Everywhere we go.
My almost eight week old daughter developed what looked like a simple cold last week. It progressed, and like a good and dutiful mama, I watched her. From afar. With a can of Lysol in each hand.
I watched as her breathing became more difficult, as her little chest retracted. We ran a humidifier 24/7, vicks, salined, and suctioned until her little nose was so sore I hurt, and sat in a steamy bathroom until I was dehydrated and we were both sweaty. I lost three pounds--of water weight.
Nothing helped.
So I took her in to see the pediatrician. Not her pediatrician, who everyone knows is wonderful and who everyone is conspiring to make her so impossibly busy she can't see her regular, favorite patients. (i.e. my kids) Another pediatrician in her office, whom I don't like and who I wouldn't trust with my husbands care, let alone my oh so precious kids.
And she said those dread three letters-- R.S.V.
And then talked about hospitalizing Punk.
Imagine me clinging to my daughter, crying in a Maddona-esc manner (beautifully, without the runny nose and spotchy complexion) as I plead to be allowed to take my child home. In reality, I was no where near beautiful or Maddona like. I was a panicked mommy trying to figure out what went wrong.
Some discussion and negotiation later, Punk went home with me, and I began 36 hours of no sleep and wrestling Punk into a small mask for breathing treatments. Imagine trying to hold a slippery fish still in order to put a mask over its face. That was me. At three a.m. and every four hours for nearly two days.
Let me mention there has to be a better way.
Thankfully, the heavens open up and a ray of light came down upon my blessed little girl--okay, my baby heathen-- and she improved. So no nasty hospital for her.
But there is a quiet padded white cell waiting for mommy after this experience.
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