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A break, please!

Most mothers are extremely aware of possible dangers to their kids. We theoretically know that our children can fall, break limbs or get sick. And we theoretically know that they can die. Yet I’m sure no mother believes that it will really happen to her child.

The mother of a child with a serious childhood disease or condition is probably in exactly the same position. Except that she knows the name of the monster that might claim her child. I don’t think accepting the possibility of death becomes any easier under these conditions.

This past week we received L’s medical records from his stay in the NICU. Both D and I started reading them compulsively. (We stopped when we realized that we were getting too upset.) On the very first page the attending nurse wrote:

“Parents don’t seem to realize the seriousness of their baby’s condition despite being counceled by Dr H. Twice.“

I can only vaguely remember how I felt. Weak with blood loss and the effects of general anaesthesia, I was wheeled to L’s bed in the NICU and lost my balance when I tried to stand. Looking at my baby, I recognized him from the moments after his birth. His one elvish ear and one ear squashed from being inside me, the shape of his head, his long graceful limbs. And yet with all the wires connected to him,it almost felt as if he didn’t belong to me. We were only allowed to touch his head or feet. No stroking for fear of triggering more seizures. I heard the doctor say: “He is very sick, but he has a lot going for him: He is big and has reserves. His heart is strong. He started breathing spontaneously.” And that is what I decided to cling to. Not the bits about him dying. Not the bits about him being possibly no more than a vegetable if he survives. I decided to trust the Lord with everything I have.

And then we faced the monster again. I remember thinking: OK, so, this is how it is going to end. And for a moment I resigned myself to the fact. But then God intervened….

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L has been sick for two weeks now. First tonsillitis, then bronchitis and on Sunday night his temp – which had remained normal through all of this – went up suddenly.

So, on Monday morning we took him to a doc which prescribed (sigh) another course of antibiotics and fever medication.

Night before last night I put a sleeping L in his cot. He hadn’t been himself all day – clearly uncomfortable and in pain. I covered him with a light blanket as it was cold and went to bath M. Both D and I checked on L a couple of times and found him soundly asleep.

When I went to put M in bed, I didn’t switch on the light for fear of waking L. In the semi- dark with light from the passage shining in, his skin tone seemed dusky, but I thought it was merely the effect of the light. He seemed restless and I thought that I’d better get M to sleep quickly so that I could devote my full attention to him. I settled M and lay down next to him (a prerequisite for going to sleep!). I heard L cry out in his sleep and heard him struggle for breath. Shame, boor baby’s got a blocked nose, I thought and waited for him to settle into a better position for breathing. When it didn’t happen and his breathing remained “odd”, I jumped up, picked him up and moved into the passage.

What I saw, made me nearly keel over with shock. He was tongue was blue, his hands and face mottled. And he clearly was seizing. I sprinted to the suction pump as I thought his airway may be blocked. I had the familiar sinking feeling. OK, so this is how I’m going to lose him. I acknowledged the monster. And then my instinct kicked in and the mother animal started growling: No. I’m not letting him go without a fight. I prayed aloud: “Oh Lord, please help my child.” I realized that I couldn’t get any mucus out and decided to do CPR. My first attempts at CPR were clumsy as I tried to remember the steps, but then I got into a rhythm.

In between CPR, patting his back and trying to suction any blockage from his airway, I shouted to D to come and help me. He gave L one look and pressed our alarm panic buttons. He phoned the ambulance and the next-door neighbours. Having never done CPR, I wasn’t sure I was doing it right. I asked D to check if L’s chest was rising. He said it was. His colour started looking better with the extra oxygen I blew into his lungs. The alarm company sent people out, but they had no medical experience. Our neighbour, Laura came rushing in. She has some nursing experience and reassured me that L seemed to be breathing but that he clearly still was seizing. I felt him and he was hot. Laura wet a terry nappy and we wound it round his head. After what felt like hours, but probably was no more than 5 minutes, he stopped seizing and relaxed against my chest, his colour normal again. He protested at the cold of the wet nappy and fell asleep against me. I checked his temperature and it was high. So I inserted a suppository for fever. The ambulance still hadn’t arrived. When D phoned, they hadn’t even left their base. So we drove to the ER, leaving a very upset M, “Mama. Don’t forget to put L’s hat on.” with Laura and Roger.

I described to the nurse on duty what had happened. She remembered us from our previous stay in ICU and agreed that even though L seemed fine and the fact that it probably was just a febrile convulsion (albeit a long and serious one), L needed to be checked out.

Then the struggle to find a paed began. The paed we normally use (the guy charging 300% of medical aid rates)was out of town. The doctor standing in for him refused to come out. He said he was already in bed. It was 20:00. Another paed couldn’t come as she was “ on her way to Ireland”. Out last resort paed couldn’t be located. The night matron suggested we use the ER doctor ( a GP) and we agreed. He checked L, found an ear infection that wasn’t picked up before – probably the cause of the high fever and general icky feeling. He reassured us that even though the seizure was a particularly scary one compounded by the fact that L’s breathing was affected, we needn’t be too concerned. He also said that it often is a sudden rise in temperature triggering febrile convulsions rather than how high the fever is. He suggested that we admit L to the paed ward and keep him under observation for 24 hours and he agreed to take over his medical care for that period.

L spent a very peaceful night with me next to him in the paed ward. When we walked into the ward he was all: “This place seems familiar. Look at the pretty ladies! Wow, Mama, there’s a butterfly mobile attached to my cot. Look! Look! Make it turn?” No sign of anything wrong with him. And when I put him in the cot he turned his nose into the pillow, gave a sigh of contentment and fell asleep. The little stinker.. He was discharged even before the 24 hours had expired.