I thought I had been through the worst of things when MiKayla got her tonsils removed and the recovery was a bit on the harsh side. Then I realized I was so very wrong when I spent a night at Docs on Call clutching Tyler to me as tightly as possible, 3 other women helping restrain him, while a doctor administered three stitches to the bottom of his chin while listening to the ear piercing shrieks emit from his tiny body.
Then came last night.
I walked into my bedroom to check on my sleeping boy, whom only two hours earlier was in a peaceful and comfortable state of slumber, to find his head twitching backwards with each struggle of a breath, skin a pale white I had never seen before, and a fever. Not just feeling warm to the touch fever, but a fever that you could feel the heat pouring out of his body just by standing within a foot of him. I ran and grabbed the thermometer. 104.8 was the reading. Panicked I rushed to get the Motrin ready and into his system and as he sat, body trembling, fighting to swallow the medicine he had no energy to fight, I knew it was time to make that dreaded trip to the emergency room.
It all started last weekend, Halloween.
MiKayla woke one morning with a voice that sounded like she had been screaming endlessly at a rock concert the night before. She didn't feel badly, just couldn't talk. Later that night she entered our room and woke us from our peaceful slumber, yea I made that up, we never have peaceful slumber, but she sounded like a seal crying. We cuddled her and gave her medicine to treat her symptoms and the next day she was fine. Halloween night came lots of Trick-or-Treating but without the spark of excitement you usually witness in a child. We knew she was sick and when her breathing sounded just plain weird the next day, it was a trip to the doctor.
Croup.
What we were hearing when she breathed was what they called stridor. Just as quickly as they diagnosed her, they were giving her steroids that seemed to instantaneously cure her breathing. We soon left with a fair warning from the doctor that Tyler would more than likely develop croup so keep a close eye on him. I figured, sure he'll get sick but we will manage as he never has any serious complications, MiKayla is usually the one to worry about and that ship had sailed.
Two days later Scott once again took off for Wyoming and I settled into a nice quiet routine with the kids, taking it easy and allowing us time to rest and recover. That night at 12:10 came the loud, barking sound of my son coming into my room, me scooping him up and cuddling him, loving him, ready to tackle the familiar sickness that he could not escape. The next day he seemed fine to an extent and we were lounging around the house as I was feeling quite a bit under the weather myself.
It all changed at 3:00 pm when Tyler woke from his nap with a fever of 103.4. I did what mom's do best and filled him with the fever reducing medicine, opened the windows, convinced him to drink water, and then we cuddled to a movie. I was quite prepared to have to take him into the doctor at some point since his breathing was making noises I had never really heard but was telling myself it was part of the sickness and he would be just fine. I gave him his bath, made him his milk, and before I knew it I found him snuggled in my bed, peacefully resting for the night. Or so I thought.
Fast forward to the Emergency Room.
Poor Tyler was so delirious and lethargic from the fever of 104.8 that we struggled to get an accurate weight, accurate temp, accurate vitals, accurate everything. He screamed in the most god awful shrill when the stethoscope was placed on his back which prompted an attack of coughing followed by struggles to breathe. They rushed him into a room where a Respiratory Therapist, reeking of smoke, walked into the room with a scowl on her face that seemed to imply we were interrupting her precious time. She barely said two words other than the bitch that her pager doesn't go off and quickly exited the room.
The nurse came in and tried to check Tyler but he wanted nothing to do with anyone other than me. His arms wrapped tighter around my neck, legs clenched around my waist, face nestled into my neck, all the while crying "Mama, I want mama." The doctor came in to listen to him and without much luck came to the conclusion that no matter where his vitals were at that moment, we desperately needed to get meds into his system to make him more comfortable. The chest X-ray was ordered. The steroids, Tylenol, and epinephrine were ordered. The hell began.
Now I know some kids fight taking medicine and we deal with it. We convince them that it is only for the better and soon they will understand. Usually our kiddos relent and take the medicine because they trust in you.
NOT MY KID. NOT TONIGHT.
Three of us had to hold him down while trying to squirt medicine down his throat. His mouth was being pinched, he was trying to spit the medicine back at us, his legs were kicking me, arms hitting, vocals being stretched to a limit I never knew existed. The strength that came from that little body utterly rendered me speechless. I had a little strong man on my hands. You know those guys that you see on television throwing cars, pulling over trees, lifting obscene amounts of weights. Yea that was Tyler in the ER.
Finally the battle of the liquid meds were over, I was drenched in sweat from both Tyler and myself, he was pooped from the fighting and I wanted to cry from the episode of torture. Then comes in smoky, bitchy, lady, who made the tension and the aura of that room so rash you felt like your body would explode if there was no release of something. Tyler took one look at her and the tube that was going to blow out misty air filled with medicine and the screaming commenced. This time it was louder, longer, more adrenaline filled than the episode before. My arms wrapped around him tighter to hold him in one position, arms were being wrapped around me and him to help keep him from knocking me over, hands were clenching to his poor little head so tightly as the air was being blown into his face. He screamed, cried, tried to hold his breath, would tire out and give in only to have it instantly kick in again.
I was exhausted, devastated, emotionally drained, not sure how much more I could put him through, nor how much more I could handle before I broke down.
Then it was time for the X-Ray. Let me just tell you, I lost it so bad, I had to leave the room and have two other people fight him and pin him into the positions they needed for the two pictures, listening to him scream that all he wanted was his mama. Me. The one who had to walk away because I could not take anymore. And when it was all over he ran into my arms and held me so tight and I collapsed in tears.
Finally we were done. He was breathing better, the fever broke, there was no pneumonia and we were free to go home. Strict instructions of following up with our doctor were given, I signed a piece of paper while holding my wiped out son and we came home. Tyler nestled himself into my bed again, MiKayla, who woke while we were gone, went back to bed, in my bed and I was wired. Wired with emotions of rage, pity, love, sadness, resentment, distress, pain, every emotion possible. That was me. Two hours later, I was in out of control tears. Thirty minutes after that, I did what I do best and that was to purge my emotions into the toilet. I don't know why, but I did. I went and cuddled in bed with my two kids, dealt with the endless waking and freak outs from my sick baby, finally dozed for a couple of hours and woke to a new day. A day of exhaustion and horrible emotional hangover.
Tyler is now sleeping for his nap, preceded by much effort to avoid on his part, MiKayla is at school, Scott is finally home, and I...
I feel lost. Today I am lost and tired and scared by the events that took place last night and the feelings that followed. My son is OK. Granted he is still sick, looks sick, and yet, smiling at me and loving me all the same. For that I am thankful.
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