My Real Life

I’ll start by apologizing for not having any original content for a few days.

I’m usually ridiculously consistent with posting every day, and probably leave some of you thinking ‘Take a day off, Amy…this one is not your best stuff.”

However, the past few days have been more than a little unusual around our house.

It started on Friday when Tiny’s babysitter texted me at work to tell me that he had thrown up twice and had a fever of 101.6.

Nothing to panic about.

He’s 2, and two year-olds throw up and get fevers…it goes with the territory.

However, once I picked him up, he continued to throw up and added in diarrhea.

Fast forward to Sunday morning and we are at a point where he has been throwing up just plain water because he can’t even tolerate three small sips of it.

I was scared.

We called our doctor and I asked if we should take him to the hospital, because I was watching him become completely lethargic,  (which screamed dehydration to me), he hadn’t smiled in two days, and when he cried, there were no tears.

She said yes, and so we called my mom to come babysit the other kids and we began to prep.

He’s the youngest of four, so this ain’t our first time at the ER rodeo.

We packed a bag with extra diapers, a change of clothes, and snacks and drinks for Real Man and I, and off we went.

The E.R. is always a trip.

It was fairly busy, as is the norm, and so while we waited, the people-watching began.

First to entertain us was the girl who appeared to be in her early twenties who walked in with pajama pants and skin tight t-shirt that said “Angel” in rhinestones across the back.

She walked up to the counter and said, “I was here about four days ago.  It still burns when I pee.  I need to see a doctor.  BUT…I need to get out of here in about an hour and a half.  I have somewhere else to be.”

The E.R. admitting nurse told her she couldn’t guarantee that she’d be out quickly and gestured at the full waiting room.

“Yeah,” the girl said.  “Well, that’s not gonna work for me.”

Amazingly, they did fast track her so she was out of our hair.

Perhaps I need to learn the art of “this is my world and you are all just living in it.”

Of course, with my luck, I’d say something like “that’s not gonna work for me” and they’d say “Tough,” and put me at the end of the line.

The next piece of entertainment was a man who had been in one of the back rooms and was ready to be discharged, but he didn’t have a ride.

He asked if he could use the phone to call a cab.

In one of the triage rooms, he yells out “What’s the number for a cab company?”

“Just call 411,” the nurse calls back.

“Do I have to dial something to get out?”

“Dial ‘9’ to get out!”

“So, 9-973-411?”

“No, sir.  Just 411.”

“No 9?”

“Yes, 9.  Dial 9-411.”

“No 973?”

“No, sir.”

“What do I say when they answer?”

…and on it went until the nurse finally looked up local cab companies online and yelled out an actual number for him to dial and had to do the “dial 9” dance all over again.

There were signs everywhere about people with the flu or flu-like symptoms wearing facial masks, and when I looked around, all I could think of was news footage of Japan during the SARS outbreak, and started wondering exactly who would be Patient Zero.

Eventually it was our turn, moved us into the back and the poking and prodding began.

The results came back and I was very glad that we had brought him.

He was, obviously, dehydrated.  His sugars were low.  His bicarbonates, which are supposed to be 24, were down to 14.

They immediately hooked him up to an IV and started monitoring.

After a few hours, things were not improving, so they admitted him.

Dehydration due to the Rotavirus.

Dehydration is scary.

You’ve seen the pictures.  You know how full of life Tiny is.

He was a lump.  A lifeless, muscle-toneless lump.

No smiles.  No tears.  No nothing.

I spent much of my time, over the next four days, looking at this view.

He was in the “No Contact” room, which meant that every single person who came in had to suit up with a plastic gown and gloves, and he couldn’t leave the room for any reason.

No playroom visits for us.

One room.  Tiny and Real Man and I (Real Man stayed with us during the day, but went home to be with the other monkeys every night.)  No toys, until they finally brought in some toys that they were ready to throw away anyway, because once he played with them, they were going to throw them away because they couldn’t disinfect them enough to make them safe for other kids.  Tiny tethered to the bed because of the IV which had a line that wasn’t quite long enough for him to walk around with, and he couldn’t really go anywhere anyway.

My. Poor. Baby.

We snuggled. I held him close for so many hours straight, I sweated straight through three outfits in two days.

At points, it was heartbreaking, like when he started crying and yelling “No” every time a new person came into the room because he was sure they were going to stick him with another needle.

And yet, I kept counting my lucky stars because as sick as he was, I knew he’d come out of it eventually.

There were two kids on the floor who were receiving chemotherapy.

There were others who had been there far longer than us.

Four days was a long time, but it wasn’t forever.

While I’m on the subject of gratitude, can we give it up for nurses?

Tireless, cheerful, gentle, amazing people.

And pediatric nurses?

Standing ovation.

Because it must be heartbreaking to be around sick children all day long and still keep a smile on your face.

It takes a special person.

So, it was one step forward, two steps back, but eventually, he improved enough to be allowed to go home.

Now that we are home, Tiny and I are still attached at the hip.

Tomorrow will be rough, (probably more for me than for him) however, we are both ready to get on with our lives.

Crisis averted, back to real life and back to My Real Life.

I’m hoping while I was gone you were able to find something to read.

Something like…oh, I don’t know…my book. 🙂

If you haven’t ordered yet, please do!

We are looking to crack the NYTimes Bestsellers List.

Traditionally, not a place for self-publishers, but if we can keep up our momentum, it’s doable.

So, help some women out…read our book!