One More Night, This Can't be Me

Whew, the past week has been intense. I had a coffee date late morning and it did not go as well as I'd hoped. I'm basically exhausted with dating. So I got home and decided not to even change. I liked the black dress, suede wedge booties, and my faithful military style green jacket with all my pins. We all went out on Friday night to watch the Tyson fight because silly us, we thought the buffering was my internet and not the whole of Netflix. 

I hate that bar. I'd probably love that bar, except that people can still smoke in there. And they do. I end up with smoke in my hair, smoke in my clothes, and smoke in my wimpy little lungs. I just can't take it. I cough for days sometimes. But I went anyway. It was fun. I had a blast minus the oxygen part. Saw plenty of friends I already made and made a new one or two. One may or may not have a shy smile, the perfect nose, and a random sprinkling of freckles that made me want to do more than smile. He also happens to actually be a little shy and smart enough to be funny in a second language. Quick wit. I like that. I gave him my number and we talked. 

We were out with one of the younger guys from the shop whom I've adopted as my second child and Gabe has certainly adopted as his coconspirator. He drank. He always does. We all came back to my house that night and he went up to get a shower. We all heard him fall and it was loud enough that I ran up to check on him. He seemed okay, so I didn't think too much of it and I went to bed.

The next morning, we all got up and went for breakfast. The kid ate about two bites and ran outside to throw up. That's not really unheard of for him. At least it wasn't 7 p.m. on a Sunday outside the American Legion this time. That was about 10 a.m. When he couldn't stop throwing up, he got worried, we got worried, and he asked to go to the ER. Wow, okay. You got it, buddy. Get in the truck.

He threw up once on the fifteen minute drive. By the time we got him to the hospital, he was ready to die and I was more than a little aggravated with him. He asked for water and then sat holding my hand, I suppose as much to anchor him to the earth as to comfort him. We were very lucky to get attention from a CNA (I suspect) who knows the kid and we got him back in a room with an IV pretty quick. He asked who I was to him and the kid says "she's just a friend" and the man said "that's a very good friend." I hope that to be my legacy. I don't think he stopped throwing up for ten straight minutes the whole time. 

They took a medical history and the second they found out that he has a history with alcohol, they just wrote him off as alcohol poisoning. I thought the same thing. So I stayed with him and changed the sheet when he threw up and kept him in bed when they gave him Ativan and he was confused and trying to snatch out his IV and leave. They left him in the room with one bag of fluids and the heavy-duty anti-nausea medication. He slept for an hour or so and got up to throw up some more. They discharged him anyway. I was so tired I could barely hold my head up, so I dropped him at his apartment, came home, and fell asleep on the couch with Gabe trying to talk to me.

I woke up the next morning to a missed call. He was still sick. Back to the ER. More dismissing. I mentioned that he fell in the shower and that may have something to do with this constant vomiting. More dismissing. Asking if he wants help for his drinking. He declined the Ativan this time. Another bag of fluids and a discharge. This time, he went home with me. I put him on my couch and gave him clean clothes. He was so bad off that I had to help him put his shirt on.

I was obligated to get up the next morning, drive back home, and escort another friend to a medical procedure which required anesthesia. When my alarm went off at 5 a.m., the first thing I heard was vomiting. I got up and asked what we should do and why he didn't wake me up. He wanted to go back to the ER. I couldn't stay. I dropped him at the door and told him I loved him and cried like it was his first day of kindergarten. He was so defeated and weak. 

I rallied the troops and began a text chain to see if anyone locally or from the shop could go sit with him. I love me some Stephen, but he will always make a joke. I was so aggravated with him for making light of my fear. I don't scare easy and I was afraid this kid wasn't going to walk out of the hospital. My sister is the one who ended up stepping in. I will never be able to tell her what it meant to me. She came for me when she heard the fear and love in my voice. She's a fantastic nurse and a Mama Bear, and she's mine. I'm so proud of her and I love her so much I don't have the right words. I'm all teared up just writing about it. And again when I edited. I thank God for her.

She checked in through the day until she had to go get the kids. By that time, I was headed home. One of the wives of a veteran scooped Owen up from the ER and took him to his apartment. He called, fully defeated and said that he wasn't going back to the hospital. Basically "if I die, I die." I dropped home to grab him some clean clothes, clean water, and his Pedialyte and meds. I went over and told him that if he threw up again, he was going to Emory. He threw up one more time and then fell asleep for four hours.

I sat at the other end of the couch with my book in the quiet that seemed loud. And then I heard his stomach growl and I said a little prayer of thanks. I let him sleep. He woke up and said he was hungry. I said water. So he kept that down and we moved to Pedialyte. He kept that down, so we gave him some instant chicken broth. He kept that down. I gathered up the clothes I'd let him borrow that were strewn over his apartment and we went back to my house so he could get his truck and I gave him some of the good chicken stock and a couple crackers. Y'all, I think he's going to live.

Also noted: when I got home, one of the shop guys and Gabe had retrieved my bookshelves. They were in my living room. It's the little things, y'all. I give all of myself to these folks and they give back. I'm fortunate that I can call them my own.

I sent him home with crackers, ginger ale, chicken stock, more Pedialyte, and had him put on clean clothes again. This clown told us all he would take Tuesday off so we would stay off his ass and then went to work anyway. He didn't die. And by Tuesday evening, he was eating with us at the shop Thanksgiving event. Y'all, we had four new faces. including the oldest Marine from FoCo Vets and our own youngest Marine, Owen. That didn't go unnoticed by me.

Owen and I had been trying to help another young veteran find a new job. He texted me that day saying we had to find him something. One of the new faces was a guy who places veterans into jobs. Somebody's hearing me. Hearing us.

The only reason I'm getting to sit down and write is because I knew that I needed a little break. I woke up slowly in a chilly house with my Blanche on my legs, made my coffee and I sit here at 9:30 writing because I think I'll die if I ever stop.

Last night, I unpacked my painting supplies into the little cabinet I bought. If I can get some boxes of books unpacked, I'll treat myself and practice the painting I want to do on Wednesday. I think I may have a special spectator. That's the closest I'm ever going to be to on-stage with music and the whole idea makes me so happy I could burst. Live painting to live music to do something good for other people who make music. Now that's punk AF.