Now I Know

I could hear my son's cough - more a seal's bark than a human sound - and I entered his room to grab the ibuprofen, calmly double-checking the dosage.   We had heard these coughs more than a half-dozen times in the last three years, and I knew the routine: stop the swelling, steam shower, liquids, and rest.

This time, his breathing was labored, and every second in the steamy shower room seemed like a full minute as I willed him to take a deep breath.  "Don't cry, baby," I cajoled.  I distracted him for a few seconds by drawing circles in the shower door, and then he coughed again and it hurt his chest.  Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

My instincts screamed to take him to the ER and I still wondered if I was overreacting.  I didn't care if I was.

I pulled the damp clothing from his sweaty little body, and dressed him quickly as he cried the whole time.  My son rarely cries; when he cries like this, it sets all of my nerve endings on edge.  Carrying him down the stairs, I listened to his breathing and panic started to set in.  I heard the "strider" the doctor had asked me about before but I'd never heard from him; the tell-tale raspy wheeze as he breathed.  I didn't have to look at his chest to see the depressions; I could see the effort in his smooth neck and in the indentation in his throat.

On my way to the living room, I told my husband we needed to take him to the hospital.  With maddening calm, he asked me how this time is any different from the other times he's had croup.

Voice shaking, I described his breathing and asked him to get our son's shoes.  We decided to take him straight to St. David's, the hospital where our son had been born, rather than try to cross town to Dell Children's Hospital in the pouring rain.

My son's chest was laboring and I sat next to him in the car, holding his hand while my husband drove.   We walked straight into the ER and the nurse at the desk did triage right away.  She validated my concerns in a few seconds by noting his chest depressions.   By then, my son's breathing was easing a little, but it was still not what it should be.

Three hours, two nebulizer treatments (that my son hated) and simultaneous cortisone shots in both legs (which he hated slightly less than the nebulizer, surprisingly), we were on our way home, radiographs of our son's lungs in hand.  For the third time, I heard that he has "early bronchitis" which I pray is not "early asthma", an affliction I have had nearly my whole life.   

Three times, ER personnel told me I had done the right thing to bring him to the hospital this rainy Sunday.  I'm convinced of mother's intuition; I could tell the usual routine wasn't working as quickly as it should.  Taking chances with a toddler's tiny lungs can mean disaster, and waiting too long can mean that it's that much harder to fight the challenge.   At the same time, it's easy to wonder if you're overreacting. 

I fought tears on the car ride to the hospital.  I was scared, and I didn't want my son to suffer like I did.  I pray he didn't get my sub-par lungs; poor kid.  If I could have chosen from a checklist, I would have picked my husband's lungs, vision, and business savvy for him, but I didn't get the choice.
 
I grew up in hospitals and emergency rooms.  I knew the nurses by name and I felt relieved, not scared, when my doctor admitted me for a week or more, because I knew help was on the way.  Nurses, doctors, and hospitals saved my life, and I was confident they would take care of my little boy too.

Now I know.

Now I know exactly how my parents felt every time they had to take me to the ER because I couldn't breathe.   I remember my lips turning blue and not being able to bend over and tie my own shoes because the effort was too much.  I remember nights after getting shots of epinephrine that gave me the shakes for hours afterward and I couldn't sleep.  I remember my mother's calm above and beyond all that, and it gave me strength.   Being a parent means so many things.  In this case, it meant being strong for my son and staying calm to keep him relaxed.

A kids, no one truly appreciates what our parents do for us, and this was a moment of clarity.  My parents kept it together all of those times my body was failing me and threatening my life.  I would rather take my son to the doctor and risk, at worst, eye-rolling if I'm overreacting than the alternative.  Thank you, mom and dad, for taking such great care of me and giving me role models for my own parenting practices.

I dedicate this post to all respiratory therapists and asthma educators out there, working hard to teach parents how to save lives.  And to the camp for kids with asthma where I volunteered for nine years, Camp Breathe Easy.  Thank you for all that you do.

Love,