59. Eli
Eli
Did I break some laws on the way to the hospital? I sure as hell did. Do I care? Fuck. No.
When Kendra texted me at one a.m. saying that she was on her way to the ER with Wren, that my tiny, precious baby girl is alarmingly sick, I felt like the world stopped spinning.
I couldn’t move fast enough. You’d think that year after year of discipline and experience firefighting and what came with it could make me cooler, calmer right now—but it does not.
All I did was scream at Rem, who was asleep in the adjacent bed, grab all my shit, try to call Kendra, and race out of the fire station. Fuck all my other responsibilities. Fuck that I was on duty; nothing else mattered besides getting to Wren.
I screech into a parking spot at the county ER and sprint to the doors, breathing hard and fast by the time I get there from so much adrenaline. A security guard I recognize, Milton, waves to me.
“Hey, Eli? Are you okay?” he asks, coming up to me with concern.
“My baby, baby girl. She was brought in. Sick.” I gulp down some air and hold a stitch in my side.
“Oh! Okay, yeah let’s get you right inside. A pretty little blonde lady came in with a baby girl about fifteen minutes ago. That’s probably them?” Milton ushers me through the sliding doors toward the check-in desk. “I hope everything goes alright, Eli, she’s in my prayers.”
“Thanks, Milton.” I shake his hand, and he heads back to his post outside.
“I’m here for my daughter,” I say to the younger, dirty-blonde-haired nurse manning the desk, who gives me an appreciative once-over that I do not appreciate. “Wren Hargrove,” I say, my tone sharper than I would normally use.
Clearing her throat, Blondie says, “Right, yes, looks like she arrived not too long ago and they brought her straight back. I will buzz you through the bay doors”—she points to the secured doors to our left—“after I scan your ID, and Patricia can bring you right to her.” She waves Patricia over and hands some paperwork that I sign impatiently in a few places before I am finally allowed behind the magic doors.
The ER isn’t overly crowded tonight, but I know they don’t fuck around when it comes to kids, especially babies.
Following Patricia down the sterile halls, I hear a pitiful cry followed by horrible coughing.
My stomach feels like it’s dropping out of my ass, because I know that cry.
Picking up my pace, we enter a room and I see my daughter, tiny and shaking wearing only her diaper, laid out on a bed being examined by a doctor.
He has his stethoscope pressed to her chest and is listening intently through her cries.
My eyes sweep over the room, and I see Kendra just off to the side of the bed, as close as she can be to Wren without being in the doctor’s way, ready to step in and hold Wren the second the all clear is given.
Silent tears are streaming down Kendra’s face.
Seeing my baby girl in pain is killing her, and that completely cracks something open in me.
I want to wrap both of them in my arms and never let tears of pain, worry, or panic fall from either of their eyes.
They are mine. Both of them.
Kendra looks up from Wren and sees me in the doorway then. Relief melts over her entire frame as she rushes into my arms.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” she sobs. “Please, please don’t be mad at me.”
Pulling back, I cup her face and wipe her tears. “Why would I be mad at you?” I ask quietly, confused.
“Well, because Wren got so sick on my watch, I told you I could handle it, and then when you called me over and over and I didn’t answer. I was driving and I c-couldn’t answer. I needed to get her here as fast as possible. I’m so sorry.” Kendra’s bottom lip trembles.
“You did everything right. All that matters is you got her here safe. I’m an asshole for calling you so many times.
I’m the one that’s sorry, it was an overreaction.
Let’s go talk to the doctor, okay?” I surprise myself with how I’m pulling my shit together for the two of us as Kendra nods and we step up to the bed.
Being done with his exam, Dr. Montgomery introduces himself properly and allowed us to hold Wren again. Kendra gets a warm, fuzzy blanket from the diaper bag she brought from home and wraps Wren up comfortably, and I finally take my baby girl into my arms.
She nestles up under my chin, her favorite spot, and I let out a sigh of relief. Heaven.
“Well, folks, I am sorry to say I’m confident that your baby girl has RSV.
We are running the rapid test to confirm, but I would bet anything it will light up like a Christmas tree with a positive result.
It’s going around like crazy right now unfortunately.
Babies as young as your daughter are very much high risk especially this time of year.
Has anyone in your family been sick recently? ” Dr. Montgomery asks.
“My mom is sick,” I admit.
“And does she help take care of Wren?”
“Yeah, but as soon as she didn’t feel well we made other plans. She would never come around Wren sick,” I say defensively.
“Of course,” Dr. Montgomery says, “but germs can be dormant and jump around, not show us any signs that they are there until after they have been transferred. I am not laying blame on anyone, Mr. Hargrove, just pointing out that germs are tricky, and babies, especially as little as Wren, are extra vulnerable. Sometimes they get sick, no matter how hard we try to prevent it. You didn’t do anything wrong and neither did your mom. ”
Kendra squeezes my forearm with reassurance.
“How has Wren’s appetite been? How many wet diapers has she had? Activity levels the past twenty-four hours?” Dr. Montgomery looks at me and I look at Kendra.
“Um, well,” Kendra says, “she has been pretty fussy and not as happy as normal. Usually she is one of the happiest babies I’ve ever seen.
Tonight before bed I gave her a bath, which is one of her all-time favorite activities and she had zero interest. It was sad.
” Kendra frowns. “Then at bedtime, she barely drank her bottle. When I changed her before coming, her diaper was totally dry, has still been dry since we got here.”
“Okay. I do not like the sound of her lungs, and she is dehydrated. I don’t feel comfortable sending you home and just seeing how things go, trying to get Wren to drink, because I know it won’t happen.
I think the best course of action is for us to admit Wren to the pediatric floor and then we can get her some help, run an IV, and keep a close eye on her. Is that alright with you?”
He looks at us, and I say, “Yes, let’s do it.” Wren lets out a painful, classic, barking RSV cough followed by a sad cry that stabs me straight through the heart.