Chasing Ambulances

Early yesterday morning -- before 8:30 -- my son, Dominic, phoned to say that he was following his girlfriend, Sydney, to the hospital in an ambulance (Sydney, not Dominic).

Dominic and Sydney, Easter 2010

So Dominic was "chasing" an ambulance; but this post is not really about that ambulance...

First, however, let me assure you that Sydney is fine, if somewhat "out of it," resting at home after having her appendix removed yesterday afternoon. Yep. The tummy ache that had her doubled over, writhing in so much pain that Dominic could not move her on his own, turned out be acute appendicitis. The happy couple spent their entire Saturday (and Sydney, Saturday night) at the hospital. Quite a learning experience for Dominic -- and one I'm sure Sydney will be happy never to repeat!

But hearing the concern in Dominic's voice as he told me he was following the ambulance took me back more than 23 years, when my husband, Greg, followed an ambulance carrying me over icy roads. It was two days after Dominic had been born, and he'd been transferred the previous evening to a different hospital -- one with an Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Greg had followed that ambulance, too, knowing that I'd be well cared for until the next morning, when I could be moved.

Cared for, I was. Frantic with worry, I was. Sleep, I did not.

I remember that my cot, or stretcher -- whatever it's called -- was inclined enough so that I could see Greg in the car behind us. He looked frantic and sleepless, too.

So far, that's the only time I've taken a ride in an ambulance. It wasn't much fun. Thank God I was delivered safely, reunited with my baby boy. Thank God there was a hospital with a NICU nearby for us to be transferred to. Thank God for wonderful doctors and nurses -- and for miracles. Because of all of that, we were able to bring Dominic home in our car a month later. And now he's able to "chase" ambulances in his own car.