Leaving Las Vegas, Part I

They say that whatever happens in Las Vegas stays in Las Vegas. For David this means part of the middle finger on his right hand.

We left San Diego fully intact. We were fine when we landed in Las Vegas. And then all Hell broke loose.

We had promised the kids that they could each get a toy once we got to Las Vegas – something that would keep them occupied in the airport and, hopefully, during at least part of the 3-plus hour flight back to Indianapolis. We got to our gate and settled in amongst our too-many, too-heavy carry-on bags. We were flying Southwest and the kids started playing with one of those poles they use to demarcate the boarding order. This particular pole was the one that has the sign on top with three sides: A, B, and C. It spun around another pole inside of it. “Guys, stop playing with that,” I must have said at least 25 times.

Eventually, Nancy took Dave to get his promised toy and I stayed with Trin to guard the bags (and harangue her about playing with the pole). Dave got a firefighter set from the Husdon News store. They returned and it was my turn to take Trin. She got a white giraffe with hearts all over it, as well as a magnet and a purple pen for Nancy. Just before we left, she noticed a pink pencil adorned with a heart on top. She wanted it as well, but I vetoed her. When we got back to the gate, Dave was happily playing with his firefighter set, but Trin was still peeved about the lack of pink-pencil-with-heart-on-top. I tried to get her on to something else (like her $10 ugly-ass giraffe) but she wasn’t giving in. And so, like all good fathers, I caved…huffily, but still I caved. We made the long trek back to Hudson News, got pencil (now a magic wand) and hiked back.

When I got in sight of Nancy, I saw that she was holding Dave and was talking to another couple. We had been chatted up by several people already about the kids – were they adopted, were they from a previous marriage (my favorite), where were they from, would we like tips on straightening Trin’s hair (uh, no), etc. – and so I thought we were getting more of the same. Nancy caught my eye and motioned for me to pick up the pace a little. When I got there, I could see (and hear) that Dave was crying and Nancy was holding his hand tightly in order to stop the blood flow. The couple in question had brought ice and paper towels to help out.

Dave, it seems, decided that the pole was still more interesting than a firefighter set and started spinning it around again. Nancy heard him say “Ow!” and looked over to see him pull his finger away and grab it with his other hand. Thinking he’d merely pinched his finger, she walked over…

BLOOD…BLOOD…MORE BLOOD…SCREAMING…TEARS SPRAYING OUT OF DAVE’S EYES

By the time I got there, both the airline and the airport had sent representatives to take names and write reports. Paramedics were called. Five showed up…with a stretcher. Together, they determined that Dave needed stitches and that we would have to go to the emergency room in an ambulance, or an Urgent Care center in a cab. We chose the latter, though I think Dave would have preferred the former. In any case, Nancy and Dave got to ride in a wheelchair while I followed, carrying all the bags and Trinity to the taxi stand.

It turns out that cab drivers in Las Vegas know very little about the city itself. It wasn’t that our man didn’t know where this particular Urgent Care Center was; he didn’t seem to know what we were talking about. Street names, landmarks…nothing. But they are better dressed than any other cab drivers on the planet.

In any case, we did finally arrive at the clinic and checked in. Nancy started the paperwork while I watched the kids. Within a few minutes, a nurse came over and told us that the doctor thought that David should actually go to the pediatric hospital. They would triage him at the clinic, but then send him over to the hospital: no need to finish the paperwork. They called Dave in to triage within a few minutes and determined that they would, in fact, be able to treat him since, well, there was no skin left to actually suture and anything the hospital could do, they could do as well.

And so we sat…and sat…and sat…and watched all sorts of people come in after us and get treated before us. Trin was without nap and was morphing into all of the Flying Wallendas at once – running and hopping and flipping and flopping. We turned passive aggressive, talking about our plight in increasingly loud voices. Finally, I went to the window and asked why we were still sitting there in the waiting room. It turns out that since we hadn’t filled out the paperwork we were, thus, not even in line to be seen.

I stuffed the brains back into my head, asked for the clipboard with the forms on it, and filled out the paperwork. No, Dave does not smoke. No, Dave does not currently have a problem with alcohol or drugs. No, Dave does not have ulcers.

And, like magic, he got in to see the doctor. Mary Lou Retton and I stayed behind in the waiting room. She sprinted from one end to the other while I had a nice long chat with Rudy, the guy next to me who got poked in the finger by a piece of luggage and came to the clinic in a panic about staph infections and – yes, he said it – hepatitis. He made at least four phone calls to loved ones while we were there, just in case he didn’t make it, I assumed. Or maybe he knows something we don’t. Like whatever goes in your finger, stays in your finger.

Nancy and Dave returned after about 30 minutes, Dave looking no worse for wear, and Nancy looking a wee bit wan, having actually nearly fainted when they pulled the bandage off his finger and blood began pouring out again. She described it as the sudden sensational combination of ringing in her ears, cold sweats, and a desire to vomit. She decided to sit down, and recovered quickly, or so I am told. I was too busy spotting Nadia Comaneci on the uneven bars.

To be continued....