With all this bad...how about some GOOD??

It's been pretty easy to become consumed with all the bad news, the sickness, and the consequently negative energy in this household lately, as evident by my most recent posts.

Well, this pains me because despite the yucky slew of days we've endured here, we've got some pretty big, fantastic, exciting news that seems to have slipped through the cracks:

Gav is CRAWLING!!!!!

Yes folks, you heard it here first.  Friday, February 12th, 2010 was the big day (making him just about 7 months and 1 week old) and I am so thankful that I happened to have my camera nearby to capture this precious moment. So without further ado, may I please present to you, my baby boy on the move!  (*please note the AMAZING, beautiful, bright eye-d smiles as he reaches his crawling destinations and feels so proud of himself!)

Valentine's Day weekend (2 of 2)

(cont'd...)

Thank God, we make it to the ER in about 10 minutes flat without me throwing up or passing out. Yes!  Mom gets a phenomenal parking spot right near the door which is crucial tonight, since my chills/fever are out of control and the temperature outside is about 17 degrees.  The brisk, wintery New England air stings the small part of my face that is exposed as we walk to the doors, and I shudder.  Brrrrr.

As we enter the ER waiting room, I am immediately overcome by a panicked sense of OCD that might actually rival my husband's; People hacking juicy coughs into blue surgeon masks, an elderly woman laying on a stretcher vomiting into a pink, kidney-shaped bowl, a teenage boy with his bloody arm in a makeshift sling, to name a few.  I can almost feel the germs climbing off of these people, scurrying across the floor, and burrowing themselves any of my exposed mucous membranes. GROSS.

I walk right up to the receptionist and tell her why I am here: "Hi, the on-call Dr. - Dr. Sullivan- wanted me to be seen immediately for a potential pneumonia."

At this point, my mom drags a chair from the waiting room for me since I am swaying back and fourth, pale in the face, and may very well pass out at any moment.

Nasty receptionist barks at her, "Leave that chair there! She can stand for just a minute!"

My mom isn't pleased with this “friendly” welcome and glares at the woman, who then turns to me and shouts "You better speak up, I didn't hear a THING you said to me a minute ago."

My mom, again unimpressed by this rudeness and all too-aware of the state I am in, chimes back at her: "Her ears are completely clogged and her fever is almost 105. Maybe if you let her sit down and relax she could speak up better!"

Rude receptionist rolls her eyes and begrudgingly agrees to let me sit down in a chair. 

She then proceeds to ask me a slew of questions that I am unarguably in no state to be answering.

"What is your race?"
"Cuban/American."
"Well, which is it- Cuban or American?"
"Umm, okay then, American?"
"Ethnicity?"
"White."
(rudely chuckling at me) "Sweetheart, you must mean Hispanic if  you call yourself Cuban, right?"
"Fine. Hispanic, whatever." (at this point, 'Native American/Other' would have been completely acceptable to me.)
"Do you have a health care proxy?"
"Don't know."
"Are you an organ donor?"
"No."
"Would you like to be?"
"Preferably not tonight."
(she doesn't find this funny.)
"Would you like a member of the Catholic Archdioces to read you last rites if warranted during this visit?"
"Umm...no? I mean yes? I dunno, sure. But I'd also like not to die tonight."
(she is still remarkably unimpressed by my stale, fever-induced attempt at humor.)
"Do you feel safe at home?"
"Yes."
"Smoking, drinking, recreational drugs in the past year?"
"No, just wine on occasion."
"Define 'occasion'."
"Don't know, maybe once a week?"
(annoyed as she exaggeratedly pounds the DEL button on her keyboard to change my answer) "Ok, so that is a YES then."
"Fine. Are we done?"
"Yes, please sign here indicating that you have read....."

I completely zone out at this point, just sign my Hispanic life away on the dotted line, and walk over to where my mom is sitting, slumping over in the seat next to her. So glad to be done with rudest reception lady ever.

In the hour that transpires as we wait in the waiting room, a young woman and her fiance (who had definitely been out for a Valentine's day date, given their dapper attire, ) come storming through the doors, as she repeatedly vomits into a freezer-size Ziploc bag. 

Swell, I think as she decides to sit TWO SEATS AWAY FROM ME. Just what I need- now I will be getting the  stomach bug too. 

She vomits atleast 3 times into this sad, dilapidated Ziploc-o-puke, and I am very confused as to why she is allowed to sit out here in the open, exposing the rest of us to this vile bug.  At this point, my face is completely burrowed into my coat and my jacket hood is on tight, much resembling the homemade get-up of a novice bank robber.  I just keep telling myself, "I will NOT get the stomach bug, I will NOT get the stomach bug..." and hope for the best.

Apparently I doze of for a bit after this, and the next thing I remember is a sweet-as-pie nurse named Amy taking me in for my chest X-ray.    I think to myself, Good to know at least some friendly people work here!

After Amy is done with me, a male nurse named Josh-- who looks about 16 years old-- asks Amy to "please steal this lovely young lady for some bloodwork and an EKG?" and with this request, takes my arm in his and escorts me down the hall.  
 Ha! ‘Lovely young lady?’  I chuckle to myself. I haven't showered in 3 days, my breath is atrocious, and my leg hair is longer than a Wookie's. I quickly deduce that after a few minutes alone in the EKG room with me, Josh will no longer be referring to me by this adorable pet name.
So into the small room we go, Josh the male nurse and I.  He sort of resembles a young Anthony Michael Hall but with glasses. (Basically…a younger, male version of yours truly.)  He makes small talk which immediately puts me at ease. Typical stuff; what brought you here, what an awful way to spend Valentine’s day evening, etc…  He withdraws 6 vials of blood from the top of my hand since the rest of my veins are too deep to reach, and I am stunned.

“Wow, you are the first person ever  to get my vein on the first try!”


“I never miss,” he remarked confidently, and smiled. “Ok, time for the EKG,” he stated as he began to loosen the sexy, sandpaper-soft Johnnie that I was wearing. “Ever had one of these?”



“Don’t believe so,” I replied.


“Ok then..”  and he began sticking tiny little adhesive stickers to my shoulders, arms, and calves. (I’m pretty sure he had to comb apart an area of unruly leg hair to do so. No joke.)

“Ok, so the EKG won’t hurt at all, but I am going to need you to please lift up your breasts for me.”

Umm, pardonne moi? This request caught me a little off-guard.


He must’ve sensed the confusion in my face and immediately followed this statement with
“I need to get these sticky little thingies under there, and to be honest—my girlfriend works down the hall. I try to life as few boobies as possible so I won’t get in trouble—especially on Valentine’s Day!”

I am completely amused by his sense of humor and feel oddly comfortable lifting the boobies for him, (despite the sad fact that this is more a$$ than Jeff will get this Valentine’s Day.) And so he completes the EKG, and we sit there talking for another fifteen minutes about complete randomness—his Bosnian girlfriend, the fact that his grandfather’s grandfather translated the Lutheran version of the Bible, that is is actually 25 years old just looks perpetually 14, his days at Gordon College, and the fact that he doesn’t mind missing V-day with his girlfriend since “every day should be equally romantic.” 

 I felt like responding “Ha! Just wait til your days revolve around runny-nosed kiddos, play-dates, grocery shopping, and mountains of laundry!”  

But alas, it was Valentine’s day, and he was a real sweetheart…and so I let him have his dream.




Josh told me that it was nice doing business with me, and I said the same, and he (finally) took me to a “real” room with a comfy hospital bed and some privacy. As soon as I lay down, I began shivering profusely again, and he brought me a “fresh out of the oven,” toasty warm hospital blanket- HEAVEN.  He rubbed my hand for a bit and stayed with  me until the chills subsided, ordered me more Tylenol, and then bid me adieu, telling me that he’d send my Mom in right away.


I was very impressed with his services, and swore that I’d send a gloating review of him to the Board of Directors at the hospital.



A few minutes later, my Mom came to sit in my room with me.  Another nurse popped her head in and turned the TV on for us.   

“Hi ladies, not sure how long the Dr. will be, so you may want to get comfortable!” she warned us.

I stayed huddled on my right side under the cozy warm blanket, and drifted in and out of coherency for the next two hours.   (I was desperately hoping that the conversation between a nurse and an elderly woman that seemed to occur right outside my wide-open door -regarding “the drippy Poo in your pants—Sweetheart, you had diarrhea and you are sitting all in poo. We need to change your diaper”  was just a figment of my imagination, but alas it was not. This was confirmed to me by my mother who witnessed, first-hand, the entire Poo-mergency 5 feet from us while I snored away.)

Finally, around two something in the morning, a salt-and-pepper haired Dr. with rosy red cheeks came bursting into the room, flicking the lights on with zero regard for my splitting headache.


“Hi, I’m Dr. Blah-blah,” he introduced himself. “Chest X-ray was fine. Blood levels fine. Positive for bacterial bronchitis, so we’ll start you on a Z-pack. And obviously an underlying virus causing the fever. Fluids and rest. Take care!”



It really was that fast. My head was spinning, and I lay there confused since I hadn’t even fully awoken from the warm-blanket coma that I had so been enjoying.   

Wow, I said to my mom. And that’s why he makes the beaucoup bucks?!  She tiredly agreed.



At least the nurse who discharged me spent more than 13 seconds with me, explaining the course of my pills, and asked if I had any questions. After I signed all necessary paperwork, I unwillingly peeled myself out from under the heated blanket cocoon that I had made for myself, stripped off the Johnnie, and put my own clothes on to head home.


AND SO….early Monday morning, around 3:15, my Mom dropped me back off at home and I crawled back into my own bed, where I’ve remained since.  I do feel like the Z-pack (*might*) be starting to  work, although I say this very cautiously so these words won’t come back to bite me in the butt.

Ava’s cough remains but her fever has disappeared with the rest of her other symptoms.  Gav is definitely taking a bit longer to get better, presumably because he is so little and just doesn’t know how to help himself heal the way she does. My poor little buddy. It is so sad to see him this sick, at only 7 months old.  Both are still on regular nebulizer treatments and antibiotics, but God willing, and end is in sight.


 And then there is my Jeff…. my incredible knight in shining Clorox wipes.  Remarkably, he hasn’t been contaminated with this yuckiness and we remain hopeful that by some miraculous measure, he has escaped it altogether.  He has held down this fort all by himself  in a way I never thought humanly possible and I am so proud, so lucky, so honored for this.  It certainly isn’t a small feat to be the sole caretaker of three sick individuals, all with different needs, for days on end. He's balanced medicine dosages like a champ and has made sure that each of us has had food in our bellies and lots of fluids to drink.  He is sleep-deprived and beyond depleted physically, but he’ll never show me this.  It’s times like these that the whole ‘in sickness and health…’ thing really makes a difference.  I could never have asked for a better life partner and am so privileged that our little family has him as our rock in difficult times.


And as for me? Well, I’ve spent the past few days in bed catching up on a gluttonous amount of Teen Mom, Let’s Talk About Pep, and The Buried Life.  (the latter of which is actually completely inspirational and touching, by the way.) I have seen approximately 7,296 ads for the New and Improved Pro-Activ Acne solution  as well as the second generation Swivel Sweeper G2. I’ve also learned that MTV does in fact still air music videos, but only between the hours of two and six am.  I’ve been surviving on Ginger Ale, Robitussin with Codeine and Riiiiiii-colaaaaaaaa lozenges.  My fever is finally down a little bit today and my biggest complaints at the moment are an incredibly sore back from all of the coughing, and this ever-present pounding headache.  Improvement- baby steps, but improvement.



Our neighbor Laura is bringing us dinner tonight because she is an absolute Saint!!!  And I am happy to report that Ava will be having something other than PB & J for dinner tonight. (this is not me judging, by the way- Jeff obviously had his hands way full and as long as she was eating anything, I was happy.)
Hopefully everyone is on the road to recovery and I’m praying that in the day or two ahead, things will slowly start to settle back into some resemblance of normalcy.

Oh, and by the way? Please click here for a brief reminder as to why last week's medicine situation ain't got nothin' on this week's.  Psshht.

Valentine's Day weekend (1 of 2)

How was my Valentine's Day weekend, you may be wondering?
Spent under a warm blanket holding the hand of an adorable male nurse named "Josh," and lifting up my boobs for him.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves... here's the story from the beginning.

My last entry was Thursday, in reference to the fact that my infant son and four-year old daughter were now both sick.  Ughh.  I was running on fumes, especially coming off the heels of a full week of sleepless nights, spent running from one bedroom to the next, giving amoxicillin doses, Z-packs, Benadryl, albuterol nebulizer treatments, and oral steroids until the wee hours of the morning.  By Friday, everyone in this house was exhausted and frustrated, given that neither of the kiddos seemed to be getting better with the medicines.  We all wanted to cry.  Everything culminated early on Saturday morning with yet another trip to the emergency walk-in clinic and a diagnosis that Ava had an ear infection too.  Fantastic.  So at this point, the score was as follows:

Aves:  RAD, random fever-inducing virus, bronchial infection, horrific wheezing cough, fluid-filled lungs, and now ear infection to boot.


Gav: same fever-related virus, identical cough (except that he's too little to know how to cope by spitting out the mucous, and was so sad,  :-(   fluid-filled lungs, and ear infection as well.

Pretty much a tie, if you ask me.

When I woke up that Saturday morning, I was starting to feel "a little off" and so Jeff took them to this appointment alone, in very high hopes that whatever I might be coming down with would resemble nothing like the monstrosity that had infected our children.  Unfortunately for our little family unit...this would not be the case.  By the time Jeff got home with the kids around noon, I was huddled in the living room recliner under three blankets shivering and sweating simultaneously.  My head was pounding, my ears were becoming clogged, and -- Oh dear God-- THE COUGH. Jeff, being the eternal optimist, made me some loose-leaf white tea and told me to drink it. "I'm sure it's just because you're run down...just take it easy today and you'll be fine tomorrow!"

Silly husband- wishful, wishful thinking.

By seven that night, everything was a haze and I could feel my fever spiking; (a kids' ear thermometer confirmed this with a 101.7 reading, which I was glad to see since I was expecting something much higher.)  Jeff brought me motrin and tylenol which I took, and then remained in the recliner, where I had spent the entirety of my day curled up in a pathetic, lifeless ball.  In the foggy distance, I could hear the kids in the bath, Jeff arguing with Ava to do yet another nebbie, and the baby coughing and crying. I wanted to help but I couldn't even muster enough physical strength to stand up.  I was useless.

Eight o'clock, and the kids are finally in bed. I hear Jeff in the kitchen making a sad phonecall: "Hi, I had a Valentine's dinner reservation for tonight-yes, nine pm-- under Jeff. Yeah, I need to cancel that. My wife is sick. Ok, thanks. You too, bye."  As sick as I am, my heart sinks in the realization that we have officially missed our (ONLY) big night out in several months. And if I wasn't so dehydrated, I probably would have shed a tear about it.

Ten p.m. and things are going downhill fast.  I am hallucinating that the oscillating fan in the living room is making me cold (*we do not own an oscillating fan) and beg Jeff to turn it off.  All this while watching Apollo something or other skate in some sort of big-shot skating competition on the 46-inch plasma in front of me.  Man, he must be cold, I think to myself as I watch him on the shiny ice, and I shiver with more chills.  Jeff takes my temp again: 103 point something. Not good considering I've been taking tylenol and motrin religiously all day long. My cough is out of control and I am expelling yucky, thick phlegm. It's not pretty.

Jeff's OCD must kick into high gear at this point and he decides that I must now be quarantined in my bedroom.  At the pace of a snail in a wheelchair, I stand up from the recliner.  Every joint in my body throbs with pain and my eyes pound.  Jeff leads me down the hallway and gets me into bed. As I am drifting off into a fever-induced sleep, I hear him in the living room ferociously Lysol-ing, clorox-ing, and opening windows to give him a fighting chance of not catching this.  (And for the first time in my life, I find these OCD rituals to be completely warranted.)

I do manage to fall into some resemblance of sleep despite the hot-cold-hot-cold-hot episodes that my body is experiencing, during which point I have a very realistic dream that we are at my parents' house in Maine, and I have turned into a maniacal Frosty the snowman, chasing Jeff around the cottage with my magical neon broomstick.  Sidenote: there are only two times in my life during when I tend to have very bizarre and vivid dreams: sickness and pregnancy. (and the answer is NO to the latter, in case you were wondering.)  Throughout the night, I repeatedly hear poor Gav coughing and crying in his bedroom next door, and wish there was any way that I could help Jeff...especially around 2am when Ave wakes up coughing herself into a vomit frenzy, and Gav wakes up screaming and coughing and gagging at the exact same time.  By some miraculous measure though, my warrior of a husband does in fact survive the night, and so do the kiddos. I can honestly say that I've never felt more helpless for my family, or more empathetic for my children- especially since I now know first-hand exactly what kind of pain and suffering this Flu-mageddon  thingy has done to their tiny bodies.  In and out of consciousness, this is what pains me the most for the remainder of the day as I lay in bed, still quarantined. My poor, poor babies  :-(


Sunday morning comes and I am now experiencing a constant ringing in my left ear and nausea beyond belief.  My cough worsens, my phlegm is more abundant, and any hint of light in my bedroom is like daggers to my eyes.  I haven't eaten in 2 days, since the thought of food makes me sick to my stomach.  I've endured 2 full-blown nosebleeds due to the dryness in our house and the massive amount of nose-blowing that has ensued in the past 3 days.  Sunday afternoon, my mom comes over to help out for a bit and give Jeff somewhat of a break. She holds Gav on the couch, who is still so sick that he has no interest in doing anything but nestling up with Nana and sleeping on her shoulder. My poor, sad little buddy. :-(


That evening, around six o'clock, I am beginning to wheeze tremendously with my coughing fits and am having sharp pains in my chest, which scares me a little bit.  Still quarantined in  my bedroom, I take my own temperature but can't even open my eyes enough to read the results after it beeps.  With the little voice that I still have, I hoarsely call Jefffffff?   and have to do this a few times before he hears me and comes running to the rescue.  I ask him to read the thermometer:  One-oh-four point two.

Yikes, this isn't good. Especially since I just took motrin and tylenol an hour ago. And the shooting pains in my chest....

We decide to call the on-call Dr. from my practice, who is alarmed by my fever and the fact that it seems non-responsive to medicine.

"I know it's probably the last thing you want to hear on Valentine's Day," he states, "but you need to get to the ER immediately, you could very well have a bacterial pneumonia."

Valentine's day? I think to myself. I had completely forgotten that today was in fact February 14th.

Jeff calls my mom and makes arrangements for her to take me to the hospital, since the kiddos are both still sick & waking up at night, and his priority needs to be at home for them.  Jayne speeds over to our house and I feel like I am walking in a Jello mold as I saunter down the hall, out the door, and into her car.  I begin shivering immediately and the movement of the car makes my nausea worse, so I just close my eyes and pray to God that I make it to the ER without hurling...

How NOT to win 'Mom of the Year" award:

You know it's been a bad week when:

Yup, that's right folks...2 kiddos, 2 bottles of amoxicillin. Let me back up a little bit and fill you in on how we reached this point.

Ava's been sick all week...the cough, the gagging, the vomiting, the wheezing, the breathing treatments, and so on. She's been so sick, so needy, that this little guy

got inadvertently put on the back burner. And by "back burner," I just mean that my mind wasn't open to the possibility that he wasn't feeling good either after a few whiny days & rough nights. (I should also mention that he's been more whiny lately because of his bottom teeth popping through, so I have been quick to attribute any changes in his temprament to this.) It actually wasn't until last night- when he slept MAYBE 2 hours all night long, and screamed/cried the rest-- that I began to wonder if some other culprit could be to blame. But since he's never, ever had a sleepless night of this caliber, I kept positive and just assumed that it was one of two things: 1) a fluke, sleepless night (hey, after 7 months of sleeping perfection, he's entitled to a night off!) or 2). maybe he'd finally caught the cold that his big sister's been fighting, and he just wasn't feeling great because of it.

Well... fast forward to this morning:

Six am, and I am running on less than fumes, if that is possible. Between Aves & Gav, Jeff & I have been up all night and neither of us can see straight. Jeff leaves for work, and I am left in a haze with a sad, sicky girl and a questionably "not feeling so hot" baby boy. The three of us hang out, eat some breakfast, and by 11 in the morning, Gav is beyond exhausted. "Good," I think, "He'll finally sleep, since he didn't sleep at ALL last night and has been up since five AM!"
So into his room we go, just the two of us and his nice warm bubby. I pull the shades like I do every day before his nap. His diaper is dry, his jammies are cozy, and after about ten minutes, his bottle is empty and his belly is full or yummy, warm milk. He should be ready to go down at this point, but given that he's not feeling great, I indulge him (and myself) in an extra fifteen minutes of rocking together in the glider. Once he is fast asleep- as evident by the fly-catching, wide-open mouth that is drooling on my shoulder as he snores-- I perform the ritualistic saunter up from the glider and walk across the room to his crib, moving at the pace of an elderly sloth, as not to wake him. I even rock him in my arms for another few minutes before attempting "the release."
And that's when it happened; as I leaned my body over the crib to place him down, the MOMENT he transferred from the (somewhat) vertical position in which I was holding him to the horizontal, laying down position in the crib, he screamed.
SCREAMED louder than I've ever heard from his little voice in 7 months now. A painful, sad scream, and immediate eyes wide open.
And I knew it in that second, as I scooped him up to snuggle him again: Ear infection.
There was no doubt in my mind, (especially after living through years of them with Ava,) that this is what we were dealing with here. As he whimpered there in my arms, tears rolling off his little cheeks as he attempted to get comfy again, I immediately felt like the biggest jerk that has ever existed. My heart ached and my eyes started to well up with the warm, salty tears of maternal failure. I had failed him, plain and simple. At just 7 months old he'd been giving me signs all week, and I was too consumed with Ava's medical needs that I never even noticed. And so, similar to the last five minutes of The Usual Suspects, bits & pieces of the past few days of Gav's life began to flash before my eyes, and it all came together. The fact that he started with cold-like symptoms of runny nose & sneezing that never ceased; the fact that he's been banging/tugging on and around his left ear for a few days now; the fact that, despite him being a phenomenal sleeper, he didn't sleep at ALL last night; and perhaps the most tell-tale sign of all, today's screaming upon trying to lay him flat.
Ughhh. What a bad, bad Mommy I suddenly felt like. What kind of Mom doesn't know her own baby has his FIRST ear infection!? Apparently, this kind.
I felt bad for Gav that I'd been inadvertently neglectful of his needs to tend to Ave's all week long...and as I rocked there with him in his room for another hour, I felt tremendous guilt that I told Ava over an hour ago that I'd be "....right back out to watch a Barbie movie (with her) in just a few minutes, after I put Gav down for his nappy..." 


Ultimately, I suppose today was a good reminder that I am only human, and despite my fervent attempts at being 110% there for both kiddos at ALL times, it comes down to simple math: One of me, two of them. Therefore, inevitably situations will arise when one child is going to need more- time, attention, resources, etc... And by default, the other will lack because of it. I just feel so sad that poor Gav had to deal with a throbbing, painful ear to teach me this lesson. In the meantime, all I can do is try harder at this whole dividing my time and energy thing, and hope that I get better with time and practice. (Oh, and maybe contemplate relocating to a warmer climate where sickness & ear infections are a rarity... that too.)

In conclusion, as I sit here typing this, my dark, quiet, candle-lit household now claims 2 sick kiddos and 2 beyond exhausted parents.  My fridge and medicine cabinet could easily rival any Rite-Aid or Target pharmacy at this point.  From the baby monitor, we hear sporadic bouts of 2 kiddos snoring, both coughing juicy coughs, and sniffling here and there. Gav, whose first dose of antibiotic hasn't kicked in yet, is fast asleep in his car-seat since laying flat is still too painful for his poor little eardrum. And Aves, snuggled in her bed, (still with the infamous blue bucket at her side just in case tonight's 3am coughing fit results in projectile vomit again,) is most likely dreaming about the Valentine's day party at school tomorrow that she may or may not attend, depending on how she's doing in the morning. To say that this week has been a "bad one" could possibly be the understatement of the decade...but with 2 kids finally on appropriate meds and tomorrow being Friday, I'd say things (BETTER!) start looking up soon.

Home sick, day 3...

"This is getting old, Mom..."

(Please note the rosy, pink cheeks-- thank you steroids for that nice little side effect.)

My poor baby- I just want to wrap her up in my arms, take all of this ridiculous pain away, and let her get on with her fun, happy existence. But on the upside, I am very proud of what a good girl she's been, given the crappy circumstances of her week....she's taking her meds, doing her breathing treatments, and staying remarkably upbeat. She keeps telling me,

"Momma, as long as I can go to my Valentine's party on Friday, everything will be ok..."

Yikes....come on Augmentin, don't let that little face down now!

Things I never wanted to be an expert on:

Oral steroids.

Albuterol.

Pulmicort.

Prednisolone.

Orapred.

20-day Augmentin regimens.

Nebulizers, 

        inhalers, 

             breathing treatments.

RAD (Reactive Airway Disease) with URD (Upper Respiratory Distress)

Asthma.

Sinus infections/recurrent bronchitis/pneumonia/upper respiratory infections.

Coughing/wheezing.

I feel like my poor little girl is turning into a pharmacy.  With no improvement since Monday's visit to MGH (to see the Pediatric Pulmonologist,)  we spoke with him again today and learned a few things:

 1. She definitely, absolutely has "Reactive Airway Disease." (clearly, I just spent about 45 minutes googling this to familiarize myself with the new diagnosis).  Not fun stuff.

 2. She is never going to be the kind of child that "just gets a cold." For whatever reason, the moment a cold begins to develop in her, it immediately moves beneath her vocal chords (apparently this is the distinguishing line between "cold" and " lung/bronchial infections...colds occur above vocal chords and never move below them, bronchial infections are below....) and ferociously infects her bronchial tubes & lungs, resulting in pneumonia, bronchitis, tremendous coughing, wheezing, and thick mucous. This may or may not result in a long-term asthma diagnosis; we are in 'wait-and-see' mode as far as that goes.

3. Oral steroids apparently do nothing for her, since we are now on day #3 with ZERO improvement; (Negative improvement, actually, if you take into consideration that she's actually gotten worse.) Therefore, we are back to a 10 to 20-day Augmentin regimen to see if it was an underlying lung infection causing all of this, and hoping that the antibiotic does the trick. Please, augmentin, do the trick!


 Here's to hoping (PRAYING) that this medicine works, and that my poor little girly can get some much-needed rest from the coughing/wheezing/gagging/vomiting that has ensued for the past several days here... I honestly can't even stand to watch and listen to her struggle so much anymore, especially since there is nothing I can offer her in the way of relief.   All I can give to her at the moment is a warm lap, a big hug, and a rub of her back- things that certainly don't remedy the pain and discomfort she's experiencing.  In her four-year old little world, she just wants to feel better, and her Momma can't fix it for her.  And that just sucks. Unequivocally, this is the hardest, saddest part about being a mommy  :-(

In related news, I am absolutely terrified of the utter heartbreak that will occur if she's not better by Friday and learns that she has to miss her first ever, highly anticipated, much talked about Preschool Valentine's party-- complete with cookies, cupcakes, and of course the obligatory swapping of adorable, handwritten Valentines among friends. Oh, and the Valentine's outfit (complete with oodles of glittery, heart-shaped bling)  that she picked out last week just for the occasion. Ugh...I can almost taste the sad, salty tears on her cheeks already...

PLEASE Augmentin, I'm begging you here-- show us a miracle. Preferably by Friday, thanks.

Fingers crossed...

Just another Manic Monday

 I double-dog dare you to read the following account of my day so far and say that your Monday morning was worse than mine...

1. Seven AM, alarm clock goes off. Hard time getting up. And by "hard" I really mean "completely impossbile." Jeff has to repeatedly pry covers from my kung-fu grip and physically force me into the shower today. (have I mentioned that I am beyond exhausted & sleep-deprived lately?)

2. Get out of shower, and miraculously I'm feeling much better!  Completely refreshed & almost as enthusiastic as the post-shower actors from the mid-eighties Zestfully clean commercials.  And as an added bonus, no sore throat today! (I had a bad cold all last week and woke up with my throat on fire most days.)  Brush my teeth, gargle, floss. Fantasize about actually wearing something other than a member of the yoga/sweat pant family today-- maybe even (gasp) - a pair of jeans and a sweater?? Feeling like a (half) a million bucks...  Hey, things are looking up!

3. Saunter into living room post-shower (with a kid-size towel clinging to my body for dear life, since I accidentally grabbed one of Ava's) where Jeff is sitting with the kiddos, and am about to express how good I am feeling today... when Ava begins coughing, gagging, eyes watering- Oh, dear God, I know what this means...  And before I have time to react, it comes.  The vomit. Profuse vomit. Apple-juice & last-night's hamburger vomit. More gagging, dry-heaving, tears-in-her-eyes, Momma, please help me vomit. And more juicy, phlegm-y coughs. And vomit. And coughs, coughs, coughs.

4. Immediately drop too-small towel from my torso to the floor in hopes that the rest of said vomit makes it onto that instead of rug, floors, etc...  and gently begin to rub her back & tie her hair in a ponytail for her while the rest of the vomiting ensues. (Am suddenly brought back to my college drinking days, and realize that I've assumed this same back-rubbing, hair-holding position for many a drunk buddy on the floor of toilet stall in sketchy fraternity bathroom...)

5.  Strip Ava out of her soggy, yucky nightgown and now the both of us are standing in the living room naked, in a pile of phlegm-y vomit.  Realize at this exact moment that living room shades are up and that sketchy old guy (who resembles the long-lost twin brother of the Gordon's fisherman ) is walking his heinous Italian greyhound right by our window. I duck immediately, stepping in slippery pool of vomit.

6. Hobble down the hallway with wet, vomit-y foot, change Ava into new nightgown, and throw some sweatpants & a tank-top on myself (there goes exciting clothing fantasy expressed in #2 above), and set Aves up on the comfy recliner with the only things that are going to help us through this day: a Nick Jr. Dora marathon, her gock, and the infamous blue vomit bucket.

(honestly, have you ever seen anything sadder than this?)  

:-(

7. Call school to inform them she will not be attending, and then call Mass General to make appt. with her Pediatric Pulminologist who wanted to see her back immediately in the event that she produced a phlegm-y, juicy, vomit-inducing cough again this soon. (we were just there 5 weeks ago).

8. Awesome receptionist, who can hear Ava's juicy cough/wheezing/gagging in the background as we are speaking, agrees to double-book the Dr. to fit her in. Thank you GOD, because I know tonight isn't going to be pretty unless we start her on something soon...

9. Jeff leaves for work. No sooner do I hear his car pull out of the driveway when Gav decides to spit up ALL OVER me as I am holding him. A wonderful medley of warm, chunky formula (which, for those of you non-parents out there, is not a pleasant aroma), pureed bananas, and Gerber strawberry puffs.  Into my hair (which happens not to be pulled back in a ponytail at this exact moment since I took it out to tie Ave's hair back during 8am vom-fest), all down my neck, and even mysteriously creeping down the front of me & into my cleavage. Sexy, I know.

10.  Put Gav in his crib so that I can strip my clothing and change myself  into (wait for it...) JAMMIES!  My 4-minute long dream of dressing in something other than sweats/jammies today is squashed. Sorry, jeans...looks like another cold, lonely day in the closet for you.

11. Sit on couch in jammies for 10 minutes of "me" time to type this entry... And in this time, Gav (who has remained mysteriously quiet in his Exersaucer for the duration of this, less a few grunting noises),  has managed to accomplish a MASSIVE poop in his diaper (I can smell it from here), and Ava continues to cough juicy coughs, grabbing onto her "throw-up bucket" each time in fear that she might vomit again.


In conclusion, allow me to paint you a picture of my current circumstance:  I  smell like eau de sour milk (can't buy that one at Sephora), I am wearing over-sized jammies from my maternity days, and my house reeks of poopy diaper.  Please tell me that 10:43am on a Monday isn't an inappropriate hour to dive into a box of wine to help me survive the next several hours of: