In homage to “Men in Black” (which we watched three times this week) I’ll call him K. K was brought to our home as a foster placement in February of 2002. He had been living with a relative somewhere and ‘it didn’t work out.’ He was quiet and shy, and at 18 months had no words in his vocabulary. He would point at things he wanted and scream “E!” This was fun for about five minutes.

Two days after he arrived he got sick, really sick. He was breathing roughly, and running a fever. This was a Sunday night, and I spent the night in his bedroom, sleeping fitfully while listening to his raspy breath. The next morning we called our pediatrician (she hadn’t even met him yet) and they said don’t even bring him in, just take him to the ER. I’ll spare the details but after six hours of waiting, blood tests, x-rays, and more waiting, we were admitted to the hospital. E!

Moving an 18 month old into the hospital is surprisingly easy, you sign a form or two and bang, there you are. A few hours after it was official, and I had called his case worker to notify them, a nurse came in looking earnest. “There was.. a man… here looking for him. He seemed strange, so we told him he wasn’t here. We know he’s a CPS case.” We called his case worker again, they had notified family that he was hospitalized. Well, duh, there’s only one hospital in the county where he would be.

The nurses were concerned about a disturbance so we were moved to a private room, down at the end of the pediatric ward (which is only a dozen rooms or so). By the next morning his grandfather just found us, he had peeked in every room until he saw his boy. He meant no harm, he just wanted to see him and make sure he was ok. Too bad he didn’t take more interest in the first 18 months, we might not be here. The next day his mom came to visit, and hold him for a minute. She wasn’t old enough to drive, much less have a child. No disturbances, no problems. They just wanted to see the boy was ok.

We somehow survived the hospital stay; spending Valentine’s day on the pediatric ward, and watching the winter olympics from Salt Lake there. Our pediatrician took him as a patient and came to visit the very first day he was admitted. After a few days on oxygen and nebulizer treatments they let him come home, after insuring that we did, indeed, know how to work a nebulizer.

Fast forward almost two three years (my, how time flies), to this afternoon. After running 105 degree fever, pooping and barfing up a storm, I’m back at the ER. This time he can talk (a little too well), this time he called me dad. This time his grandpa didn’t show up, and we didn’t have to notify a caseworker. And this time? He didn’t have pneumonia. Just a bad upper respiratory infection. He laughed through the x-rays, flirted with the nurses, and named everything in the exam room three times. “There’s a clock! And there’s a trash can!” This time was much better than our first time.

We’re home and fine, no hospital stay (crossed fingers that it doesn’t get worse).

Happy new year indeed.

Update: He’s feeling much better. Still can’t keep food down, but is much happier.