Scenes from the E.R.

"Did you hear that?" Laura asked.

I looked up from my book. I said I hadn't heard.

"They call me 'Chest Pain.' They just said, 'I need to call Chest Pain's doctor.'" The "They" in this case were the E.R. workers on the other side of the curtain. We were in Room 1.

She went back to her Harry Potter book, but I couldn't resist my own interruption: "Funny. I always just call you 'The Chest.'"

She giggled and added: "I thought the rest of the family just called me 'The Pain.'"

***

"I'm the EKG Guy."

We looked up from aforementioned books.

Oh. My. God.

A stunning fellow. As he hooked up the EKG, my wife made huge eyes at me, and mouthed: Why didn't I shave my legs?!

His work done, he unplugged the machine and headed out. "I'm Mark," he said.

"I'm Laura," my wife said.

"But you can just call her 'Ms. Chest Pain,'" I added. He laughed, and for the rest of the night, that's exactly what he called her.

The curtain closed again, Laura exclaimed, "Did you see his teeth?"

I said, "I never got past the eyes. His name is 'Mark.' I'm not sure I can live up to my name any longer. I may have to change it."

She laughed.

"So ..." I said, "I wasn't sure what the appropriate thing to do was. Would you have preferred that I left the room and left the two of you alone?"

***

You have to look for the humor anywhere you can on those long nights in the emergency room. All this from a somewhat false alarm on some chest pains. Since she had had recent gall bladder surgery, the pain raised red flags. But all tests were negative. Still, since it was a Friday night, they kept her overnight. They'll stress-test her this a.m., and the kids will have their Mom back by noon, we expect. Which is good, 'cause we're treating ourselves to a Rufus Wainwright concert tonight. That'll do the heart some good.


***


"Okay, Ms. Chest Pain," said Mark as he wheeled the chair into the room. "You've got a room."

"Question," I asked. "What's a 'Code Gray?'" A few minutes before, we had heard a hospital-wide alert that Room 5945 had a "Code Gray."

Mark smiled. And me without my SPF 45. "That means behavioral disorder. Someone acting up."

A few minutes later, we depart the elevator, and I realize that Laura's room is just a few doors down from ... wait for it ... Room 5945. A bevy of nurses stand outside the door of the room. Two doctors are inside. A patient lies in bed. He is moaning. No, he is screaming.

As the nurse's assistant takes my wife's vitals, she suggests that perhaps Laura will want to keep her door closed until they "figure out what we're going to do with him."

It was a long night for Laura.

***

Zuzu woke up last night when I got home, so I just took her into bed with me. She's an excellent snuggler, doing her best to wrap her arms around me in the dark.

"I miss Mommy," I whispered.

Without hesitation, she said back: "Flowers will make her feel better."

I laughed. I couldn't stop. And the tears came up at the same time. The rigors of the long night were catching up with me. That, and I can't believe how sensitive — and astute — this two-year-old is.

"Shall we go get Mommy flowers tomorrow?" I asked.

"Mommy will like that," my daughter said. She yawned.

"Where did you come from?" I asked.

Whispering now, fading away, Zuzu only commanded: "Rub ... my ... back."