Cook: The CT scanner whirled. These are the moments you don't ever forget

photo David Cook

Erlanger, you want to build a new children's hospital?

We're in for a penny and a pound, all because of Saturday night.

It was bedtime. My boy had brushed and PJ'd, just like normal.

Then, everything went lights-out abnormal.

He remembers the room starting to spin. Downstairs, we heard a thud. We ran in, and he was splayed out on the floor, a loser in some prize fight nobody knew he was fighting.

"I'm dizzy," he said, tears in his eyes.

Hours earlier, he'd been with friends. It's a gospel truth: When three or more boys are gathered together in the name of boyhood, someone's going to get hurt. There had been wrestling, pillow fights, a head colliding with something hard, and the something hard winning.

Not for the first time, he came home with a goose-egg. It was cartoon-sized, the kind you'd get from an Acme anvil.

Concussion?

We tried to think of what Roger Goodell would do, and then do the opposite. We checked everything: my wife Maglited his eyes, pupils responding. No nausea. Wasn't tired. (He couldn't remember if he blacked out, which puzzled me like a Zen riddle.)

Mostly, he seemed fine.

Then, slowly, he didn't. Said his head hurt. Got emotional when he shouldn't have. Walked a little zig-zaggy, in a Bourbon Street kind of way. Then, while we were watching college football, there was this red flag, a sure sign of brain trouble:

"Dad," he said, "I think I might start cheering for Ole Miss."

"That's it," I said, scooping him up. "We're going for help."

And that's how we ended up in the emergency room at the children's hospital at Erlanger.

And that's how I realized anew how singularly important that building is.

And how blessedly good a new one would be.

"Tell me what happened," the doctor said.

I'll tell you what happened: Nine years ago, this boy was born, and he safe-cracked our hearts right out from under us. We're hooked on this sweat-ball. Then, our straight flush turned royal: little sister arrived, and now, wherever they go, our hearts are sure to follow.

So we haggle with life: keep them safe, healthy, happy.

But life plays by its own rules.

"Accidents happen," said the nurse running the CT machine.

He was stretched out on that thin table, and she was about to assembly-line him into the CT scanner. I told him it was a white donut. He smiled, then stopped, remembering he was supposed to hold still.

I looked at him: that boy-body, all those shin and elbow bruises like leopard spots. He looked at me: this 40-something dad trying to breathe in a room that suddenly seemed short on oxygen.

The CT scanner whirled. These are the moments you don't ever forget: Cut me open and you can see them, like rings on a tree trunk.

So you realize again how important children's hospitals are. Every inch of them. The equipment, the people, whether or not they honor the Pooh-nature of children, and if they remember the ocean crossing that is life.

(Kevin Spiegel, stop by and say hello to Dr. Bruns, Dr. McDermott and nurse John Pound. Saturday night, they made your hospital proud.)

Ten minutes after the CT scan, the doctor came back.

No skull fracture. No bleeding in his brain. CT scan, all good.

"It's a concussion," she said.

Then, an unforgettable prescription.

"Brain rest," she said.

No TV, no reading, no brain stimulation, no nothing. Your cerebrum gets to put its feet up on the couch. It's like the opposite of Twitter.

"It's my brain freeze," the boy said.

He's going to be fine. (More than ever, I am humbled and fathoms-deep compassionate toward families whose children suffer brain trauma. Take a bow, Scout Beam.)

This probably won't be our last ER injury. Next time, it may be his arm. Or spleen. Or alternator. Who knows.

So we'll speed down to this emergency room for children that's right on the razor's edge between joy and fear, pillow fights and CT scans. Doctors and nurses will work on his body, but really -- don't you forget this, little Cooks -- they're working on two patients at the same time.

They've got my heart in their hands.

Contact David Cook at dcook@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6329. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter at DavidCookTFP.

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