we are home from our journey into the time warp that entails the ER and an overnight stay at the hospital. what an adventure!
after a fever spike sunday night and that deep scary cough, then a series of nebulizer treatments in our doctors office on monday, we were sent to the ER because river was not responding and still not getting enough oxygen for the amount of work his body was doing.
he sure is working hard is what everyone said to me with worry and smiling eyes (for the benefit of the mother) but a mother knows better.
this is the adrenaline rush of being hurried into the honeycomb, safe from outside (devoid of natural sunlight and fresh air) tucked into the corner of this world buzzing with worker bees humming and friendly with masks and smiling eyes all working together to figure out why my son was struggling so hard to breathe.
this is intense back to back treatments, steroids, fresh oxygen, chest xray, and IV fluids.
now,26 hours later (and two hours of sleep) we know it was intermittent asthma and we are at home with all the necessities to keep his lungs in check.
it was quite the event for this momma/child duo. and for those of you who have much more practice with the hospital experience, i commend you all. i do believe i’ve said it before… mothers are the strongest species on earth.
i now know this to be true:
being in the ER with a child who can’t breath takes years off your life.
while going through paperwork and prescriptions, i found this… these words scribbled on the back of a doctor’s receipt, most likely written in the dark of sleep deprivation, monday at 3am.
they arrive in the dark of sleep
i open my eyes to see them bedside
hovering in scrubs
like angels with masks
and gloved hands.
this is not real.
the mist floats, rises, dissipates
he looks like the dream of a tiny fighter pilot
masks, tubes, IV’s, oxygen levels beeping.
in this darkest hour of morning, there is no dark
with the constant green glow of the computers
commenting and criticizing his vitals.
he’s a fighter pilot struggling to breathe
with tears in his eyes.
they are a team of angels
they monitor the hospital dreams
together in this bed
tagged on our wrists
i breathe in, he breathes out.
and there’s not enough oxygen between us.
i’m not sure how we ended up here
yes, i know how i got here
i circled the parking lot four times
and carried him in.
he was heavy on my shoulder
we got a room right away
this is fast, i think.
they are so kind here.
i later find that
breathing takes priority
but i cannot gauge this sense of urgency.
everyone knows his name
and there are so many people and forms and procedures
but i keep wondering how did i get here?
so far from home.
i know how i got here, to this bed
eight hours later,
they wheeled him up
a bed on wheels, a talkative dude named mike,
a 1am ride and a whole different team of nurse and doctors.
and the dry erase board with the goal for the night: