After two days in hospital, I took a turn for the nurse.
~W.C. Fields ~
Becca is home and doing well. Thank you for all the expressions of compassion and concern that everyone sent. Although the tendency for appendicitis apparently has some genetic basis, and my husband is the one who brought that particular gene to the party, somehow I am at fault for this episode. I’m so glad she’s back to her usual cranky teenage self.

A few more details about the visit:

Whoever named the “Fast Track Waiting Room” was a marketing GENIUS.

It is possible to carry on a cell phone conversation while you have a four inch gash running from above your eyebrow down along your cheek.

There is no such thing as privacy of information in the ER. I know how much phenobarbital Paul had in his system (1.5 times the maximum amount), that he had to be admitted to the hospital, that they suspect the cut on his hand was a suicide attempt, and that the caregivers weren’t exactly coordinated in their directions to Paul (within five minutes: “Wake up, we need you to pee in this cup.” “Go to sleep. It’s going to be a while before we get you a bed.” “Wake up. You need to stay awake.”).

If you really want to piss off a teenager, cut a hole in their abdomen, put them in a room where the TV remote doesn’t work, and decline to bring a DVD player in from home so that they can watch movies.