In her tumbly.
2:00 P.M. Update: 2 more showers, several more blankets. It’s a good thing I’m a little OCD about blankets. She’s feverish and her color is drained but she’s smiling at least. Audrey was whisked away by my parents to enjoy a Sunday at the mall. Hopefully this isn’t like last time and a trip to the ER isn’t in our forecast.
And, hopefully, by the next vomit, I’ll have mastered the trick of getting the Bean to the toilet without completely destroying my living room carpet. So far, it’s Vomit: 5, Momma Bean: 0.
There’s a rumbly.
“What happened to Maggie?”
That’s what the little bean asked, on her hands and knees, cold sweat, tousled hair, staring down at tonight’s dinner. And lunch. And the ice cream we had at the mall for good behavior.
I’m sitting in the dark, Curious George on the television to cheer the little one up. I’m in between laundry cycles and two adult sized vomits. I’m up to my ears in stink in this house and wishing it was springtime so that I could throw open the windows. Febreeze will have to do for now. And not until Daddy returns home from his middle of the night trek to the convenience store for a bottle of baby Pepto and some air freshener.
We were at the second to last episode of Dexter Season 2 when we heard Audrey start to scream. I pressed pause and we listened for a minute. “Go pet her, she’ll go back to sleep,” J said. More because he was achy from running than his actual faith in my calming abilities. I waited another minute and when it didn’t stop, I trudged upstairs to see what I could do for the bean. When I opened the door, I was startled to see Mags sitting straight up in her crib, looking at me with a scowl. I sighed. So much for Dexter. I shushed Audrey and gathered them both into my arms and returned to the living room. “Make their bed,” I whispered, hopeful that I could keep the girls a bit drowsy still. J threw out their princess sleeping bags and set up a makeshift bed on the living room floor for them. That didn’t last long. Just a few minutes into Curious George, Maggie began tossing about. Then she coughed.
Afterwards, I bathed her and explained to her what had happened. She doesn’t get “vomit” or “throw up” or “puke”. She just knows that she feels like crap and she has a yucky taste in her mouth. I assured her that she would be fine and I settled her back into a cozy spot on the floor next to her sister. It lasted about 20 minutes. And then another ten.
Now, he’s back and the house smells a little less rank and we’ve got some medicine for the girl. But not in time. The third time, I was in the line of fire. But, we’re both bathed and clean and we’ve got clean blankies and a bucket near by. J is trying to soothe her to sleep and I’m crossing my fingers that she’s done. I don’t think I’ve been up past three since college.
Now that’s a Saturday night!
circa 2:36 A.M.
Bedside Manner
I don’t like sick.
I know, who does, right?
When the Beans are sick, it’s a different story. The mommy bone kicks in and I just know what to do. I am a robot and the foul vomit and offensive diapers don’t phase me. I stave off queasiness and revulsion because I know that my girls need me to comfort them and to let them know that it will be alright soon. Where I would otherwise run, here I stand my ground. I am the calm in the room and the rock on which their tears are soaked.
But when it is anyone else, I turn into jelly. I don’t like sick.
When a co-worker or friend has a cold, I politely toss them a tissue box from a safe distance. When someone sneezes or coughs around me, I hold my breath for twenty seconds, in the hopes that I didn’t inhale their sick.
When the dogs are sick, I do the same. J has to take care of them…I just can’t bring myself to do it. My skin crawls, my throat retches. I get clammy hands.
Arisa was always the one to take care of us when we were sick. In the medical field, she was always fascinated by the unwell and wouldn’t hesitate to catch puke in her hands or wipe a sweaty brow with her sleeve. She was the one who nursed us all back to health during the Stomach Flu of ’96 (which consisted of a hospital trip and J, my then boyfriend, mooning the staff in a haze of dehydrated delirium). Me…I stayed far away.
Which is why, yesterday afternoon, while sitting in the emergency room, waiting to be called, I looked at J and said, “You don’t have a will. This is why we need a will.”
J looked at me in shock. “Why would you say that? You’re telling me I’m going to die.”
“Well…what if it’s really infected or something? And they have to cut off half of your side?”
“You know, you could really be supportive right now. I’m in a lot of pain.”
“I’m just saying!”
“Well stop!”
You see, J had a gooey. Last week, it was just a little bump. And when I saw it on his side one night while he was playing Horsey with the girls, I poked it. And I said, “Ew, girls! Come look! Daddy has a gooey!” The girls promptly jumped off him and began inspecting.
“Ew! A gooey!” They chanted, prodding him with their sticky, chocolatey hands. I giggled. J squirmed. They nudged him again. It became a game for them until he couldn’t take it anymore and he swooped them up and into the bathroom for night night rituals.
Days ago, it became red and swollen. On Wednesday he could barely walk. “My gooey hurts.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Suck it up and help me with the dishes.” I always tell J to walk it off, to suck it up. In my twisted mind, he’s not allowed to be sick. He’s only allowed to be invincible.
Yesterday morning, he asked me to call for a doctor’s appointment. Yesterday afternoon, looking at him sitting there, grimacing and uncomfortable, I suggested that I take him to the emergency room. But not before we stopped off for lunch, because I was starving. He winced when I said that, but my hunger distracted me.
While we were in the waiting room, I took pictures of the gooey and sent them to Arisa. I called her up and laughed with her about the Purple Nurple while J writhed in pain.
It turned out to be what they are sure is a spider bite that went bad. He’s on antibiotics and pain medication right now and is feeling a little better. In what seems like a bit of karma, the physician’s assistant gave me a homework assignment. I’m to drain the wound by putting gauze into it for the next two days. Yes, I said “into it”. And, as my skin is crawling, I won’t further explain what that means.
I teased him last night that I was going to put the photos that I had taken up on the site so that everyone could be equally disgusted. He just looked at me and shook his head.
I think I am this way about illness because I can’t come to terms with the idea of someone I love in pain or ill. It’s another one of those control freak quirks of mine. I can’t fix them, so I avoid them. Or I make fun of them. Or I get my Beans to poke them.
The idea that J is somehow human and not a superhero that can never be hurt is not something that I want to ponder for longer than necessary. So, I tell him to suck it up and I sock him in the shoulder. And I wish more than anything that I could take his pain away.
She’s back!
Yesterday was the worst of it. The fever had passed and the bumps didn’t itch, but she had a raging headache that she couldn’t shake. Alternately, she clung to me and then her head, shrieking at times and sobbing my name at other times. The hours dragged for days, both of us hot and sweaty and praying for relief.
But today. Today, she woke up a little less pained. She cried a bit, but settled into the couch much easier. And later, Grammy sent an email to me to calm my nerves. She’s better! She’s exhausted, but she’s eating. And she is waving to Momma.
Roseola
Doesn’t it sound like a plucky little plant you’d have perched on your kitchen window sill? Something cheerful and downright obnoxious in its silliness.
What it really is, is three long, excruciating days of fever, followed by angry pink spots sprinkled all over the porcelain skin of The Pie which burst into little red fires when she is upset or hot.
It’s merely a virus, another childhood illness that I was clueless about as I was skipping through my pregnancy, imagining endless days of coloring and pushing Beans in a swing. At that time, I didn’t think about illness and disease. I was naïve to the fact that children actually do get sick. And it’s not fun.
What makes it worse is that, while tending to The Pie, I’ve been neglecting Peanut. She doesn’t know anything but the fact that her sister, her other, her joy is not herself. And her Momma is worried and distracted and won’t play the jumping game for too long and can’t fit both of them onto her lap at the moment. The extra kisses I’ve been planting on her head are brushed aside, because what she really wants is the return of normalcy. Of Pie chasing her and stealing her crayon. Of climbing the ladder to the slide and of tickling Daddy. Of the giggles at watching each other feed Max and Avery bits of dinner as Momma has that patented exasperated look on her face.
I admit that I’ve reveled in the moments when Pie lies hot in my arms, waiting for me to pet her hair and whisper that it will get better. These days, I’m lucky to get a quick hug or a spontaneous peck. There are too many things for an almost two year old to do in a day. But now, the quietness of her lethargy allows me to hold the weight of her for much longer than she would let me if she was feeling like her old self, and I love it, despite the reason behind her stillness.
Papa M said it best when I cried to him this morning over the torture of leaving her as she clung to me, sobbing:
“My Dear, I truly understand. The most heartbreaking times in my life were when you girls were sick or hurt. I can still remember when Arisa cut her face, you got bit by the dog and Amanda was burnt.
During those times you have to remember they are stronger than we think they are… Love is a painful thing.”
Hopefully soon, both Peanut and I will get our Pie back. And I’ll resume my normal daily chores that have been forgotten this week while Peanut will delight in the return of her beloved playmate. Until then, my arms are open.
Scarlet(t) isn’t just a Southern belle!
I guess it started Friday night, when she only picked at her pizza. I really began to notice when, by Saturday at lunch time, Audrey refused to eat anything at all. We were going on three meals and one snack time where she had little more than a few feeble gulps of milk. There were no other symptoms until later that afternoon. The four of us were at J’s friend’s surprise 29th birthday party and A would not leave his arms. She became lethargic throughout the evening and earlier on during the party we noticed that she had what looked like a faint rash on her chest and back.
By the time we said our early good-byes, she had developed a raging fever. We couldn’t figure out what it was that had come over her so quickly. We dosed her with Tylenol and put her to bed, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by her screams and a returning fever.
Grandma and Grampa M. attempted to coax her appetite and energy on Sunday by bribing her with chocolate and Curious George balloons, but their efforts were ignored as Audrey clung to her daddy, weak and despondent. I scoured the Internet between the cries and trying to comfort Maggie, who clearly knew something was amiss. I looked through my book of what to expect blah blah blah, only to find five different things that it could be. Rash. High fever. Loss of Appetite. I finally diagnosed her with a general virus. A bug that would go as quickly as it came.
But she didn’t eat that Sunday. And we found ourselves awoken again in the middle of the night. Another fever had crept up when the medicine wore off. And this time, it brought along more of the rash. It was now up to her neck and ears.
By Monday morning, the three of us had seen approximately two hours of sleep. Maggie remained blissfully unaware of our torturous night and slept soundly for her usual nine hours, snoring softly into the neck of Cookie Number One. I got out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to go online to check the time when the Beans’ pediatrician opened for the morning. I left a message asking them to call me as soon as they got in for an appointment. Her fever was down again, because of the Tylenol, but I knew it would return. If I didn’t receive a call back right away, I was mapping in my mind how I’d take her to the ER while J stayed behind with HRP, all the while telling myself that I’m a crazy mother and they’ll tell me she’s just a little sick.
At the office, Dr. B. looked at her rash first. By now it had spread to her forehead and chin. She asked me immediately if I knew of anyone who complained of a sore throat. I replied that I hadn’t heard anything of the sort and asked her why I should be concerned about that. She didn’t respond immediately and checked A’s ears and throat. She informed me that her throat was inflamed and that she had been in the throes of strep throat and now had scarlet fever.
Scarlet fever?
I didn’t even know that people could have that anymore, in this century. I thought that it was a storybook illness. Gilbert Blythe, after all, was sick with scarlet fever, which causes Anne to fall back into love with him. The little boy in The Velveteen Rabbit had most of his toys burned because of it! WTF?!?!? Of course I freaked out. I’m a mom, remember.
My no-nonsense doctor laughed off the look of fear in my eyes, told me that she’ll likely have a fever for another three days and sent me off with a prescription for a bottle of Amoxicillin and the warning that, yes it is contagious, and, yes, Maggie has been exposed already.
My heart jumped into my throat. I couldn’t handle two Beans like this. Though A was weak with the fever and lack of nourishment, it didn’t diminish her ability to cry incessantly, which she had been doing since Sunday. I couldn’t imagine handling both of them with this. It was enough that M was beginning to feel the brunt of most of my attention being given to Audrey, and responding accordingly.
We trudged home, both of us weak and in need of a good long nap. The rest of Monday consisted of more tears (from both of us), another fever and no sleep. By Tuesday, J had to return to work, so we sent M to my mom’s house for a little TLC while I tried to figure out thirty different ways to move A from arm to arm without sending her into a fit. I didn’t know if the rash (now spreading to her arms and legs) hurt or if she was crying from the inflamed throat or the malnourishment or if it was all of the above.
Her fever finally broke Tuesday night, which was a sign that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. She still had the rash all over her body, but it seemed to be fading from its origin, on her back and chest. By Thursday, she began calling for her sister, who had been separated from her for four days. Because of this, I knew that she was starting to feel better. Later that night, I saw her first real smile in a week and my heart warmed to see her sprinkling her sister with spontaneous hugs throughout the evening. On Friday, I rushed home from work and, like the last several days, inspected her body to see if the rash had retreated. This time, I saw that her rash had all but disappeared. She was better!
This weekend, the only remnants of the weeklong illness to be found on the Bean were the wobbly walk and the khaki shorts, which only last week fit perfectly, that occasionally fell into a pool around her ankles.
I told S. last week that it is miserable when you are ill yourself, but it’s infinitely more painful when your child is sick and weak and you have no idea how to make her suffering end, how to comfort her and tell her that it will all be over soon. It just tore my heart to see her lying limp on the floor, having fallen asleep mid-cry, completely broken. To a parent, no cut is just a minor one, no fever is something to not worry about and no rash is just that – a rash. Your baby is sick and all you know is that you need to make her better. And she is. Finally!
Apparently we weren’t the only ones.
Looks like the whole nation was puking and pooping along with us. Now I don’t feel so bad that we gave it to every relative we have.
Things you discover when your child is in the ER.
1. You have actually learned something from watching Grey’s Anatomy: the interns are idiots and the attendings are arrogant fools.
2. Apparently, it’s normal to wait four hours to receive treatment.
3. Toddlers don’t get special treatment, even if they’ve just puked their weight in vomit.
4. Pediatric ER rooms are scary, especially when every wall is covered with murals of dancing clowns. We don’t like clowns.
5. Diet Cherry Coke isn’t so bad when it’s the only thing a vending machine will spit out.
6. Every hospital smells the same.
7. Even when you think you’ve packed everything in a diaper bag, you haven’t packed anything relevant.
8. Next time, you should bring a blanket and PJs for the Bean and dinner for J.
9. When it comes to medical treatment for your child, a minute is too late, every needle is too big, a good job isn’t good enough, and no one else gets it.
10. Even though you’re the parent now, you still feel better after you cry to your dad.
