Shasta Kearns Moore
What I know and what I don’t
You’re looking at me like I don’t know.
And you’re right, hospital staffer: I don’t.
I don’t know what all your acronyms mean. I don’t know the difference between ketamine in a nasal spray and ketamine in an IV. I don’t know what dosage his weight requires. I don’t know how bad this injury is. I don’t know whether the adrenaline coursing through my veins and my child’s blood-curdling screams during the 20-minute (or was it 20 hours?) drive here of “I’M GOING TO DIE!!” are even remotely warranted.
Hell, I don’t even know who you are. Who are you to my child?
Are you the CNA, the one I see most often but who has practically no authority to do anything? Are you in that weird new middle class of medical personnel — the land of physicians’ assistants and nurse practitioners and actual honest-to-God registered nurses? Or do I need to ask for a triage nurse or a charge nurse to get some shit done? Or the doctor? Or the specialist?
Oh, you noticed that, huh? I didn’t know but now I do. I’m starting to learn the difference between you all. I don’t waste my time explaining things to the third-in-command anymore. I’m learning.
Because even though you’re looking at me like I don’t know, I do know some things.
I know that my child is not like other children. I know most parents feel that way, but in this case it is true. I know he comes into this situation with trauma scars and he will come out of it with trauma scars and therefore you MUST up your game RIGHT NOW.
I know that when he gets calm, you think he will tolerate you and your prodding. But I know that the tiger is never caged.
And I know that you don’t know how to tell him what to expect during this hospital stay so it is up to ME — and all-the-things-I-don’t-know-but-am-rapidly-trying-to-learn — to prepare his terrified little self.
You may know a lot of things. You may know if this situation is serious. You may know how the drugs he takes every day will interact with the drugs you are about to give him. You may even know his weight down to the gram.
You know how to patch him up, and now that you have, let me tell you what I know.
I know how serious his injuries can be because I’ve seen him fighting for every damn breath. And I know how long it took to find the right concoction of daily drugs. And I know what happens when he doesn’t get them.
And I know my arms are strong enough to carry him out those double doors home, because I’ve done it before.
And I’m doing it again. Right now.
Shasta Kearns Moore publishes the weekly newsletter Medical Motherhood, a news source for those raising disabled children. A lifelong Oregonian, she has bylines on NPR.org, The Oregonian/OregonLive and other publications, as well as radio and TV appearances.