Amber suggests bringing her in to Saturday clinic at our pediatrician where she also works as insurance and billing. Mmmm...I waffle. She hasn’t been sick that long. She’s just on the border, just a little sick. If I take her, I’m exposing her to other kids’ illnesses when most likely she’s got a virus. Thinking about keeping an eye on it for a little while, taking her in Monday if there wasn’t improvement over the weekend. Mother experience: 99 times out of 100, this stuff passes with no need for intervention.
Amber puts us on the schedule for 11 that morning, in case I decide she needs to be seen. I figure, might as well. Just in case.
We spend the morning laying around the house with Tula resting, just being lazy. It’s gross cold outside, kind of drizzling, so I doubt again taking her in—I’m going to get this little baby out in this weather and she’s going to get even sicker and they’re likely not going to be able to do much. Ahhh, might as well, I guess.
When we get there, we hang out with Amber for a little while, drinking coffee. Joking because Tula seems a little out of it. Poor baby.
Dr Shah comes in to see us. He’s not our regular pediatrician, but another one in the practice that sees kids on the weekends. He is super nice. We haven’t been concerned about Tula getting enough fluids because she’s nursing well and still having wet diapers. I don’t like that her lips are chapped—that’s pretty strange in a baby. He examines her, asks me some questions. Routine visit, ending in not unexpected diagnosis:
Ear infection, little bit of dehydration.
To get her rehydrated quickly, she’s being admitted to the hospital for IV fluids. Probably won’t be there long, but there are no guarantees. They’ll give her antibiotics for the ear infection, and she’ll be right as rain.
The hospital is right next door, so I call Mike and let him know what’s going on, ask him to let his parents know what’s going on, and I drive her over myself. Shoot my mom a text asking her to run me something for lunch on her lunch break if she can; she works in the lab at the hospital. I don’t get a response which is not unusual—she doesn’t have her phone on her unless it’s break.
Everything is so calm and quiet. Because it’s the weekend, there isn’t a ton of personnel around, hardly other patients. This isn’t a bustling metropolitan hospital, just a sleepy little place. Tula’s trying to fall asleep again on my shoulder, keeps jerking awake. It reminds me of when I had to take Emerald to the emergency room when she was diagnosed. We just thought it was dehydration, but she had gotten bad so rapidly. That was a scary time.
I wasn’t quite connecting all the dots in my head yet.
The charge nurse buzzes us in right away and we start the check in process. They weigh her—18 pounds, a little down from her 6 month check up. Hmm, that’s not good. Lost a lot of fluids. Take her measurements, her head circumference, height. Time to make her mad: they have to check her blood glucose. After vomiting last night and this morning, she’s probably a little low.
She doesn’t wake up or flinch when they poke her. Huh.
The glucometer counts down and flashes: >500.
Huh.
They get a new machine, test it again. Same result. I might have dropped a low-grade expletive. Things have officially clicked into place, the last bit of the puzzle revealed.
I step away from the nurses that are taking care of my baby and I make a phone call: “Michael, call your mother. It’s happening again.”
This is not my first time at the horror show, so I am able to calmly notice how well these nurses are managing the situation. They let me know that I shouldn’t worry but that we were going to have a lot of friends join us, just so we can get everything going as quickly as possible.
From a floor that felt practically deserted before, a dozen professionals come in. I stay near her head, smoothing her hair and holding her hand, while they try and get blood drawn, two IVs inserted, a catheter placed. You’d think it would be noisy with so many people in there, but everyone is being so respectfully subdued the can focus. Someone turns out the lights in the room, and the delicate web of Tula’s blood vessels are illuminated by special lights. Because she’s dehydrated and her vessels so small, it is hard to get the lines placed.
My hands full with Tula, I ask if someone will call my mom down in the lab and ask her to come up. The charge nurse takes care of it. My sole focus is completely on my little baby. When the door swings open to let more people in, I faintly hear the intercom announcement: Code blue, code blue. That’s sad, I think—I hope whoever they are that they’re okay.
The catheter causes issues because as soon as they take off her diaper, she pees all over the bed and everyone gathered around, not to mention all the sterile equipment laying around her. When did that get here?
After multiple failed attempts to place IVs in the crooks of her arms, her hands, her feet, for the first time they gently ask if I can step back to make room. I can come right back and they’ll hold her hand until I do, it will just give them a little more elbow room. Sure, that’s reasonable. Makes sense.
I step back and watch the crowd swallow Tula until I can’t see her anymore, and I noticed Mom made it up. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there, so absorbed as I was by the situation. She’s pale and visibly shaking.
Oh. WE’RE the code blue.
Whatever they’re doing to Tula, I can’t see, but I do know: she’s not crying. Not fussing. Not making a sound.
Michael arrives, and we stand feeling impotent and superfluous, waiting. The crowd dissipates and I use the opportunity to sneak back in. There are purplish bruises forming on the right side of her head and on the right side of her neck. Goes with the track marks up and down her little arms. But the IVs have been placed—one is on her right elbow and the other on her left hand. Both have been thoroughly taped to boards so she can’t mess with them, but she doesn’t look much up to playing at the moment. She’s down to just a diaper and you can see by her stomach sucking in how hard she is struggling to breathe. The pulse-ox monitor taped to her big toe tells me that she’s getting enough air, but she is working hard for every breath.
Without her clothes, you can tell how very small and vulnerable and fragile she is. She is unconscious, which is the most frightening kind of blessing, but even so, you can see how hard she is struggling. She’s a tough girl, and she’s not going down without a fight.
Everywhere, there are people, people working on her, fetching things, watching, waiting. I see all of this and think:
It was just an ear infection.
--Andie
No comments:
Post a Comment