Asthma

Still exhausted from 3 days in the hospital with little guy.

Not really sure how we ended up there, it started with a doctor visit. A quiet listen with the stethoscope. A breathing treatment. The doctor is saying "we can't do anything else for him here" and for some reason I tell him we are doing this Autism walk tomorrow, does this mean we can' t go, and the doctor is saying. "No. You don't understand." Next thing... I am sitting in a wheelchair, in the elevator, in the hospital, holding my lethargic child. A child who normally cannot sit still for a whole 60 seconds. But today, he just wants to be carried. I settle him on the hospital bed, and he looks at the nurse sadly, sighs, as she draws blood and inserts an IV. Falls back asleep, after protesting briefly about wearing pajamas (the hospital gown) during the day time.

Now it is the middle of the night, and I am listening to the IV drip like a freaking coffee percolator all.night.long. Phones ringing and machine dinging. Haven't left this tiny room except to move the car. Wrapped around his little body in a bed too short to straighten my legs. "We don't really encourage cosleeping" says the nurse, who doesn't push the subject after I say "Ok." and stay put. Michael won't leave either, sleeping in the pullout chair next to us. Something is still wrong with Elliott's sleeping. He breathes in quick little pants, not long, calm breaths. My sister listened to him, at home with a stethoscope, and said "asthma." I said no. This kid can run for miles.. but I took him in anyway, and now here we are.

I lay with my ear against his face, afraid to hear his breath go all fast again. It is still too fast for me to settle down and sleep. I lay still and stare at him. Smooth down his hair. Kiss his cheek. Rub his tummy. Check that his IV line is not tangled or caught on something. Rinse and repeat. Every time someone walks in I sit up tensely, and watch, asking questions. What is his oxygen up to. What are you doing with that IV bag. At 3AM, Elliott wakes up screaming and coughing in pain and fear. He is soaking and feverish. The nurse gives him tylenol, and I promise him that it will make him feel better. Then I pray to God that it really will make him feel better. In the back of my mind, I wonder if the insurance went into effect, like it was supposed to today, or if we will be paying for this for the next ten years. So I pray for that, too.

The next day is an improvement, except that Elliott can't wait to leave "the hossable." He is up at 6am singing at the top of his lungs. All of the other families smile politely and close their doors. We guiltily close ours as well, to lock in the happy shouts. A nurse comes by and takes him out of isolation - h1n1 has been officially ruled out and he is allowed to have a friend visit. Gwynnie comes by to play, our pastor's wife comes to pray.

We watch a million VHS movies and color pictures and play with trucks. My parents watch Elliott while Michael and I take a lunch break. During a meal I can barely eat, everything starts to hit me. Michael holds my hand and says a prayer, right there in the restaurant. My eyes continue to well up. No more sitting and feeling bad. It's time to go back and be a mom again.

In between The Little Mermaid and Arthur, Elliott gets a trip to the hospital playroom. It is a Big Deal. The nurses crack up as he hops out of bed in his little red sneakers, triumphantly pulling the IV pole. Michael discovers foam swords and cars. Joyful shrieks ensue.

The following night is better. Elliott's breathing is calmer. I sleep for three hours during the early morning.

The doctor comes in and listens to Elliott breathe. "I hear kitties and doggies inside you!" she says, in her perky I-work-with-kids voice. (I'm not judging her. I have one of those voices, too.) Elliott looks at her dubiously without commenting. Later, when the nurses remove the IV and say "Look what's going to come out!" he stares at the back of his hand like he just might be expecting doggies and kitties to come marching out.

We are released with a nebulizer kit and a book about asthma. I call the insurance company and, when I confirm that we are indeed covered, I profusely thank the customer service rep, who actually seems to care that my son is going to be okay.

Discharge involves dragging my son out of the playroom, where he is having a swordfight with 3 student nurses.

That was almost a week ago, and yes, it has taken THIS LONG to have a somewhat coherent accounting of it.