I’m going to write down all the details of this afternoon and evening so that I can then promptly forget today’s scare.
We had a very normal day until about 2:30 this afternoon. The trash truck woke you from your nap, which is typical on Mondays. You had Dora fruit snacks (your favorite) and played in the living room while I started packing our bag for today’s swimming playgroup.
I heard you grunting and figured you were working on an impressive diaper. When I asked you if you needed a new diaper you said your tummy hurt and lay down on a blanket on the living room floor. I figured you either sucked down your Dora fruit snacks so quickly that you were gassy or that you didn’t chew your Dora fruit snacks well enough and were having pain as they traveled whole down to your tummy. Either way I figured it wasn’t a big deal, so we hopped into Mandy’s Tahoe to carpool to playgroup.
When we arrived at playgroup you were still grunting and complaining of stomach pains. You were also lethargic and on fire, so I borrowed a thermometer from our host. You would only sit still long enough for me to get a reading of 102. When the nurse didn’t answer his line at the doctor’s office, I pushed “0” until I finally reached the receptionist. She understood my concern and patched me through to the call nurse.
The nurse was most concerned about the grunting and considered it more of a breathing issue than a symptom of stomach cramps. He set up an appointment with Dr. Patil for tomorrow afternoon (since it was 4:30 she couldn’t see us today) and instructed us to take you to urgent care.
Mandy was completely understanding of our desperate situation. She jumped out of the pool, dressed Caroline and whisked us off lickety split to our local urgent care center. Your daddy met us there and we took turns comforting you and entertaining your brother while we waited to see the doctor.
The doctor was perplexed by your symptoms and felt you needed some additional tests that could not be performed at urgent care, so she directed us to go to the new Dell Children’s Hospital. We stopped to fill up on gas and drop your daddy off at home with your brother. I still had my swimsuit on, so I ran inside to change clothes while your daddy made you feel better by combing his fingers through your hair.
We headed up to the Children’s Hospital during rush hour. I was a nervous wreck thinking about all the things that might be wrong with you and all the things I didn’t even know could be wrong with you. Of course there were no close parking spots near the ER door, so I had to haul you and an unnecessarily heavy diaper bag across a hot parking lot. As frustrating as this was, it may have actually worked to our benefit. By the time we made it to the admissions desk, you were having noticeable difficulty breathing, so your file was pushed to the top of the pile. The urgent care physician called the hospital to tell them we were coming, so they had quite a bit of information about your condition already. The admissions nurse even said “you must be Georgia” when we arrived.
The admissions nurse was calm yet concerned that you were having trouble breathing, so she put us in a room immediately. This simple action was both reassuring and terrifying. I was glad to know that they were taking your condition very seriously. But the simple act of getting us quickly into an exam room before doing the usual admissions and triage protocols, as well as bumping us ahead of a large waiting room full of sick kids, was daunting.
Two very nice and calm nurses put stickers on your chest that connected to a machine to monitor your heart rate, and they attached a blood oxygen monitor to one of your toes. They took your temperature rectally. It was 103.1.
Up to this point, I had been slightly shaky with fear and a little teary at times. But I nearly lost it when the nurse said your temperature was 103.1. You were in no mood to cooperate, so I had to force the Motrin down your throat.
By the time the doctors came in to evaluate you, I had repeated your symptoms to the pedi’s call nurse, the urgent care doctor and nurse, the admissions nurse and three nurses tending to your care. All seemed surprised at the sudden onset of your symptoms.
The pulmonologist determined that your lungs were clear of any fluid, but the pediatrician ordered an x-ray to rule out pneumonia. He also ordered a urine test to make sure you didn’t have a bladder infection. Neither test was fun. To obtain a good picture of your lungs you were placed in a clear plastic tube with your hands strapped over your head. It was very scary for you, but probably the least emotionally scarring way of completing the task. I had to help hold you down for the urine test while the nurses used a catheter to get a urine sample. I guess they couldn’t get a usable sample from your wet diaper.
A short time later one of the nurses returned to take your temperature again…rectally. By this time you were feeling so bad that you barely fought the procedure. Your fever had gone down to 100.6.
In between each test you slept on my shoulder, a true testament to your condition since you rarely sleep anywhere other than your bed. You haven’t napped on my shoulder since you were an infant. It was incredibly sweet except for the fact that I hadn’t nursed your brother in several hours so I was pretty full and sore.
The doctor returned to tell us that both tests were negative. No pneumonia, no bladder infection. You were now breathing normally, so he attributed your pulmonary distress and your stomach complaints to your high, high fever. Ultra high fevers can bring on such symptoms, especially when the fever comes on so quickly.
He didn’t really have a firm diagnosis, except to say that it was likely a non-specific virus. I asked a lot of questions, reassured him that we would follow up with your doctor tomorrow and was sent home with orders to rotate doses of Motrin and Tylenol every three hours. All that worry for Motrin and Tylenol.
I dressed you, gathered our things and paid our $150 copay to the nice man at the check-out desk before me and my now engorged breasts trekked back across the parking lot to our car. I strapped you in your car seat and kissed you about a hundred times while repeating to you how much I love you.
We’re supposed to watch you for the next few days to see if you’ll break out in a rash (indicating possibly Roseola) or continue to have stomach pains (appendicitis?). But other than that you should be fine. It could have been a whole lot worse.
I’m still coming down from the day’s scary turn. I just keep thinking of how quickly it came on, and how utterly miserable you looked, and how bad it could have been.
And how much I love you.
