Ann Martin - Stacey's Emergency

For these reasons and a lot more, I was glad that Dad stayed with me. Dad knew I was Stacey McGill, his daughter, a person — and not just "that patient in Room 322." He could

be my advocate. Oh, well. I'm off the subject again.

As I started to say before, Mom showed up on Sunday around noon.

"Mom!" I cried when I saw her. (I don't know why I sounded so surprised. She had told Dad, and he had told me, that Mom was going to come to New York that day and stay until I was out of the hospital.)

"Hi, sweetie," Mom replied. Her eyes were bright with tears, but she didn't cry. Instead, she leaned over, kissed me, and placed a big, fuzzy, pink pig next to me. "I tried to find Porky Pig," she said apologetically, "but that's hard to do on short notice." (Porky Pig is a favorite of mine. I can even imitate his voice.)

"That's okay," I said. "I don't think I've ever had a stuffed pig before."

Mom's eyes cleared and she smiled at me.

I smiled back, looking from rny mom to my dad and back to my mom again. When was the last time the three of us had been in the same room at the same time? I wasn't sure, but it definitely felt nice. My family was together again.

But not for long.

As soon as Mom had taken off her coat and found a place to sit down, Dad jumped up from his chair. "I could use some coffee," he

said. (Or, I think that's what he said. He left the room so fast I wasn't sure.)

Mom and I were alone. Before Mom could ask how I was feeling or what the doctors were doing, I said, "I hope my room isn't too messy for you."

Mom looked puzzled. She glanced around her. "You just got here yesterday, Stacey," she said. "You haven't had time to make a mess."

I laughed. "No, I mean my room at Dad's apartment. You probably couldn't even find the bed. I left clothes everywhere. Your suitcase — "

"Honey," Mom interruped me, "I'm not staying in your room. I'm staying at Laine's apartment, in the guest bedroom."

"You're staying at the Cummingses'?" I exclaimed. "Why?"

. "Because," Mom said calmly, "your aunt and uncle are out of town." (I have some relatives in New York, but I don't see them very often.)

"Why aren't you staying at Dad's, though?" I asked.

"Stacey, your father and I are divorced."

"I know you're divorced," I said crankily. "Does that mean you can't stay under the same roof together?"

"In our case, yes," Mom answered.

I think she was going to say something

more, but she changed her mind and stopped speaking. So I changed the subject.

"Look at my arm," I said. I held it out. In the crook of my right elbow were two Band-Aids. "They keep drawing blood to do tests on it. And every time I go to the bathroom, I have to go in a plastic cup. They keep testing my urine. It is so embarrassing. . . . Have you talked to any of the doctors yet?"

"Not yet," replied Mom. "Your father has, though. And no one knows much more than they did yesterday."

I guess that was why doctors and nurses were bustling in and out of my room more than usual. Not only did they continue to draw blood and to check my urine, but they tested my kidney function. They also raised my insulin. But that didn't seem to make a difference.

"It hasn't made a difference yet," Mom reminded me. "But it might."

I nodded. I was worried, though.

When Dad returned an hour and a half later (that was some long coffee break), Mom rushed out just as quickly as my father had earlier, saying that now she needed coffee.

"Dad," I said when Mom had left, "you don't have to stay with me."

"I know I don't — " Dad started to say.

"No, really. It's okay," I told him. "I think

I need a nap. I'm, pretty tired. Why don't you go home for awhile?"

"We-ell." Dad was hedging.

"I need my address book and some more toothpaste," I told him.

"All right/' said Dad.

I was alone. I didn't really need the address book or the toothpaste, but I did need some time to think in private (despite what I'd said earlier about wanting people with me, and hospitals being impersonal and everything). I turned my pillow over, eased myself against it, and started to think about Mom and Dad.

Before I had gotten too far, though, I found myself just gazing around my room. It was like every hospital room I'd ever been in, except that it was private. Sometimes I have stayed in double rooms, or even in rooms with three other kids. Private rooms are much smaller, of course, but then you do have a sense of privacy. (Duh. That's why they're called "private" rooms.) Well, you don't really have privacy because of the constant stream of doctors, nurses, nurse's aides, maintenance people, and anyone else who feels that he or she has a job to do in your room. But at least you don't have to put up with other patients and their visitors.

In my room was my bed. (Of course. That's the most important feature of any hospital

room.) It was one of those beds that can change position. During the day, I raised the part that's under my top half so that I could sit up. On the bed were sheets and two thin white blankets. I think the same company must provide blankets to every hospital in the world. The sheets, by the way, were stamped with the name of the hospital. I can't imagine why. Did anyone think that a patient would actually want to be reminded of her hospital stay by stashing a set of the sheets in a closet at home? Anyway, apart from my bed were two chairs for visitors, a bed table so that I could eat meals comfortably right in bed, a dresser, and a TV. The TV was bolted into a corner of the room, up near the ceiling. Now why was it bolted? It would be awfully hard to smuggle a television set out of the hospital. I mean, a TV isn't exactly something you can slip into your pocket or hide under your coat. Oh, well. I was glad there was a TV at all, even if it was bolted to the wall at such an angle that I got a stiff neck if I watched it for long.

I looked out the window. The view was of a gray building across the street. I couldn't tell whether it was an office building or some kind of warehouse. Whatever it was, it was boring. But a room with a bad view was better than a room with no view at all. I watched two

pigeons swoop by. And, for the first time, began to worry (and I mean heavy-duty worry) about why I was in the hospital. Was it all the candy and sugar I'd eaten recently? Maybe. But I hadn't been feeling well before I'd gone off my diet. I guess the sugar didn't help things, though. How sick was I? Why did I need a change in my insulin? Learning that I'm a brittle diabetic hadn't concerned me too much. As long as the insulin was doing its job, I was okay. But now the insulin wasn't working. What if the doctors raised the level and I got better for awhile, but then needed even more insulin? What if no one could find a way to give me enough insulin? What if ... I died? I'd read a book once about a girl with diabetes who couldn't get enough insulin and she did die. I also knew that was extremely rare. But what if it happened to me?

Stop playing "what if," I told myself.

I couldn't, though. I felt trapped in my room. Four stark white walls, the dreary building across the street, not even any pigeons now. What if the doctors couldn't find —

"Hey, Stace," said a familiar voice.

I turned my gaze from the window to the doorway. There stood Laine Cummings.

"Hi!" I exlaimed. "Come on in. Have an uncomfortable seat." (The two chairs for visitors were made of hard, molded plastic.)

Laine grinned. She slumped into one of the chairs. "Ah. Restful/' she said.

I laughed. "So how did you get in here?"

"Hey, I'm over twelve," replied Laine. "Anyway, at the visitors' desk downstairs I just pretended I was part of this crowd who was going to visit other people. Then I got off on your floor. ... So how are you feeling?"