Worries. Part I.

One would think that having a second child would gradually ease one’s worrying about colds, flues, viruses, and injuries. It doesn’t.

Last night Simon put the scare into us, once again. Not long after he was put down for bed he awoke with a terrible bark and labored breathing. I knew something was wrong with him– his whole body rattled like a cheap maraca; I could feel his sniffling and coughing vibrate through the palm of my two hands and up my arm as he struggled to breath. But he was tired, very tired, and quickly fell back to sleep without fuss or shedding the smallest tear. Strange.

I stayed by his side for awhile, sitting on the light brown wooden toy chest Grandpa made for his room nearly two years ago, watching him, quietly, concerned, unsure what to do. My wife and I checked on him two or three times before retiring for the night, just to make sure he was all right. He looked fine. He slept, undisturbed– at least for a little while.

About an hour later everything changed. Suddenly, without the slightest whimpering, warning, cry or stir, he woke gasping for breath. I thought he was choking. I really did. To make matters worse, as I hastily made my way down the unlit hallway, pulling my heavy-weight tarry cloth bathroom over my shoulders as I speed-walked into his room, I remembered Taylor dropping a small object into his crib yesterday afternoon … or was it two days ago … or was it last week? My mind swelled with an anxiety, a chemical concoction of overly scientific terms, created especially for parents of small children, flooded my head with an overpowering emotion: dread. Did I forget to scoop the object out of his crib? What did she drop in? What’s the quickest route to the hospital?

Something was wrong with him. There was no second-guessing this time. Adrianne ruled out an obstruction rather quickly– she’s knows her medical stuff quite well. Mucus, however, was everywhere– coming out of his nose, his mouth: long, stringy, and spider-like– plastered across his face, hands, and puppy dog night outfit as he cried into the night. Burp after burp after burp, gagging from the effects of the drool down his throat, my son was suffering; and there was nothing I could do about it.

Gag. Burp. Vomit. Nothing seemed to ease his labored breathing.

Adrianne called our pediatrician’s emergency number.

The diagnoses? Croup– a childhood virus, which is characterized by “Sudden onset in the middle of the night, of gasping for breath, hoarseness, bark-like cough” (What to Expect: Toddler Years). The pediatrician recommended we wrap Simon up in some warm clothing, open the car window just a crack and hastily drive to the ER. “The ER?,” I thought. “No, that’s the last place I want to take my child.” Germs. Diseases. The wait … the misdiagnoses I received just a couple of months ago. Maybe I asked, maybe she just said it, ‘Do you have a nebulizer?’ Time, as it always seems to do, has allowed me the distance to think about this question a little more deeply than I did when she first asked. What an odd question: ‘Do I own a nebulizer?’ How many people, or parents for that matter, even know what a nebulizer is– let alone have one at home? Not many, I imagine.

Luckily, we do own one. Simon was given an adult sized dose of Albuterol to open his tightening airways. I also took him out for a walk in the cool night air by the stream in the backyard. The cold air, like an icepack on a bruise, reduced the swelling and, in about ten minutes, Simon was breathing normally again. What a scare! My son couldn’t breath. And I felt just plain helpless.

The following morning both Simon and Taylor were diagnosed with viral infections and prescribed the appropriate doses of medication, which promptly caused Simon to vomit, twice, all over himself, me, and the living room carpet. Oh! Did I forget to mention that Simon is teething and Taylor has a case of poison ivy, too? Or that Simon nearly electrocuted himself by sucking on a “hot” wire plugged into a 120V outlet before going to bed that very night? Aaaarrrgggghhhh! It never stops.

To be continued….