A Trip to the Emergency Room
We like to have campfires in our backyard. Shortly after we moved to the country, my husband dug a firepit and surrounded it with bricks. He made benches from logs and old tractor seats he bought at the Pioneer Power Swap Meet one year. We gather fire wood from the windbreak--we have stacks of it out there, drying for the past couple of years. I make sure there are plenty of marshmallows, Graham crackers and Hershey bars on hand, and the kids invite friends over for a night of star gazing and conversation.
Last summer there was one such night. My daughter Caitlin had twenty or more friends over till late into the night. They drank hot chocolate and had a good time.
The next morning, my four-year-old daughter Willow asked if she could play outside. She often goes to swing by herself on the swingset or plays with the newest batch of kittens. Then I heard a scream. It was shrill and agonizing.
Haley, my eleven-year-old, shouted, "What's wrong with Willow?"
I ran outside and even though Willow's screams weren't intelligible I knew she'd burned her feet. She'd walked right through the white ash left from the camp fire of the night before. I rushed her immediately to the bathroom, sat her on the counter and ran cold water on them. Instantly blisters had formed across the bottom surface of both little feet. While my older daughter stayed with her, making sure she kept her feet in the cold water I called first my husband, then the hospital to let them know we were on our way.
My seventeen-year-old drove while I held Willow in the backseat, cradling her feet in cold cloths. Willow was still screaming, an unending, tormented scream as I carried her into the emergency room that was silent of any other patients. The nurses and doctors led us into a room that was set up with a big bowl of ice water and cloths. We put her feet in, but the wails continued.
For over an hour she cried. Nothing eased the pain. They gave her a shot of Tylenol 3 but that took a while to kick in. So I held her on my lap with her feet wrapped in ice water drenched towels. One nurse, a young man with a daughter about Willow's age, talked so kindly to her throughout the whole ordeal. He told her about his daughter; he got her some PlayDoh in an attempt to distract her from the pain. He never left her side, always spoke sweetly to her. Another nurse, a neighbor of mine, was there too, offering kindness to me. "It could've happened to anyone," she said. I needed that.
The doctor came in several times to look at her feet. Finally he decided to lance the largest of the blisters that covered the entire bottom on one foot. The nurse asked if I wanted to leave or stay--they didn't want me freaking out. Then they held her down on her tummy, the male nurse pinning both shoulders to the bed as she yelled at the doctor, "I don't like you! Don't touch me! What are you doing?!" Poor baby. Shortly after that the Tylenol kicked in. Her crying stopped instantly. She looked up at our neighbor nurse and said, "I feel better now." Everyone in the room smiled.
She had second degree burns across the whole bottoms of her feet, big nasty blisters. I had to change the dressings daily until it was healed. She crawled on her knees everywhere she went because it hurt too much to walk. But thankfully healthy pink skin soon grew back. She's her normal, vivacious self again thanks to the kind nurses and doctors who not only saw to her physical needs but who cared.
More later,
Traci
Last summer there was one such night. My daughter Caitlin had twenty or more friends over till late into the night. They drank hot chocolate and had a good time.
The next morning, my four-year-old daughter Willow asked if she could play outside. She often goes to swing by herself on the swingset or plays with the newest batch of kittens. Then I heard a scream. It was shrill and agonizing.
Haley, my eleven-year-old, shouted, "What's wrong with Willow?"
I ran outside and even though Willow's screams weren't intelligible I knew she'd burned her feet. She'd walked right through the white ash left from the camp fire of the night before. I rushed her immediately to the bathroom, sat her on the counter and ran cold water on them. Instantly blisters had formed across the bottom surface of both little feet. While my older daughter stayed with her, making sure she kept her feet in the cold water I called first my husband, then the hospital to let them know we were on our way.
My seventeen-year-old drove while I held Willow in the backseat, cradling her feet in cold cloths. Willow was still screaming, an unending, tormented scream as I carried her into the emergency room that was silent of any other patients. The nurses and doctors led us into a room that was set up with a big bowl of ice water and cloths. We put her feet in, but the wails continued.
For over an hour she cried. Nothing eased the pain. They gave her a shot of Tylenol 3 but that took a while to kick in. So I held her on my lap with her feet wrapped in ice water drenched towels. One nurse, a young man with a daughter about Willow's age, talked so kindly to her throughout the whole ordeal. He told her about his daughter; he got her some PlayDoh in an attempt to distract her from the pain. He never left her side, always spoke sweetly to her. Another nurse, a neighbor of mine, was there too, offering kindness to me. "It could've happened to anyone," she said. I needed that.
The doctor came in several times to look at her feet. Finally he decided to lance the largest of the blisters that covered the entire bottom on one foot. The nurse asked if I wanted to leave or stay--they didn't want me freaking out. Then they held her down on her tummy, the male nurse pinning both shoulders to the bed as she yelled at the doctor, "I don't like you! Don't touch me! What are you doing?!" Poor baby. Shortly after that the Tylenol kicked in. Her crying stopped instantly. She looked up at our neighbor nurse and said, "I feel better now." Everyone in the room smiled.
She had second degree burns across the whole bottoms of her feet, big nasty blisters. I had to change the dressings daily until it was healed. She crawled on her knees everywhere she went because it hurt too much to walk. But thankfully healthy pink skin soon grew back. She's her normal, vivacious self again thanks to the kind nurses and doctors who not only saw to her physical needs but who cared.
More later,
Traci
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