A Night in the ER
What do you do when your child is wheezing and struggling to breathe? How long do you wait until you pack them up and take them for care? Have you already waited too long to make that decision?
Having a child is an incredible blessing, but with double, the joy comes double the pain. Seeing your child go through incredible agony and when they can’t even understand why they feel the way they do, your heart is wrenched.
The 9-month old can’t even cry because his voice is completely lost. His face contorts and tears stream down without even making a sound. Cold air, steam, hydrate, repeat. The remedies bring little relief, but nothing comes close to the amount of relief you want your child to see.
2 AM rolls around and the breathing is even more labored, his chest is heaving as he struggles to take a breath. We are heading to the ER without question.
“He definitely has the croupe. It’s perfectly normal and we can treat him. He will feel better real soon.” Relief washes over and you realize that the suffering your child feels will soon be alleviated.
The treatment takes place and now you wait. 2 hours to see if the effects will just wear off or if they will continue getting better.
Sleep taunts you as your eyes threaten to close at any minute, but you can’t give in to temptation right now.
He is asleep, but his breathing is getting heavier. Wheezing starts. Something isn’t right. You run outside the room to find the doctor. As he examines your little guy, he says that he will need to be admitted. Your heart drops.
Another treatment is brought which does the job, opening up the airways to help little man continue breathing.
But now the wait. They’ve tested your small buddy for COVID (he screamed/gasped/thrashed at that), and are looking into a room on the Pediatrics floor. 2 hours go by.
Your wife stays with the little man as you make a dash out the door to get food, clothes, and whatever else you both need to stay at the hospital for a while. It’s snowing outside. Hard.
Rushing as best as you can, the items are gathered and you make your way back up the hill to the hospital. The van can’t make it up the hill with the snow. It starts sliding backward.
Regroup. Rethink.
Another hill? Same result. Third time’s a charm. You floor it and gain as much speed as you dare and shoot straight up the hill, not allowing the vehicle to slow. Success.
The waiting game has continued, and no word about your son’s bed yet. It’s been 2 hours. As you check in with the doctors, there has been a shift change and the issue of the bed has gotten placed on the back burner. The new nurse says she’ll check into it.
Another 2 hours later, the word arrives. “We have a bed for you and we can go upstairs now.”
Your wife holds your son close as the escort shows you upstairs. Your son smiles at everyone he sees and seems to be acting much more himself. The medicine is working.
Arriving in Pediatrics, the check-in process starts. Vitals, listening to breathing, questions asked, etc. The doctor comes in and after examining the little man, says he is good enough to go home. You about melt.
Packing up, discharge papers in hand, the family of three leaves the hospital. Exhausted, dazed, and relieved. Time to hug the family close, and welcome sleep like an old friend.
