"Mom," she said sweetly. "Can I talk to you?"
The panic that I had somehow kept from boiling over for the past two hours, when starting at 12:30 AM our son woke up us screaming hysterically about his throat, started to rise again. I couldn't breathe. I knew it.....the little lymph node that my husband had felt in my son's throat wasn't just a lymph node.
"Sure," I said. But I didn't move. I just sat there trying not to throw up. I mean, if she needed to talk to me behind the glass door, well, that just wasn't good.
I looked at my son who was clutching the iPad and in the process of converting to the religion that is Plants vs. Zombies. Well, he may have looked like he wasn't listening but I knew he was paying attention to everything. We'd been here before after all. All this dodging beheaded zombies was just a cover.
The nurse cocked her finger at me. Let's go mom. I hopped off the bed as lightly as I could, gave my son a quick peck and walked toward the door feigning a positive attitude that would make a D-list actress proud. I even managed what I thought was a pretty convincing smile in her direction as I approached her. Whatever the news, I was going to be strong. Resilient. I would be the poster-child of moms who pretend to hold it together in the face on impending doom.
Easy enough to say. The three-step walk to the door almost killed me. I was sure I was going to cry. Or scream. Or collapse. At best. A monstrous tidal wave of panic was sweeping through me and I felt like I was drowning. Again.
When I reached the nurse she put her hand on my arm, bracing me. I moved my face into some unattractive shape, trying unsuccessfully, to keep the tears in check.
"It's strep," she said.
I paused.
Wait...what?
"Strep?" I repeated.
She nodded. "Yes, I'm sorry to say but it's definite. The strip turned pink immediately. He'll need antibiotics."
A huge, inappropriate smile began to spread over my face.
Strep! YEEEEESSSS! Oh. Thank. GOD.
At that moment she couldn't have said anything that would have made me happier. I almost did a fist-pump.
She frowned at me.
"You're familiar with strep," she repeated emphasizing the word to remind me that what we were discussing was a highly contagious bacteria, which didn't warrant a smile, much less the circus act I was about to perform.
I nodded, still smiling. Yes. I was familiar.
I had strep as a teenager. Once. And it was awful. Kind of. I mean, I was physically miserable, BUT it got me out of a huge geometry test, which in my mind made it a MUCH bigger blessing than a curse. But my best friend growing up seemed to contract strep throat every other Tuesday, and so, yes, I do know that it's not fun.
Yet I was thrilled for my son.
The disapproving look the nurse was giving me was well-deserved. I mean, what mom in their right mind is happy at hearing this news?
Well...me.
Because upon entering a hospital, there is nothing better than hearing: "We did a test. We found the problem. And now, we can fix it. No problemo! We'll just give you this medicine real quick and off you go! Problem solved."
And that is because as a parent there is nothing worse than being told: "We have done every test there is. We can't find anything. (Or, God forbid, we've found the worst possible thing.) And despite our best efforts, we don't know what it is or how to make him better."
THAT was the answer we received last year, around this same time, when our same son began complaining of throat pain. He had stopped eating. He had been clutching his throat and saying it felt like something was stuck in there. He was saying he couldn't breathe. We had rushed him into the ER and had him x-rayed and probed and examined. I was sure there was a fish bone there. No. Maybe a hair? No. Okay, a piece of chicken then? Still no. Okay, how about a scratch or wound from his sledding accident the week before? NO???? Despite his obvious discomfort, he checked out fine, and we were sent home with no diagnoses or treatment.
And then he got worse.
Another throat-clutching incident 24-hours later and he was back in the OR sedated and being scoped repeatedly. Then admitted to the hospital where for three days he endured a battery of tests, X-rays, swallowing tests, IVs, shots, morphine. And pain. He had lain in the hospital bed in complete distress begging for us, the doctors, someone, to help him get this "object" out of this throat. This object that the doctors couldn't find. They were three of the scariest days of my life, (matched only by the three weeks my youngest son spent in the hospital when he was born with two life-threatening illnesses, but that's another story.)
The doctors didn't doubt that my son was in agony. That much was clear to everyone within a three-mile radius with ears. But they couldn't find any cause or do anything to fix it. And these were some of the best pediatric doctors on planet earth. They tried. Diligently. But still, nothing.
And so we waited. And tested. And waited more. And it was unbearable. My husband held it together as only someone who has spent his life training how to handle this exact thing can do. I crumbled. To say I was a complete disaster would be putting a very positive spin on it. I don't handle stress well in general. My body absorbs it like a dehydrated sponge and then goes off looking for yet another hit.
There were moments where I didn't think I could survive this not knowing. Not knowing what was causing him so much pain. Not knowing when it would get better. Not knowing IF it would ever get better.
After three days we still knew nothing. The doctors, who had been so kind and so devoted to his care, said there was nothing else they could do at this point. They surmised that he must have suffered some minor throat trauma during his sledding accident the he could feel, but that they just couldn't see. And so my son was sent home. Still no diagnoses. And no improvement. Take him home and watch him. And wait. Those were our instructions. "Panic" was not listed on the discharge sheet, but I certainly would do that in spades as well. Waiting and Panicking are a package deal with me. An agonizing two-fer.
Thankfully, he did get better. Albiet slowly. He stopped eating. And talking. At five years old we reverted to an all liquid diet and baby foods just to get some nutrition in him. We communicated in nods and notes. It took at least a month before he started getting back to his normal, happy, playful self. We all exhaled the first time he lunged at his younger brother and started screaming at him with without having to manipulate his voice box to do so.
As a parent, those moments never leave your mind. Yet, you somehow move forward, which we did.
Until this weekend, when the throat-clutching began again.
Until this weekend, when the throat-clutching began again.
But this time, when we walked in that same ER, with my son almost as hysterical as he had been a year ago, they quickly identified the problem. They told us they could fix it. No problemo! And given our recent history this made me happy on a level I couldn't really put into words. So I just smiled stupidly and tried not to fist-pump.
We were given two options. A shot of Penicillin and then treatment was over and done. Or a 10-day course of antibiotics. Option two would spare him the needle, but require me to be on top of his antibiotics. Being pathologically Type A you'd think this would be a suitable job for me -- but no. I am very organized and meticulous unless it requires medicating and then I am hopeless. At least for myself. My house is filled with near-empty bottles of my own antibiotics. I routinely leave the last 2 or 3 pills in every bottle. And I believe this is okay, despite the fact that I know it's really not.
We opted for the one-and-done option.
When he heard about the shot, my son went berserk and I don't blame him. My husband and I had STUPIDLY promised him that he wouldn't need a shot before we left the house. WHY we said that I don't know. But I will never make that mistake again. In fact, just to be safe, from this moment on I will cover my butt by telling him the he may need a shot wherever he is going... the hospital, the dentist, the aquarium...
The needle was huge and my son was a mess. But I did my job. I sat on his bed, I comforted him. I held him (which was NOT easy as he was doing his best impression of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.) I told him over and over that it would all be okay. Everything would be okay.
The whole time hiding my face from him as I smiled deliriously to myself because this time I actually knew it would be.
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