A Lesson in Family and Friendship
Part I Dreams Are Shattered (Temporarily)
The year was 1996 and Michael was 13. A special, very special trip had been planned for over a year. Peter was going to take off most of the summer and he and Michael were going to cross the U.S. and back. We had a nice, cute, efficient “pop up” camper/trailer which hooked onto our Ford F150 pick up truck. People kept asking me why I wasn’t going. I told everybody that pretty much–since in the delivery room having Michael–I knew this trip was going to happen. I wanted the two of them to go, just the two of them as a father/son experience. Truthfully, I didn’t even want to go. It was not my definition of a fun vacation at that time.
Everything began to come together in the spring. We had enough money to cover expenses–it had been a concern because Peter was temporarily taking time off from his business–so all was well. Then, on a Saturday in May, about a week before Memorial Day weekend, Peter began having terrible pains in his abdomen. At first we were not too worried; it seemed like a stomach flu thing. But it all got worse, Peter’s temperature went up and up and he became almost delirious. Forget the stomach flu. I remembered from something I learned as a child, probably girl scouts, that a high fever combined with abdominal pain meant big trouble. I practically shoved Peter into the car and I took him, not to our community hospital which I distrusted, but to a better hospital on Philadelphia’s Main Line.
It was one of the worst nights of our lives. The ER staff knew what was going on and they whisked him into an examination room. At this point the story is laborious, so I’ll just say this. He had a burst appendix and peritonitis had set in. This was bad. He was kept there with mega doses of antibiotics in the hopes that he would not need surgery but, in the end, he did have surgery and had one of those colostomy bags. I was told he would only need it for three months.
I can’t say enough about the staff of Paoli Hospital. Everyone was wonderful, the nurses, the ER people, and the surgeons. Peter was in surgery for hours and I sat in the chapel they have there and prayed, over and over, for the return of Peter’s strength and health. Finally–it was over, he didn’t die of peritonitis–this does happen. Once the surgery was over I had a world of problems to face but I wasn’t feeling scared or weak. I knew that everyone was looking to me to be both strong and compassionate.
A nurse gave me credit for saving my husband’s life. If I had waited any longer and assumed it was a stomach flu, he would have died overnight.
Part II Everybody Pulls Together and We Survive–next time!
lgmwriting 