and action. God, let us get there. Let us help our son.
As a father, I felt I had blown it. But maybe there was still something I
could do to redeem myself. That hope was probably the only thing that kept
me from falling apart.
We crossed the North Platte line at about noon and made a beeline for
the pediatrician’s office. I hustled out of the SUV and bundled Colton in a
blanket, carrying him in my arms like a fireman. Sonja gathered up our
gear and followed me in, still carrying the hospital bowl.
At the reception desk, a pleasant woman greeted us.
“We’re the Burpos,” I said. “We called ahead from Imperial about our
son.”
“The doctor has gone to lunch.”
Gone to lunch?!
“But we called ahead,” I said. “He knew we were coming.”
“Please have a seat,” the receptionist said. “The doctor will be back in
ten or fifteen minutes.”
Her routine manner told me she did not feel our urgency, and inside me,
a rocket of anger went off. On the outside, though, I kept my cool. I could’ve
screamed and hollered, but it wouldn’t have done any good. Also, I’m a
pastor. We don’t have the luxury of publicly losing it.
Sonja and I found a seat in the waiting area, and fifteen minutes later, the
doctor arrived. He had the soothing appearance of maturity—silver hair,
glasses, a trim moustache. The nursing staff ushered us back to an exam
room, and Sonja handed him the packet of tests we’d brought, along with
the Xrays. He examined Colton so briefly that it occurred to me he might
be making up for lost time.
“I’m going to order a CT scan,” he said. “You’ll need to head across the
street to the hospital.”
He meant the Great Plains Regional Medical Center. Ten minutes later,
we found ourselves in the imaging clinic in perhaps the most important
argument of our lives.