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Urgent care A trip to the ER puts it all in perspective. by kedric francisPublished: February, 2012

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I’ll admit it: I dozed through my wife’s first few excursions to the bathroom, where she was suffering from nausea and the resultant vomiting. It was a Friday night, so of course I was in bed early. But by her 10th trip or so, it started to sink into my somnambulant state that something was way wrong. Maybe it was how she was curled up on the carpet, writhing in pain.     As husbands, we’re quick to pick up on such subtle cues that indicate that our partner is in distress. But my wife was 30 weeks pregnant, so my worry radar should’ve been more finely tuned. It wasn’t, at least at first.     I blame childbirth, morning sickness and all the other rigors my wife has undergone in the past two years for making me initially unappreciative of the severity of the circumstances. The mothers of our children stoically endure pain and discomfort sufficient to drive most men to their knees.     After a few minutes of indecision, we headed to the emergency room. I woke Otis, our 15-month-old son, took him out of his crib and dressed him much more haphazardly than how he’d normally be seen in public. Then we took the 20-minute drive to Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach. Even that decision was up for debate. Other ERs are closer to us, but that’s the hospital where Elaina delivered our son and where she’s registered to have baby Rosey, so that’s where we went.     I didn’t panic until we were almost halfway there, and my wife seemed to be drifting toward the edge of unconsciousness. That can’t be good. Once at the hospital, with Elaina moaning in pain, they took us up to the labor and delivery floor. There was a moment of panic when the nurse didn’t immediately find the baby’s heartbeat, but then there it was: that reassuring rhythm and the steady pattern on the monitor. The baby was fine.     Over the next few hours, various tests were done, while my wife was still experiencing significant pain. I tried to be supportive, but wrangling a toddler in a hospital room while worrying about the health of your wife and unborn baby is no way to spend a Friday night/Saturday morning.     By 4 a.m., the pain had subsided somewhat, so I took Otis home, where his great grandmother met me to take over the toddler care. I raced back to the hospital, walking in on an ultrasound tech showing my wife images of our little Rosey. Everything looked good – plenty of amniotic fluid and whatever else they were checking for.     They’d given Elaina a shot to calm contractions while I was gone, which might have been triggered by dehydration (she took about three bags of fluid via IV).     By 10 a.m., with no major red flags, we checked out and were on our way home. Maybe it was something in the gall bladder, they said. Or maybe it was a particularly nasty virus. Test results due later in the week might’ve told us, but whatever it was, the worst seemed to have passed. All I know is I never want to see my wife in that much pain again. It was way worse than childbirth, at least from her reaction to it.     Saturday was rough, with Elaina in bed all day, then on Sunday I got sick, though not nearly as bad. And that night Otis experienced some spontaneous projections of his previous meals, but he laughed his way through it. All three of us being ill in the same 48-hour period was no picnic, but now that we’re all on the mend, it makes me realize how lucky we are.     We’re all moved when reading about kids who suffer from diseases and illnesses that are life threatening. What those families go through is hard to imagine. I admire their bravery beyond words. Sometimes it takes losing your health, even just for a few days, to really appreciate how great we’ve got it.

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