I try and stay away from this, usually by not involving Bug in any fake illness excuses ("we can't go/I can't go to work/have to reschedule, Bug is sick") because I'm half (OK, probably more than half) convinced that it will somehow cause her to actually be sick.
Apparently to add to that list now is writing a blog about how Bug is doing better, even if she's not. Because Monday escalated quickly, and because everything was closed (Memorial Day), we ended up in the ER with half the city, because everything was closed.
Bug fevers, HARD. I know this, but I don't know this. High fevers are scary, no matter how many times I've seen them. And I'm always convinced that whatever one she's currently in the middle of is going to be the Big One, and cannot be taken lightly.
Soon after the Sesame Street dancing, all of a sudden she came and sat down on me and shit got Real. I won't go into details, but it was scary, and it was enough for me to start using that high-volumed fake calm voice, and to start debating transportation options. Matt was done with the gig, but not yet home; I could drive her myself, but then no one could be in the backseat with her keeping her awake.
He somehow found a ride home. She was already strapped into the car and I was standing outside the rear passenger door singing loudly and yelling sharply, "STAY AWAKE, PLEASE."
She was super crazy hot when we got there. I could hear the woman in front of me in line (wearing zebra-print jeggings, no less) tell the registration woman she was concerned because "some kids at school had strep last week." The nurse then asked her if her son (who was busy playing on his iPad) had a fever. The woman responded, "no, but I guess he feels sort of warm." WHY ARE YOU IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM? DO I HAVE TO BEAT YOU OUT OF THE WAY?
We got her checked in, answered the million questions that surround her crazy medical chart, and went to sit down. Because we were in the waiting room, we let her doze quickly, and when she woke up 15 or so minutes later she felt a little bit cooler, and was at least more alert. When we were FINALLY called back to triage, her fever was 104, and she felt considerably cooler to me than when we arrived. They gave her Tylenol, a cup for a urine sample, and instructions to be re-dosed with more ibuprofen in an hour. Stupidly, in my head I thought, "well we should be called back by THEN, right?"
We took her to the bathroom so she could pee in the cup, and you'd think we had started some kind of crazy home treatment in there that involved push pins and sharp knives. Just screaming at the top of her lungs, and the two of us, sounding like idiots, trying to calm her down. We finally did get her to do it, and when we left the bathroom, there were only two people outside waiting who clearly heard the whole exchange, instead of the 30 I feared.
Of course an hour comes and goes and we have to go back up to the desk to ask them to bring her back to triage for more ibuprofen. Matt takes her back alone so I can save our seats in the waiting room, and they are gone for what feels like an eternity. Has something gone terribly wrong and now she's been admitted and someone forgot to tell me? OMG if that happens he is so sleeping on the couch for MONTHS and I am NEVER BAKING COOKIES FOR HIM EVER AGAIN.
Eventually they do come out, and she is covered in three new stickers and is chatting away. I am relieved but still mad that I was left hanging. One can only play so many rounds of Dots before they start to feel negligent to the greater situation. Her fever had come down to 102, and she had been busy talking to everyone.
This family came in a short time later with a small child, maybe 4 or 5, who had a terrible, terrible cough. Of course neither Mom nor Dad gave the kid a mask, and he was clearly never taught to cover his mouth, so he stood hacking in the middle of the waiting room. I saw another Mom who was sitting near them go and get masks for her own kids, which is totally what I would have done if we had been even two seats closer. I made a comment to Matt about how long we'd been waiting, and how now there seemed to be no line any more (of course) and then settled on the fact that I would be happy if Mr. Cough was called back before us, because then we wouldn't have to be exposed to him any longer. Another mom behind me thought that our snarky comments about this (admittedly unfortunate) child were pretty funny, and we started talking a bit. Right as we were commiserating about wait times, we were called back, and so the conversation had no choice but to end abruptly and awkwardly.
By now, of course, Bug has had the maximum dosage (it's always more than you would ever administer at home) of both Tylenol and Motrin, and is feeling G-R-E-A-T. Her fever has gone down further to below 100. As we're waiting for the doctor, Mr. Cough gets a bed across from us, and through the curtains we hear him start to vomit about every third or fourth coughing attack. Then they start some sort of procedure on him to try and help the coughing (a nebulizer? Vulcan mind games?) and he starts freaking out, and the coughing gets worse and the vomiting more frequent. Bug is oblivious to the whole thing (for once).
The doctor comes and sees us, and I know she's not going to have much to tell us. Urine is clear, ears are clear, there is no longer any emergency. I'd much rather have it be this way than have to be dealing with a Mr. Cough-like situation, so we sit there and wait for our discharge papers. On our way to the car I douse us all in sanitizer and we go home.
We make her favorite meal for dinner (homemade baked chicken nuggets and sweet potato french fries) and she starts FREAKING OUT about eating, now claiming her throat hurts, along with her stomach. We offer her a popsicle, which she actually eats, until the end she's been nursing predictably (at least to us) falls off into her mouth and she half-chokes and starts to cry again. OY VEY.
After dinner we decide to take a distracting trip to Target because we need more ibuprofen. She feels well enough to demand every toy, "NOW."
As we're (cool) bathing her, I read on the back of the package how "high fever accompanied by a sore throat (and/or vomiting, diarrhea, whatever)" can be the sign of something serious, and I'm all, ugh, no. This is worse than WebMD!
She's up a half a dozen times last night, but at least doesn't feel like the surface of the sun.
This morning we (Matt was off today after working the whole three-day weekend) took her to her pediatrician just to see if maybe she does have strep throat. He looks inside her mouth, and says to us, "you look."
And there on the roof of her mouth are these disgusting things that look like huge pimples. GROSS. "Is it hand, foot and mouth, AGAIN??" I ask.
No, he says, it's not. It's caused by some other kind of virus (adenovirus? I think?) which can manifest itself multiple ways, including as pink eye (which I'm glad we don't have). This would explain her complaining about her mouth hurting. It's a virus, so there's nothing we can do, although the worst news is possibly that the doctor has seen a lot of these cases lately, and one patient had the fever for TWELVE DAYS. Those poor, poor parents.
At the very least, she had something identifiable, and we're hoping the fever is gone soon, since she is contagious until then and confined to playing with only us (sigh.)
After the doctor, we decided to drive to the Gliderport, which I have always wanted to go to. It's dumbfoundingly beautiful. Same views as Torrey Pines Reserve, but no parking fees, and a fraction of the people. I would have liked to have hiked around, but I could barely walk across the dirt parking lot.
Looking south toward La Jolla Shores
Danger signs, shmanger signs.
I "let" him go out there, while I tackled her to the ground.
Not behaving one bit.
Her legs are all dirty because SHE WOULDN'T SIT STILL OMG YOU ARE GOING TO FALL OFF THE CLIFF AND DIE.
Then we relocated a little bit north.
I put on running clothes for the first time today, and it didn't make me feel any less depressed.
Hat hair, bad.
Shooting at 11:30 AM does not a good photo make.
So there's this sign, right? And no discernibly safe way to get down to the beach.
Those people down there are naked, because it's a nude beach (Black's Beach). I am not making this up.
Not pointing at naked people.
Then we drove up a few miles to Del Mar, and stopped for some crazy-good sandwiches.
When you bring your lunch, you get the playground to yourself when everyone else goes home for theirs.
I am sobbing about how I don't ever want to leave here, even though I still have at least a year and a half to go.
No ibuprofen before bed tonight! Hopefully she can go to school on Friday. I'm selfish so this is totally more for my sake than hers.
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