Thursday, May 28, 2009

That first trip is the scariest.

Until this week, I felt very lucky that Viv has been so healthy, especially as she wasn't breastfed, and without clostrum, she may as well be thrown into a pig wallow in Mexico for all the immune system she has. She had a mild case of croup that cleared up on its own, requiring only occasional treatments with albuterol delivered via nebulizer and her demeanor never really changed during that short illness.

She woke up Sunday, however, with a fever and seemed listless and out of sorts.  We called the doctor that night, but she was out of town, so we spoke with the consulting nurse at Children's.  She told us to just keep an eye on her, especially as she had no other symptoms, but she vomited twice that night and couldn't sleep, and was running a higher fever the next day, which was, of course, a holiday.  Another call to the consulting nurse, another keep an eye out.  We made an appointment for Tuesday, and my lovely pediatrician examined her and took a urine sample, which looked suspicious.  Her fever was 102.5 by then, and she vomited up the Tylenol we tried to give her to take down the fever, all over me, the doctor, the floor and her own clothes.  However, by then, the fever had climbed to an alarming 104. 3.  She was so hot it was difficult to hold her, so we tried to cool her using cold washcloths.  The doctor's office was out of fever reducing suppositories so the pediatrician actually ran to the pharmacy for us.  It was quite above and beyond.

However, by the time she returned, Viv was not improved, so she called Children's and they asked that we bring the poodle over.  A slightly tense drive during which I was convinced that Viv was not, in fact, sleeping, but was in a coma, and we were in the ER, but I couldn't have felt more low rent, as I hadn't anticipated the barf episode, and had no change of clothes.  So, I carried in my sick baby, swaddled only in a diaper and an industrial towel from the doctor's office.  However, the suppository had, blessedly, started to work and she began to improve.  They did give her a teeny, tiny hospital gown, which was actually quite fetching, but then Shelly arrived with actual clothes.

After a four hour wait, during which they took a urine sample via catheter (which I hope to never, ever have to do to her again), the urinary tract infection was confirmed and we were sent home after a primary antibiotic dosing.  I just got a call that it is an E. coli infection, the most common of the childhood urinary tract diseases.  The next morning, she was hugely improved, her normal, happy self.  Now we just have to take her back to Children's for a screening ultrasound to examine her ureter for defects.

I am curious as to why she didn't sleep last night and why she had worked herself into a frenzy before bedtime.  Barfy McSpewy couldn't keep down her antibiotic until the second go, so she was grumpy until we finally got her to sleep around 10:30.   Once she was asleep, though, I kept prodding her to make sure she didn't have a concussion, because, you see, she fell off the bed yesterday.  I set her in the MIDDLE of a pile of laundry, surrounded by bedding and clothes, and I didn't even know she could roll over the way she did. Why do children always celebrate milestones with grievous personal injury?  And why do things always happen so quickly when one has merely turned one's back to grab a blanket?  Anyway, she was, and is, fine, but I was terribly afraid that she was going to bleed on the brain, so I kept checking her eyes and pupils.  Right now I'm just letting her sleep.  Poor kid deserves it.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

So it's come to this.

When we brought Viv home, we were so panicked and desperate that we purchased our equipment willy nilly with nary a thought to ease of use or any similar considerations.  We bought our stroller and car seat as a set, and I knew they were very safe, but I had no idea they were so damn chintzy and awkward.  I've come to despise the very sight of our horrid, bulky, cheaply made stroller whose parts fall off with a visceral passion.  It's incredibly heavy, I can't lift it with one hand, it's difficult to open and close and it's so large that it occupies the entire space of the trunk and I cannot navigate store aisles without knocking over displays in a comical, sitcomish fashion.

Still, I had no idea that, in a post from several years ago in which I cruelly made fun of parents and their strollers, I would jinx myself into becoming the worst of them.  We bought a Bugaboo today.  More specifically, a Bugaboo Bee, one of the most expensive and pretentious strollers available on the market.  Well, in the top five of pretentious strollers, after Stokke, Inglesina and Orbit Baby, and above Quinny and Phil and Teds, although not by much.  However, we did get the stroller secondhand from Craigslist for a really excellent price, and it had been used a very limited amount of times.  It's the smallest and lightest weight Bugaboo, and folds with one hand and fits behind the front seat of the car.  It is a thing of beauty and genius and I adore it.  Too much.  It's embarrassing.  I still will never get a luxury SUV, though, despite that seeming to be the next link in the fancy pants chain of events.  My Toyota is good enough for this family.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Oh come ON.

Last Friday, I finally had my Nissen fundoplication.  I spent the night in the hospital and came home Saturday.  I was catheterized during the procedure as I was under general anesthetic, and developed a bladder infection by Sunday morning.  It's disturbing to urinate blood, even when you're half expecting it.

After calling the clinic which houses my surgeon and his residents and fellows and being ordered by the nurse to bring my sorry sad self down within a half hour, I was driven down my Mom, gave them a sample and waited two hours in uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room only to have the initial orders given to me on the phone contradicted by the front desk staff, who told me that, despite the initial assurance that I would be squeezed in by 10:30 am, my appointment with the resident was not, in fact, until noon. This was at 11:30, and I just couldn't wait anymore.  

After waiting three hours at home, I called the office, received a call back at 4:30 and was told my sample was full of unfortunate substances and a prescription had been called in for me.  But what did they call in?  Not your average, run of the mill Sulfa drug, no.  They called in anthrax-busting Cipro.  What the hell was in my pee?  

As I can't swallow pills yet, I took the first pill in ground form and hoped for few if any of the myriad of terrifying side effects listed in the pharmacy handout.  When I awoke this morning, my throat felt full and sore, and upon investigation, I saw the normally pink roof of my mouth covered with white patches from candida.  The ground pills wiped all of the good bacteria out of mouth and now I'm reduced to gargling tea tree oil twice a day, because the three types of ground pills I'm taking in addition to the antibiotic aren't foul enough.  However, the narcotic pain pills are giving me fun dreams, even though they're keeping me from knitting as I can't focus my eyes.  I'll take it where I can get it.