticket.
Just a very effective reminder that perhaps sleep deprivation and operating heavy machinery are not an ideal combination.
And with that little dose of public humiliation out of the way…
We went inside.
The appointment actually went well.
We have a plan.
Fantastic.
Except then comes one of my least favorite parts of navigating healthcare:
Why does one doctor sometimes make you question another doctor’s diagnosis?
Because now I’m sitting there thinking:
Wait.
Does she have rheumatoid arthritis?
Is she on the right medication?
Did we miss something?
Did somebody else miss something?
Are we treating the right thing?
Why can’t all of you just get into one giant group chat?
Seriously.
Put every specialist in there.
Rheumatology. Pain management. Primary care. Gynecology. Cardiology.
Call it:
“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING WITH THESE CHILDREN?”
I’ll even mute notifications.
I don’t need to participate.
You guys talk amongst yourselves, compare notes, maybe throw a couple lab results into the chat, and circle back when you’ve reached a consensus.
Because as a mom, when one doctor even slightly questions something another doctor told you, your brain immediately opens 47 new tabs.
And none of them close.
But we have a plan of attack, and hopefully we’ll get more answers soon.
So we leave and head to the fabulous Walgreens.
And by fabulous, I mean this particular Walgreens has mastered the art of making you feel like your presence is a personal inconvenience.
Not all Walgreens.
Please don’t come for me, Walgreens Corporate.
Just this one.
You walk up to the counter and immediately feel like you should apologize for needing a prescription.
Hi. Sorry to bother you. I know this is technically a pharmacy and everything, but could I possibly… get my medication?
We’re on our way there when my phone rings.
It’s my daughter recovering from surgery.
Her heart is racing.
She feels like she can’t catch her breath.
She doesn’t feel right.
And just like that, nothing is funny anymore.
I call the doctor.
They call back.
Her EKG after surgery on Thursday had been abnormal, and now they’re concerned.
She’s also running a low-grade fever.
And unfortunately, post-surgical infections aren’t exactly unfamiliar territory for us.
So back to the hospital we go.
They hear heart rate.
They hear shortness of breath.
They hear recent surgery and abnormal EKG.
And suddenly there’s no waiting room.
Which is good.
But also terrifying.
Because there’s something incredibly unsettling about walking into an ER and having everyone immediately decide:
“Yep. Bring her back.”
Her heart rate reached 152.
She had pain radiating through her body.
She described it like her insides were burning.
And I sat there doing what moms do when there is absolutely nothing we can do.
Watching.
Waiting.
Answering questions.
Watching the monitor.
Trying not to stare at the heart rate.
Staring at the heart rate.
Trying not to let her see that I’m worried.
And definitely not Googling anything because I have finally learned that lesson.
Okay.
Mostly learned that lesson.
Hours later, we finally got some answers.
She’s being admitted.
There’s an infection.
IV antibiotics have started.
Cardiology will be consulted tomorrow.
We’re moving forward.
And somewhere in the middle of all of this, we got a lecture from a nurse about opioids because, as she explained, part of her job as a nurse “is also to teach.”
And I’m sure she meant well.
I really am.
I understand the opioid crisis.
I understand why hospitals have to be careful.
I understand that nurses have protocols and responsibilities.
But respectfully…
Can we maybe save today’s TED Talk?
We didn’t come here looking for narcotics.
We came here because my daughter’s heart rate was 152, she couldn’t catch her breath, she’d just had surgery a few days ago, she had a fever, and she felt like her insides were on fire.
We’re not trying to score drugs.
We’re trying to figure out why my kid keeps ending up in the hospital.
And maybe that’s the part of being a mom in these situations that wears you down the most.
It’s not just the fear.
It’s having to constantly explain.
Advocate.
Remember medication names.
Remember surgery dates.
Remember which doctor said what.
Remember which medication worked, which didn’t, which caused a reaction, and which one we stopped six months ago.
Correct something when it isn’t right.
Ask the question again when you don’t understand the answer.
And somehow remain pleasant while doing it because you don’t want to be labeled that mom.
Although at this point?
That mom has entered the building.
She’s tired.
She needs coffee.
And she’d really appreciate it if everyone could communicate with each other.
So here we are again.
Another hospital room.
Another night.
Another incredibly luxurious hospital recliner that I’m fairly certain was designed by someone who has never actually possessed a spine.
My daughter is finally sleeping.
IV antibiotics are running.
We’re waiting for cardiology.
And I’m sitting here typing.
Again.
There is something strangely familiar about this now.
The dark hospital room.
The machines.
The hallway noises.
The nurses coming in and out.
Me sitting in the corner trying to process the day by turning it into words.
Maybe that’s what these stories are becoming for me.
A place to put everything when there isn’t anywhere else to put it.
The fear.
The exhaustion.
The frustration.
The helplessness.
And somehow, mixed into all of it, the ridiculous little moments that remind me that life can be absolutely terrifying and completely absurd at the exact same time.
Because somehow, in less than 24 hours, I failed to pull over for a police car in front of another police officer, discovered said police officer was going to the exact same doctor’s office, questioned the entire American healthcare system, got personally victimized by Walgreens customer service, landed back in the emergency room, received an opioid education seminar I didn’t request, and moved into another hospital recliner.
That is a lot for one Sunday.
But tonight, we’re moving in the right direction.
She’s sleeping.
She’s getting antibiotics.
She’s being watched.
We’re going to talk to cardiology.
We’re getting answers.
And right now, that has to be enough.
Tomorrow we’ll worry about tomorrow.
Tonight, I’m going to sit in my concrete hospital recliner, listen to the beeping machines, probably drink terrible coffee, and be grateful that my girl is finally getting some rest.
But first?
Someone needs to tell August that its time here is officially over.
Because I swear to God…
If September comes in here acting anything like August, we’re going to have a problem.