It's been a really rough week in our house.
My youngest son had a tonsillectomy on Wednesday morning. Tonsils out, pain meds in.
He started vomiting a little while after we got home that afternoon.
By six o'clock that night, the ENT was advising me to take him to the emergency room for IV Zofran.
"Overreact much?" I replied unexpectedly.
I called because I knew the vomiting was keeping him from absorbing both fluids and pain medicine. I didn't want him to get dehydrated or to be in pain. I figured the ENT would call in a suppository or something.
He explained that there wasn't much wiggle room with his size and weight, that he would get dehydrated quickly. He needed a second IV for the day. "You're not overreacting. I can't do this over the phone," the doctor said.
By 8:30, my son was whimpering, his teeth clattering as his whole body shook in pain and fear and utter discomfort. He cried out and squeezed my hand as the nurses deftly slid a new IV catheter into his small, artificially-numbed hand.
All I could do was watch and grit my teeth.
He was discharged a few hours later but started to vomit again before we'd even gotten to the parking lot of the hospital. IV number three came a little while later, after more vomiting and an abdominal x-ray. This time there was no numbing cream. I am grateful to the pediatric ER nurses for knowing how to do this quickly.
He was eventually admitted to the hospital for two nights and was happily at home playing Minecraft by Friday afternoon.
But it was horrible watching my young son in so much pain. I can't imagine how vomiting felt after a tonsillectomy, especially when he'd effectively had no pain medicine for about eight hours. The terror of not knowing when it would end, of not knowing if he would ever feel better... it was wretched. All I could do was sing to him and let him squeeze my strong, warm hand with his tiny, trembling one, while I stroked his hair and whispered that it would be okay very soon.
I was thankful to have the outlet of friends by text and Facebook to vent quietly away from him. They knew I was all but paralyzed with terror, though I don't think he had any clue.
I wrote on Tuesday night about how I was worried about this procedure. I'm not a worrier usually, and I'm convinced it was my psycho senses prepping me for what was to come. I didn't know then what it would be, but I could sense that something wouldn't go right.
Thankfully we were able to come home on Friday, still on oral Zofran and pain meds. He slept for eleven hours last night, in his own, safe bed. He'd originally said he wanted to sleep with me but then changed his mind at the last minute. I was still close enough that I could hear him if he needed me. He was quiet until he woke this morning, whining in throat pain. This was the part I'd expected. This was the recovery I'd planned for. This part sucks but is easier than the other.
Thank you to everyone who said a prayer and a wish and a good thought for my baby. Thank you to Children's Hospital of Atlanta at Scottish Rite for having an amazing, caring, anticipating staff. This week has sucked but is already better, and I couldn't have gotten through this mentally and emotionally intact were it not for so much support.
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