Health care scare.

March 6, Needville.

Watching Dylan's sudden high fever slowly subside and Nicolas waking up from a nap himself again, thinking back on the ordeal of the last two days and what it is about hospitals that makes me want to run away.
It is a most common trait I imagine; one no doubt heightened by the memory of seeing my father die in a hospital bed. Or is it just the fear of losing control, the reason I didn't want to give birth my children in a hospital and didn't? Or the fear of putting a finger in what is basically a dysfunctional health care system?
All these together, most likely.
It could have been oh-so much worse, this ordeal, this was just a blimp on the road compared to the myriad of illnesses and accidents out there, and still, in a 24-hour stay at the Driscoll Children's Hospital and only one personnel rotation we saw ten nurses, four doctors and residents, and four social workers, in addition to the expected chaplain and a hospital hygiene checker, for lack of a better expression (yes, the nurses did clean their hands, if not every time at least a reasonable amount of times; but no, the bathroom's cleanliness was not exactly noteworthy.)
Out-of-control health care costs? How about cutting down just a tad on the redundancy, what with its dizzying and unsettling effect on the already stressed-out parents?
The good thing is that but for the occasional grumpy one, all the personnel attending us were courteous, attentive and efficient, not to mention that they put my son back on his feet.