Nothing Says “Relaxing” Like a Sunday Evening Stomach Pump

Last night marked our very first Emergency Room visit with Mr. C.  And, NO, it wasn't brought on by my cooking, thank you very much.

His timing was impeccable: he waited until my first evening out with a friend in months, then promptly attempted to O.D. on Flinstone vitamins. According to Bee, our little cherub grabbed a handful and shoved them into his mouth, chewing as fast as he could while Bee launched himself at him and tried to pry open his lips. Apparently, some WWE-worthy wrestling then commenced, with the first round going to Mr. C, who was able to swallow all but one of the pills. Bee dragged the aforementioned spit-covered, disintegrating pill from the child's mouth and (I can just see it in my head) then proceeded to freak out.

Since he didn't know how many pills had been left in the bottle, Bee really couldn't tell how much of an overdose had occurred. So he tried to call me to see if I knew. I was about 5 minutes into a movie I'd been dying to see, so – naturally – as a Considerate Movie Patron, I did not have a cell phone on. Which resulted in Bee having to call the kind folks at the theater, who then quietly wandered the aisles calling my name to get me out to the lobby's telephone. When one is being called away from the theater, and the only person who knows you're at said theater is your toddler's father, one's heart invariably skips a few beats as one is power-walking to the phone.

I told Bee I thought there'd only been about 5 pills left in that bottle, so Mr. C probably hadn't inhaled more than 3 or 4 (which is still about 6 times the amount he needs). Bee was manic. “I thought that bottle was full,” he insisted. When he's flustered, I tend to get calmer, which is a good balance to our marriage.

“No, I only moved a few pills over to it when I broke them in half,” I said. “Did you read the bottle? What's it say about overdosing?”

“All sorts of bad stuff,” was Bee's helpful reply.

“Well, then, you'd better call the pediatrician or the Poison Control Center,” I reasoned. The theater staff, hearing only my side of the conversation, looked particularly alarmed. My mind was racing, but I still managed to feel just a little embarrassed that all this was over a daily vitamin.

Instead of immediately hanging up to call, Bee re-hashed what had happened and insisted again that he thought the bottle was full. No amount of my doubt on that subject seemed to persuade him, but I finally convinced him to interrupt our pediatrician's Sunday evening with a call. I figured the doctor could at least tell Bee warning signs to watch for.

Alas, upon being told of an overdose of perhaps 4-7 pills (Grr! I'd said five!), the pediatrician told Bee to get Mr. C to the hospital immediately to get his stomach pumped. Apparently, overdosing on vitamins with iron in any amount is considered a particularly bad thing. So Bee had to call me back so I could meet him at the hospital. To add to his stress, Mr. C's carseat was in my car, which was complacently parked just minutes from the hospital, but therefore of no use to him at home. So S.B. had to help keep Mr. C secure in the back of the truck while Bee carefully drove the fifteen minutes to meet me in the ER lobby.

Long story short, we spent about forty-five minutes in an exam room attempting to keep Mr. C from touching every single piece of equipment so that a professional could have us sign consents to be billed while a doctor called the Poison Control Center to report back that those multi-vitamins are now formulated so that it would take upwards of twenty pills to be considered an overdose.

We did get some nifty hospital bracelets, though, which means that each memento probably only cost us about $50. I've got a perfectly good toilet at home for flushing money down.

What are you going to do, though? If your child's only supposed to get half a vitamin, even a whole one could be considered a major overdose, so how irresponsible would we be as parents to not call about it? Siiigh; if only we'd called the Poison Control Center first, instead of our obviously-outdated pediatrician.

As we packed up to leave the hospital and Mr. C continued to ransack the room, yet-another staff member arrived with 'discharge instructions'. Which is ironic in itself, as we really weren't even 'incharged'. I accepted the paperwork with one hand while swooping Mr. C away from the medical cart with the other and Bee and S.B. intercepted him before he launched himself off the hospital gurney.

“He may be a little hyper from the vitamins,” finished the staff member.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that this is him when he's sedate.