Our Tax Dollars At Work

Today, I was treated to a fabulous pedicure at a fabulous spa by a fabulous friend. We got together beforehand, chatted over snacks and coffee, and even did a little shopping together. It was rainy and cold, so I went directly home afterwards, slipped into some comfy clothes, and sat down to a dinner of Thanksgiving leftovers with my family... and that's how I thought my lazy, luxurious, and leisurely Sunday would end.

Au contraire, mon frere!

While we waited for our son to finish picking at his food eating, we were straightening up the kitchen and making lists for the upcoming week. As we were talking, he started coughing. Since he does this to get attention sometimes, we ignored him at first but then he started gagging... then choking...

We immediately rushed to his side to help him cough it up when we realized he was having an allergic reaction to the ranch dressing he'd been dipping his food into. His face was splotching and swollen and it sounded as if his throat was closing up. He was having a hard time breathing, especially after throwing up everything he had just eaten.

Panic-stricken and ready to run to the nearest emergency room, I called Poison Control. Why Poison Control? Because I call them about once every two weeks ever since my son has started biting the tips off markers and climbing on chairs to get to the SuperGlue. Yeah, I have them on speed dial.

They, of course, directed me to call 9-1-1 RIGHT NOW... DUH! My husband dialed as I grabbed the diaper bag, our coats, everybody's shoes, etc. The operator told us to stay put; paramedics are on their way!

While my husband was taking to the operator, my son had calmed down and somewhat stabilized. I took him out of his highchair and into our bedroom to find something other than soiled pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers to wear to the ER.

Well, not only did 9-1-1 dispatch an ambulance, but a full-blown fire truck as well... ladders, hoses, and all. My husband ran outside to direct them to the house and I put my son on the bed to be examined.

Not realizing it was for him, my son started getting excited at the sound of sirens rounding our corner. By the time the paramedics rushing into the house, my son was still splotchy, but smiling. He was playing on our bed and definitely doing better (hardly on the brink of death)... and I looked like an overreacting pill.

As first it was just the one firefighter/paramedic with his first aid kit... then he was followed by four others carrying breathing tubes and something that looked like a respirator. In fact, it probably was...

Better safe, than sorry my husband kept saying, but we were both so embarrassed that we could hardly even look at the paramedics having to chase our son to see if he was "still breathing". Oh yeah, he's breathing.

We apologized for troubling them on a cold Sunday evening, but they didn't mind. However, they insisted that we take him to an emergency room anyway. Just in case. "You could either take him yourselves or ride in the ambulance", they offered, "but he needs to be seen TONIGHT by a pediatrician or an allergist."

Since he basically fine and hardly an emergency case anymore, we knew that we'd be in for a LONG wait. It was late. My husband has to work tomorrow, and our son was hungry (again), so we opted instead to take him to my parents' house. My mom is a pediatrician and even with the 45 minute drive to their house, he'd still be seen sooner than at the ER... plus, it was free.

Okay, so not exactly the circumstances in which I had envisioned five hunky firefighters barging into my bedroom... Ahem....

Today, I'm grateful to see my tax dollars hard at work and, obviously, that my son is all right and sleeping soundly in his crib.