When Ryan arrived home, the first thing Fern noticed on Ryan’s toes, peeking out from his cast boot, were stains from the iodine solution. She would always say, “Dad’s toes look like Cheetos!” Having learned from him the value of humor, we tried to laugh about our newest invalid. One day when Irelyn really pissed him off, he chased her up the driveway, hopping on one foot, aiming the rubber cap of his crutch at her butt. He wanted me to join in reprimanding Irie for mouthing off, but I was too busy laughing. We were living in some TV sitcom.
By this summer, Fern had developed a kind of psychosomatic vomit reflex. We didn’t want to attribute her puking to stress, but after evaluations from our pediatrician—who ordered a CT scan to rule out anatomical anomalies; a close look at food allergies; and regular consultation with a speech pathologist, who ruled out tongue and palate abnormalities—we noticed Fern rushed to the bathroom under any kind of duress. Her stomach developed into a barometer of Ulrich family stability.
Most remarkable of all during Ryan’s two-day stay and his summerlong recovery was his reaction to the pain meds while hospitalized. Every two hours, as the chemical cure waned, he’d find himself impatient for the next dose, as if he’d die without it. When the nurses injected Dilaudid into his system, a languid happiness billowed up under his skin. By the twenty-four-hour mark, his pain was so expertly managed that he could focus on the sweet rush of meds instead of the easing pain. He knew now how effortless it was to fall under its spell. When the surgeon prescribed Vicodin upon his release, he weaned himself from its grasp before he’d finished half the bottle, all too aware of how ugly addiction could get.
By Gustav’s two-year-old summer, I had run off my baby weight—four pounds per baby for a total of twenty pounds. Pregnancy comes with its own superpowers: a woman can sleep but remain physically productive. Babies exercised inside my womb, satisfying my need to be active, but now I needed to move again all by myself. I was running twenty-five miles per week, and I was relieved to remember that the hormonal blitz from exercise resembled, though to a lesser extent, that of pregnancy and birth. The high I felt from the endorphin, dopamine, and serotonin highs was, at least for now, a short-term solution. I hit the pavement the way alcoholics attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Running, a kind of sobriety, carried me through the summer of Reginald Price, the summer of head lice, the summer of Ryan’s broken ankle, and the many months set aside for leaving Hazel Street.
But I was not always careful to hydrate, especially in the heat. Despite breaking his ankle and hobbling after five kids on crutches, Ryan carved out time for me to log miles. The first time I went out after his surgery, I was determined to make up for lost time, setting out on my eight-mile route at noon. My mouth was parched, and I needed to stop to stretch for leg cramps a few times.
When I returned home, I collapsed onto the toilet. I was not menstruating but I was bleeding, and although I knew something was wrong, tending to one’s symptoms is not always doable for parents. I needed to make lunch, nurse Gustav, chase the older kids up and down the block while they scootered, help Ryan ice his ankle, throw in a few loads of laundry, break up a couple of fights, and maybe—if I could find the time—bathe.
That night I woke up with a fever. I thought I might throw up, but I controlled my nausea with cold washcloths. My lower back was cramping. Something was not right. Ryan was sleeping downstairs still, on a bed Betty had loaned us, because of the injury, and I sought him out.
“If you hadn’t peed out blood earlier today, I’d say you could wait,” Ryan said. “But you need to call the doctor right now.”
And sure enough, the nurse urged me to the ER. I left my disabled husband and five children at midnight and drove to the hospital, where the same nurse who had tended to Ryan five nights earlier greeted me. Based on my Internet research, I believed I had a urinary tract infection, and I convinced Ryan I’d be home in a few hours with an antibiotic. When the nurse asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, I didn’t want to be dramatic. Lying down in the cool room felt good.
“About a four,” I said. “Maybe a five.” She inserted a caret between the numbers and jotted “4.5” before leaving the room. A young doctor stopped by shortly thereafter and said, based on my symptoms, he thought I’d be passing a kidney stone. I texted Ryan, “They think it’s a kidney stone. Doubt it. Be home soon.”
Initially I snoozed, listening to the light traffic in the hallway, but then I woke up cold as a cadaver. Nobody was around to help, so I helped myself, scavenging the drawers and cupboards, finding a thin blanket. My back pain spiked quickly, and I realized the pain, not my temperature, had awoken me. I opened the door and called out for assistance. When nobody came, I crawled onto my hands and knees and balanced on the rickety bed in my room, trying to stretch away the agony. Unlike birthing contractions, this ache was unwavering, like a long screw being drilled in and out of my muscles. I hated myself for choosing “4.5” on the pain scale. I’d reached a nine or a ten, symbolized on the pain scale with a face that cried big confetti tears. I’d never once felt this frightened during any of my natural childbirths.
“Help!” I screamed. “Somebody
