Tom the Neb Guy

"Shake it. Shake it hard, then get a tight seal, then hit it. You can't overdose on this stuff, guys, you will not overdose. Do not be afraid to give it to him. Get a tight seal. Hit it. If you don't feel like he got enough, hit it again. Any questions?"

The Kid was watching weird Nick toons in the Children's Hospital last night, admitted for wheezing and difficulty breathing. There are two types of nurses. The bubbly, loud nurses try to make friends with children by taking their voices up an octave and a decibel and waving stickers in front of their eyes. The Kid cringes and turns away from this. Tom is the other type of nurse, matter-of-fact, treating kids like they're people.

Bubbles and Condescending Doc - "Oh, we don't call it a fever until it hits 101 degrees" - set my baby on edge as soon as they walk in the door. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure CD with her vast fever knowledge and Bubbles are great at what they do, but I take on The Kid's posture right along with him and slouch in the corner while they lift up his shirt and put their cold stethoscopes on his skin. "Do you want a toy, do you want to play?" and then "Hi, hi!" they say, as if they are going to turn his frown upside down and no grumpy gusses are tolerated at The Children's Hospital, no sir.

Tom demands no such thing. It's like he realizes The Kid is in pain and lets him be in pain. He is over six feet tall. He's got a tat of a wedding ring on his left ring finger. His head is shaved .25 inches from his skull. He looks tired, and I don't blame him, because it's 10:00 pm. He's got on black crocs and blue scrubs, and a gold watch. He doesn't address The Kid, but kind of moves at him sideways until he's got his stethoscope over the little blue shirt and is listening to the ragged breathing. The Kid actually sighs and I can feel his hand relax.

Tom brings back the nebulizer tubing and hooks it up to the wall, explaining the drug Albuterol which my asthmatic Old Man is quite familiar with.

"Buddy, you will learn that Mommies always win."

I place The Kid on my lap and he is wheezing loudly now in quick, jerky gasps. We place the mask over his face and he begins to scream. I hold his arms and the mask over his face, not knowing how I have so many hands, and Tom stands in the corner, watching. The Kid screams during the ten minute treatment, and struggles, but I do not let the mask fall from his face. The Old Man stands beside us, not knowing where to put his hands. The Kid's screams gradually become stronger and bust out of him at the volume I'm used to and I thank god that I can hear my child screaming like normal.

Tom comes over and takes the mask off, and I see The Kid contemplate throwing a haymaker at Tom and thinking better of it. Tom walks out of the room and I hear "Mommies always win, Buddy," as he leaves.