It's Pouring...

Well, you all know the old saying, "When it rains...". Yep, it's pouring.

2 Days before moving day, I was packing up the kitchen to move everything this weekend, and I heard Evan gag. I was around the corner, so I flew sideways just as he gagged once more, and a lovely shiny dime landed on the ground. With all of my packing, his piggy bank had been moved within reach, and he had taken it upon himself to open the bottom, get the change out, and proceed to insert coins into his mouth. Why? Who knows. The kid has been depositing coins into his piggy bank for over a year now- always under supervision of course. Not once has he decided to deposit a coin into his mouth.

So, I ask him if he's ok, and think we are out of the woods since he 1) obviously spit the coin up and 2) could breathe and talk just fine. I go into the kitchen to get him a sippy cup, and bring it back to him. He tries to take a sip and he gets frustrated and shouts "It's not working!!" and presses his face into the couch. So, we try again, with the same response.

"Evan, did you swallow any of the pennies?"
"No."
"Did you put more than one penny in your mouth?"
"I don't know."
"Does your throat hurt?"
"Yes."
"Show me where."
Evan proceeds to point to that lovely little soft spot on his windpipe. I ask again and he repeats that answer. Awww, shit.

A call to the pediatrician leads to a trip to the urgent care center nearby, where they hold my screaming son down for an xray. Sure enough, there is a nice round metal object lodged in his esophagus. Great. An ambulance is called, which takes AN HOUR to show up (thank god it wasn't an emergency or anything), and the EMT's arrive to take us for our first ambulance ride. Getting Evan in there was NOT fun. They had strapped a toddler seat into the gurney, but I had to convince Evan to get in there.

"Look Buddy! A race car bed! OOOOOHHH! Let's go for a ride!"
"NO, I DON'T WANT TO GO FOR A RIDE. I WANT TO WALK!!!"
Much more convincing ensues, and then I plop him onto the carseat, wrestle to get the harness buckled, and off we go. The whole way to the ambulance he's yelling at the top of his lungs, "YOU TAKE ME OFF OF THIS! I WANT TO WALK! I WANT TO WALK!"

The ambulance ride was quieter, once he realized he could see out the window and watch the cars behind us. He was good all the way to the Pediatric ER where, of course, they want him to have another xray. Oh, the trauma!

So, we wrestle to strip him down, hold him down, and xray his midsection. The coin has not budged, and it is now 3 hours later. So, a specialist is called in, and another xray (oh the joy!) to see how many coins are in there. Surprise! Not one, but TWO coins, stacked on top of each other and traveling down the esophagus sideways. Fun!

My husband finally shows up, the specialist says Evan needs surgery to remove the coins because nature is not letting them work their way into the stomach, where then mother nature would work them straight out into his poop. I'm terrified and hysterical- not to mention, feeling guilty as hell. So, it is decided he can have the surgery NOW and all of a sudden, the room is a flurry of activity.

Evan has not had a nap, is hysterical, and now they want to stick an IV in him. My husband is holding him down, they get the first IV in his hand, which he promptly tears out. Blood everywhere, hysterical child, hysterical mother, very stern nurses lecturing my husband for not holding him tight enough, and they attempt another IV. The whole time, Evan is screaming "YOU LET GO OF MY HAND, LADY! YOU DON'T HURT ME! LET ME GO NOW! I WANT TO GO HOME!" Enough to break my heart daily for the next 10 years.

Fast forward a bit- the surgery takes about 20 minutes, and they extract 2 little dimes, which I have on display in a jar on the top of my refridgerator (where Evan cannot reach them). The nurses warn us that between 2 and 4 years old, the kids wake up from the anethesia just absolutely wild and angry. This was an understatement. Evan was insane. Thrashing, screaming, hitting, yelling, flailing- for about 30 minutes. They finally gave him a shot of Demerol, and the world became suddenly peachy for the kid. Surgery was forgotten, a popsicle was eaten, and all was right with the world again. He talked to all the nurses, introduced himself repeatedly, watched a little Animal Planet (likening the mustache on the walrus to Daddy's mustache), and was just a big happy ball of kid again.

We got to take him home that same night, where you would never know he had just gone through all of this. He ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some cheese, gulped down some chocolate milk and crashed for the night after a good amount of Cars playtime.

The only residual is when I tell the story, Evan starts to get nervous, and says "What are you talking about???" repeatedly, and then when he remembers, he says, "WE DON'T EAT THOSE!IT'S BAD!"