Last Thursday seemed as usual as any other Thursday. Spring had finally started to arrive with its
unpredictable temperatures and scattered showers, and this day would end up
being a gloomy one with sporadic light rain.
(Fitting, in retrospect.) Like everyday
for the previous ten days, Molly woke up and stood in her crib…on one leg.
That’s right. One
leg. On St. Patrick’s Day (a very
unlucky day for us) Molly fell on the tile in the bathroom and had refused to
use her left foot ever since. X-rays showed
nothing, so we had been given the “wait it out” treatment plan. The tenth day, this past Thursday, was the
threshold. We had an appointment with a
pediatric orthopedic doctor Thursday morning to get his opinion if she
continued to not walk. I was looking
forward to the appointment – ready to see if she had made progress or would finally
receive a definite diagnosis.
 |
| Here she is in her one leg stance. |
As I peered into her bedroom that morning, I knew something
wasn’t right. The heat from her body
radiated throughout the air. I felt her
head, her body, her feet…she was an oven.
The first thermometer reading was a 103.8. My heart fell. Daniel grabbed the baby Tylenol and a wet rag
as I began to rock her. Her usual
morning coos had been replaced by tears and screams.
I called the doctor to ask if we should reschedule our
appointment. I didn’t think they’d want
this bug travelling through their office – one that only houses kids with hurt
ligaments or broken bones.
Me: Yes, Hi. My daughter has an appointment in an hour,
but she’s woken up with a high fever. I
think I should reschedule.
Nurse: What’s your
daughter’s name?
Me: (Oh, duh – the
world does not revolve around us.) Molly
Langford. Her appointment is at 9:30.
Nurse: Oh, yes, she’s
coming in regarding her left leg, correct?
Me: That’s
right. I just didn’t want to bring her
germs into the office today without letting you know.
Nurse: Hang on,
ma’am, let me check.
::: 20 loooonnng seconds with MJ crying in the background
:::
Nurse: I talked to
the doctor, ma’am, and he definitely
wants you to bring her in, and you can go ahead and come on in now.
Me: Oh, okay. That’s nice.
Well, I need to feed her breakfast first, then we’ll be there. (Food is a priority around here.)
Nurse: Alrighty. We’ll see you soon.
Molly’s high fever.
The nurse’s insistence that she still come for her appointment. The rain that started trickling outside. They were all signs that I was not paying
attention to - - this was actually NOT going to be just another Thursday…
Here is a recap of the following two hours: They took several more X-rays of Molly’s leg
and found nothing. She screamed and
cried. The doctor did a physical exam of
her leg. She screamed and cried. They took two additional X-rays of her leg
and still found nothing. She screamed
and cried. The doctor talked me through
the possible scenarios and sent us to the Emergency Room. She screamed and cried. I cried.
Thus began our first Emergency Room visit as parents. And let me tell you, no matter how you want
to decorate that waiting room, (this one had an “ocean theme” with fish, boats,
whales, and sea shells painted everywhere) it has to be one of the saddest
places on earth. The coughing, the
children crying, the pacing of patients, the scurrying of paperwork, the wails
of young babies. There’s just an angst
that permeates through the room and leaves no one feeling well. I even started questioning my health while we
sat and waited.
 |
| Live from the waiting room. My smile is definitely fake. |
Finally, we were called back to the triage (your initial
interview as an ER patient where they’re basically judging the legitimacy of
your “emergency”) that included all the basics: listening to her lungs,
weighing her, retelling the story of her fall for the 84th time,
collecting her vitals via a fancy cord with a light up sticker that attached to
her toe (that she ripped off ten seconds in), and of course, checking her
temperature with a (rectal) thermometer.
Needless to say, Molly let EVERYONE know she had arrived and that she
was not happy about any of these things.
The nurse scribbled some notes, and it was time for us to move on.
We moved to a room, which was also decorated with marine
life (do fish make most children happy?), and began the great waiting game. Over the next eight hours we interacted with
12 or so hospital staff members all performing their roles: The P.A., the nurse, the charge nurse, the
X-ray technician, the sonogram technician, the child care specialist, the
transport team (one who pushes the wheelchair), the hospital administration
staffer, the food staff, the janitorial staff, the paramedics, the discharge
representative, and sprinkled in there two times, the actual medical
doctor. Whew – who knew it took such an
army to heal the sick?
Fortunately, none of these people brought us bad news. Unfortunately, none of these people really
knew what to tell us. No bone
infection. No fluid in the joints. Normal blood levels. No breaks in the X-rays. PRAISE. THE. LORD. But since it’s against the grain of the
medical world to let things go unsolved, Molly left the Emergency Room with a
splint.
Well, a splint and an aversion to people in scrubs.
The hardest part of experiencing something like this with an
18 month old is the communication barrier.
Not being able to fully relay to her all that was transpiring killed me. “Hold my hand - it will only hurt for a
second” or “please lay still for this completely painless X-ray”. While she screamed, cried, and thrashed,
these were things she couldn’t understand. Talk about heartbreaking. Did I cry
right along with her? Of course, but not
without trying to sing a favorite song or a recite a favorite book for
comfort. The day was a whirlwind. It was exhausting. But it finally ended. We came home and life continued.
No, I don’t feel like a completely new mom after the experience, nor do I feel that I
learned a bountiful amount of parenting knowledge. Maybe I'm still just processing through the "state of unknown" we floated in all day. It's a clashing of hope and anxiety to hop from one test to the next with your child. We planted our feet hard on the Truth as we waited for each result, but just being in that situation aches your soul. Philosophy aside, I just wish Molly could have understood all
that I wanted to tell her throughout that day . . . Which was:
1. I didn't like the lady who took your blood, either, but aren't you glad you still have your right thumb to suck?
2. I am sorry, baby, it'll all be okay. I promise. We'll leave here as soon as we can.
3. No, I'm not going anywhere.
4. Wait a second. You know you can't watch this much Baby Einstein at home, right?
5. We asked if they could come back after your nap to take the X-rays, but they just stared at us blankly. (Guess they've never read Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Baby.)
6. I know these toys aren’t the best distraction,
but I love to watch you play with them. I
wish we were here only to play with toys - that’s all an 18 month old should be doing on a Thursday afternoon.
7. We are all done. Let’s go home.
I promise this thing on your leg will be off soon. You’re a great walker, and you’ll be back to
it in no time.
9. How about a new wagon? Anything you want or need is yours. You’re my daughter, and while I can’t take
off that splint, I’ll be there for you however you need me. Those shades look great, by the way.
10. I know you are hurting. I know you are in pain. I wish I could make it stop. I wish I knew exactly what was wrong. I wish I could trade places with you. However, your precious spirit continues to amaze me. You crawl, roll, and ride like a champ. And, when I am feeling discouraged on your behalf, you simply smile and remind me that, "If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands!"
She may not have understood my words, but I know she felt it
all in my actions. Just in case she
didn’t, I’ll make sure she reads this blog one day. :) (I can hear it now..."Seriously, Mom?")
From: Paige
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