Almost Out Of Time

What a weekend.

We were heading to Santa's Village until the big snowstorm hit, so we waited until morning when the snow plows and sunshine had made the world safe from dumb ass drivers. Sure, I have four wheel drive, but not everybody else.

On Saturday morning we packed our things into laundry baskets. We have suitcases, but laundry baskets are more convenient for one or two-day trips. Emmett fell asleep at ten in the morning, which is not like him. His eyelids were drawn irresistibly down, and his breathing was labored and shallow. For a week now he coughed and thrashed at night, but so far we thought he had a cold. Beth took him to see the pediatrician, who calmly told her to take him to the emergency room.

"Can I pick up my husband on the way?" Beth asked the doctor.

"No."

At the emergency room, Beth filled out a registration form and waited to be called. When she was finally shown to a room, and after chest x-rays from technicians, she waited for two hours for the doctor to come in. By now Emmett was dehydrated and hungry. The doctor apologized, but he didn't know she was even waiting until minutes ago.

I wish I had been there. Think Shirley MacLean in Terms of Endearment. If you haven't seen it, just watch the scene when her movie-daughter has cancer and hasn't had her pain shot, and MacLean goes to the nurse’s station to secure one. Get the shot. I'm sorry maam-- Get the shot! GET THE SHOT! GET THE SHOOOOOOT!!!!!

But it ends well--Emmett's infection is viral, a huge relief because I almost died when I was a baby from the same. Not that I can remember. Emmett "called" me from the emergency room, just to say hi. I've never heard him utter a word on the phone, not even a grunt. But I heard him clearly, "Hi dada." In the back of my mind, after we hung up, the eerie thought crept up from my unconscious, "What if that was the last time I ever spoke to him?" I scooped him up when he came home, and he rested there with his cheek on my shoulder--and I didn't tire so quickly.

Last night he woke up while the wife and I were watching the Fantastic Four downstairs. Another first, Emmett got out of bed. Mind you, he's just two years old now, so there are many firsts. The volume on the TV kept it from us for a while, but like a strange disturbance in the force, or a tickle of Spidey sense, we realized something was wrong and I paused the movie. Emmett screamed at the top of the stairs in a hoarse rasp, unique to having done so for a while, which pushed my panic button and propelled me up the stairs in three or four bounds. I scooped him up and he collapsed into my shoulder without so much as a sniffle.

Can you say melodrama?

Oh well. We brought him downstairs and he passed out between us. His sweet little angel face looked towards the heavens, and Beth and I took turns touching his face and pinching his nose, exploring the behind his ears and feeling his soft little neck. Then I thought of Jackson, older now and annoyed with such attention.

There isn't much time left before Emmett won't need us like this anymore.