Alas, we broke our streak, ending up at the wee people's hospital last night:
For the last few days, I had noticed them going missing. Things go missing at our house with unsurprising frequency (what with three sets of tiny, clumsy hands about), so I dismissed the incident from my mind and never gave it a second thought.
Michael comes home after another long, hot, 100 plus degree day at work, so we sit down for dinner. Arguments with Emerald about finishing her corn, a completely uninterested Gabriel blatantly ignoring the plate before him, and a fussy Benjamin suffering from a sore throat and scratchy voice--a typical meal around our house, albeit frustrating.
After dinner, we settle in to enjoy the rest of our evening when we see Gabe chomping away on something concealed in his hand. The hopeful side of me thought he might have gone back for the supper we left out for him, the more realistic side knowing he had probably unearthed something less savory. His pica has prompted him to eat a variety of inedibles, from mud and chalk to board books and rolls of paper towels, yet we are still surprised at what he decides looks tasty.
What do we find?
In our constant efforts to give Gabriel a consistent form of communication, we have been pushing signing and picture exchange (pex). Our house is littered with pictures of snacks, drinks, and toys in places Gabe might be able to retrieve. A handful have magnetic tape on the back in order for them to stick to the fridge in a nice, easy, accessible place.
In Gabe's hand is one of these strips which he had been knawing on like it was a Laffy Taffy. There is less than a quarter of the strip consumed, but my mind flickered to finding the tiny pictures days before, stripped of their magnetic backing. My assumption had been that the tape had merely fallen off after years of usage, but now their absence was suspect. I curse myself for omitting that crucial little detail, knowing that he may have consumed up to three entire backings over the course of two days.
Michael nor I were overly concerned--if it is soft enough to chew, it is likely soft enough to pass without incident--but my overly-cautious nature prompts a call to poison control.
Poison Control is, unfortunately, a useful, friendly service that we have had to make use of in the past. Once because a child (though I don't remember if it was Emerald or Gabriel) chugged from a bottle of contact saline solution, the next because the toilet bowl cleaner made the potty water look like blue gatorade to Mr. Gabriel. Both times we had been instructed to give them lots of water, but that they would be fine, and I was looking for some reassurance again.
The very nice P.C. representative, Brenda, told me we had to take him in for an x-ray to see if the doctors had to remove the magnet. The thought there: more powerful magnets, if swallowed, will sometimes puncture the walls of the intestines or bowels trying to get back to one another. This is a piddly magnet at best, but she calls ahead to the children's emergency room so that we won't have a wait.
I am shell-shocked. Gabe eats weird stuff all the time--I wasn't expecting this to turn into a thing!
Michael drops us off at about 8, the time we generally administer medicine and get everyone into bed. To little Gabe, he has won the jackpot--not only has he gotten out of going to bed, but he is out on an adventure with Mommy all by himself!! He raps on the glass and waves to the receptionist, startles the fish in the fish tank, and plays with every toy available, all while I am trying to check him in. It is a quiet waiting room with just a couple of other families, no one who is wailing or overtly "sick". Everything is going better than expected.
We are called back for the initial registration, to get his weight and height, blood oxygenation level and blood pressure, and for me to explain why we are here. In the teeny room, Gabe runs amok--slamming his hands on the nurse's keyboard, ripping up paper towels, and flicking the light on and off. Attempts to subdue or distract him are met with utter disregard, and I am unable to offer him anything to eat or drink in case they have to retrieve the foreign object from his tummy.
Sent back to the waiting room, I put Netflix on my Nook in attempts to contain Gabriel's enthusiasm and call Michael to give an update. We are called back before his movie stops buffering--we move to yet another room, this time with a white hospital bed for Gaby to lay on, and I set him up to watch "Christmas Classics" with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
The nice x-ray tech brought a portable x-ray machine around, which was fantastic--Michael and I both worried about the logistics of getting him to sit still long enough to get accurate images, but these were so quick and painlessly easy that we only had to do one retake.
Dr. Harrera came in after looking at the x-ray results which couldn't have been more than 20 minutes, and told me that the magnetic stripping wasn't going to cause any problems at all, but Gabe was literally full of poop. He recommended giving laxatives and enemas until Gaby cleared out to make sure the magnet passed without staying in there too long. I was taken aback because we had changed Gabe right before we had left, and because I wasn't aware that the contents of his bowels would be evident in an x-ray image. Either way, we got discharged around 10 at night, a mere 2 hours after we had shown up (impressive for any emergency room). Today, we are keeping an eye on Gabe and trying to make him comfortable--he is rather exhausted from being too geared up to sleep last night.
It is nap time now, and after a ridiculously poor night's rest, I think I am up for a little nap myself. Goodnight, y'all!
--Andie
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