I visited the local hospital last evening to see my 4-year-old niece, who has pneumonia. While she slept, her tiny pale face reminded me of a time when my own children were suffering. I was very sorry for my brother and his wife even though I know Monkey will be fine in a few days.
Several years ago we decided to send Larry to public school. Moe was an infant, Curly Sue a toddler, and Larry was trying to learn some kindergarten skills from his extremely distracted mother. From January to May, Larry was the student of Miss Wanda, a veteran teacher who was a blessing upon our family.
As is typically the case with an otherwise ideal situation, there was a problem: Larry caught every virus, bug and germ. Rotavirus made its way through our home three times in five months; a dry, hacking cough wound up being the beginning of his current asthma woes and his nose was dripping, just finished dripping or just about to start dripping for weeks at a time.
Meanwhile, Curly Sue, who had begun the year with a "fever virus" that kept her at 102-105 degrees for six days and alas, had not been spared the rotavirus in any of its rounds, developed daily gushing nosebleeds, which her pediatrician attributed to seasonal allergies. Moe had to be taken to the ER because he couldn't breathe, and his croup was treated with an inhaler.
Two weeks later, armed with enough medication for a week plus some, we headed to our favorite vacation spot. Curly Sue was with my parents, who were collecting my grandmother on the way. Moe had run a fever and awakened with croup the night before, but when I called the pediatrician's office the next morning, a nurse told me that the sea air would be just what he needed -- no reason to bring him into the office.
By the time we arrived at the beach, six hours later, Moe was going into respiratory distress. The urgent care office sent him to the regional hospital, where a shot of potent steroid was not enough to pull his 15-month-old body out of danger. I spent the first night of my vacation in his hospital room.
Early the next morning, a respiratory therapist came in to give him his every-two-hour breathing treatment and he crashed. By the time they got him stabilized, wheels were turning to get him to a children's hospital 50 miles away. Geddy and I spent the next two nights of our vacation in the Ronald McDonald House while Moe was in the PICU. We had to wear masks and gloves to be near him.
Back at the condo, Larry was running a 105-degree fever and Curly Sue was bleeding all over the place -- Nannie and Paw-Paw had forgotten to give her the nose spray she needed for her allergies. Larry was taken to urgent care, where he received an official diagnosis of ear infection (incorrect!).
Moe, improved, was moved out onto the floor so I spent the fourth night of my vacation wrapped around his little body in a stainless steel hospital crib. We left the hospital that day with another armload of medicine and headed back to the condo, where we stayed on the phone with our pediatrician trying to regulate medications and amounts. We had medicine and notepads and timers and clocks to help us remember who got what and when. And we slept.
We got home from our vacation and Geddy started feeling poorly. Then Curly Sue started running a fever. Then Moe started running a fever the day after he finished his antibiotics. Our pediatrician prescribed an antibiotic for Curly Sue, sight unseen, and ordered a chest x-ray for Moe. Geddy took himself to the ER, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Moe also had pneumonia; a lung had partially collapsed while he was struggling to breathe. Larry was prescribed an inhaler for his constant cough and officially diagnosed with asthma.
We learned a lot during that time period. Viral croup has the potential to kill a small child, for instance, and that surprises doctors but not their nurses, who (thankfully) primarily are in charge of said child's care. Ambulance crews and transport teams from hospitals are not necessarily sensitive, though they might be competent. It is possible to go without sleep for an entire month. It is possible to not cry during a terrible illness but sob uncontrollably a year later, when a commercial for a children's hospital catches your eye.
And when you see your tiny niece lying in her big hospital bed, it is possible, even though you know she's going to be just fine in a few days, for a lump the size of Miami to impair your ability to speak or breathe for a few minutes, causing a few hot tears to slide down the end of your nose before you can stop them. But in your bedtime prayers -- which you say after you have squeezed your children so hard their eyes bug out of their heads -- it is not possible to thank the good Lord enough for the blessings of life and health that so many do not enjoy.
