Tomorrow when you wake up

A few weeks ago I had to take Nils to the emergency room. It was the best kind of "emergency" in that it wasn't, really. The pediatrician's office had just closed for the day. It was best, they said, not to wait until morning. No need to panic. Just head on over to the ER.

There was a lot of waiting, and there were some tears (oh Nils, if only you could understand that an underarm thermometer is nothing to be afraid of!). There was a lot of medical jargon and a few reassuring statements that only made me more anxious ("This doesn't mean it's asthma", they said over and over again). Otherwise, it was okay.

We ended up spending a few hours on a rolling bed in a hallway. Nils did his best to sleep, and with nothing else to do I listened in on the conversation at the bed next to ours. A boy of 12 or 13 was talking with a psychologist. Were the kids at school giving you trouble? Yeah. How had you been feeling lately? Okay. The mother piped up: before today he hadn't acted out at school in some time, and he had been doing better at home, too. They talked about adjusting medication. Getting up to stretch my legs I noticed a security guard posted at the boy's bed. I also saw how tired his mother looked. How had he acted  out today, I wondered.

Eventually, Oliver was able to join us. He came bearing bagels - even better. "Did you see the girl two beds down?" he asked. "She has cuts all up and down her arms." She was maybe 14, and she chatted happily with the security guard posted at her bed. "You gotta ignore those girls," he said to her. "You're absolutely beautiful. They're just jealous." Her mother dozed in a chair at the foot of her bed, arms reaching up in her sleep to hold on to her daughter's legs.

We eventually got the okay to go home, and as we were getting everything together the boy approached us. "Would you like this?" he asked. It was an origami crane. Rusty orange. Impressive.

"Wow, you can make these?" I asked. "I could make a balloon when I was younger, but the crane was always too difficult."

"He makes them all the time," his mother said. I could hear the pride in her voice. "He likes to give them to people."

"I'd love it. Thank you."

Tonight, some weeks later, Nils was having a little trouble going down for the night. At one point I held him in his darkened bedroom, his security blanket slung over my shoulder while I stroked his hair. "I love you so much, Beansie," I whispered. "You sleep well. Tomorrow when you wake up we'll have pancakes and go to the park."