Lucky Number 13. Times ten.

I snuck around to the pantry last night, phone in my hand.  I didn’t want my husband to know I was calling the nurse on the unit.  (I don't know why, I just didn't.)

Plus, all the contact names and numbers are there on the bulletin board.  Win-win.

I saw some bruises where Conor didn’t normally have them, and I was calling to check in with the nurse about his day.  I started off pretending that I was interested in his weight.

“He looks heavier to me, has Conor gained any weight recently?” I asked her.  

“No, he’s at 100lbs, so he’s gained maybe half a pound since he was admitted,” she replied.

“Oh, ok.  Um, uh, ok, today I noticed some bruises at the top of his arm?  Is there a new behavior he’s exhibiting?” I stammered out.

“Well, I did a bath check tonight and I did see the bruises,” she replied calmly.  “I’d talk to the behaviorist tomorrow about any new behaviors she might be seeing.”

I could hear her flipping papers.  “As you know, he’s been a busy boy today,” she reported half-jokingly.  “He’s had 113 aggressions today.  He’s quite active.”

I politely thanked her, and hung up the phone.

113.  That’s… horrifying, is all I can say.  Just horrifying.  I mean, I know he had three temper tantrums yesterday, but when you put it like that…

I could say that there are no words to describe my feelings, but, of course, I’m a writer and so I have a multitude of words.  Too many really. 

Nauseated.  Embarrassed.  Ashamed.  Horrified.  Perplexed.  Aggrieved. Depressed. Sad.  Exhausted.  Terrified. Undone. Despairing. Desperate. Puzzled. Scared. Anxious. Beleaguered. Overwhelmed.

113.  Man, that's alot.