So, the kids are sick. We'll start there. Wednesday morning, I was to have clinical. With two kids with high fevers each, I felt I had little choice but to call in. Since starting school, and with the exception of the day I delivered Leo, I haven't called in to clinical, so despite it being so close to the end, I felt it was at least acceptable. Thankfully, so did my instructor. The kids and I bummed around the house all day. When one seemed better the other got worse and then they would flip. Neither would really eat, but both were drinking fluids (Diet Sprite, actually) just fine. I felt like we were on the road to recovery.
Thursday came. Patrick was definitely worse. His cough sounded terrible. Little Leo seemed back to himself. A low-grade fever persisted, but it didn't look like it bothered him much. While Patrick slept (sweating profusely) on the couch, Leo climbed and played like nothing was wrong.
Then came Friday. Yesterday. I woke up to go to my last day of clinical. We were going out afterwards, so I packed an extra bag of clothes, painted my nails, brought my make-up bag and was really excited about the day. I couldn't wait. I happened to walk past Leo's room and heard a terrible noise. What was that?, I either thought to myself or said out loud. (Most likely the latter if you know me at all.) I listened for a second and heard Leo trying to cry around the horrible noise. Imagine two peices of dry wood being rubbed together so that they squeak. And then imagine a baby's stifled cry. Welcome to the start of a very long day. I literally rushed into Leo's room and there he sat in a tripod position, his hands flat on the mattress, head down, tongue hanging out of his mouth. He was gasping for air. At that moment, so was I.
I scooped him up and brought him out to Adam. Adam started to pull his things together to head to the ER...our first visit ever. He asked if he should get the kids dressed. No. Don't. Just go. I was so flustered. I had to be at clinical. I couldn't screw this up now. So as the boys were piling into the van, I was throwing my bookbag into the front seat of the Passat. As Adam was putting Leo in his carseat, I walked around and pulled up Leo's shirt. There was his chest, the superior portion sinking with every breath and his little ribs protruding out. I put his shirt down and told Adam to go. I got into the car and cried.
I cried the entire way to the hospital. I pulled it together and went inside, where I again burst into tears when a friend of mine asked how the kids were. The instructor sent me home. I was there for a total of 90 seconds, I think. I felt like an idiot for crying in front of people, but really wanted to be with Leo. So I ran back to the car and hauled it to the pediatric hospital. My change of clothes came in handy, as I was not about to wear that hideous uniform anywhere I didn't have to. (I did a full outfit change at the stoplight at Meridian and Westfield.)
Leo is ok. Six hours spent in observation in the ER, two racemic treatments (nebulizer) and one round of steroids, and he still didn't respond as well as they had hoped, but well enough to go home. (To me, he sounded so much better, but I wasn't listening with a stethoscope.) As long as we keep him calm, he sounds good. If he gets upset or excited, he starts to struggle again. The physician in the ER (who was fabulous) brought Leo a stuffed animal after it was all done. He got so excited that he lost his breath and even she got flustered. "No, no, no, no Leo." He calmed down fast. He loves snuggly things.
I have it now. Patrick has it. Leo has it. We sound terrible. We probably look worse. Isn't this the wrong season for respiratory illnesses? Seriously. Thankfully, I got called off of work tomorrow, though I am still tempted to go in. I guess we'll see how I feel. The good that comes out of all of this is that the kids and I have had some great quality time. I have memorized the freckles on Patrick's face and the curls on Leo's head. I hope we're coming out of this plague, whatever it is. It's terrible. But we're managing. Adam is still well. (He's off playing golf this morning. Lucky guy to get out of the house.)
Patrick woke up this morning and pulled at my arm so that it was wrapped around him. (He's been in our bed for quite some time now. This is no good.) He told me that I needed to get up and take care of him. I said, "But Mommy's sick too. Who is going to take care of me?" His response? "Nobody. You're our mom. It's your job to take care of us."
Good point, mouthy. Day four...
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