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Jan. 30th, 2008 05:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mereilinOur kids have a long history of waking up mere moments after we finally drag ourselves to bed, so when we heard the first cry we only cringed and pulled the covers a bit more snugly over ourselves, hoping Sadie was just having a bad dream.
It was the pathetic little cry for help that roused Jon. Once again failing to qualify for Mommy of the Year award, I guiltily dragged myself after him.
He'd already stripped her bed; she was standing shivering in the bathroom, vomit dripping from her pajama sleeve. Thank God for a gag reflex that isn't particularly triggered by smells.
I cleaned her up and gave her a cup of water to rinse out her mouth while Jon took the soiled bedding down to the washing machine in the basement. I scrubbed the wall and remade the bed with clean sheets, tucked her in, and took her temperature. 102.9° F.
Tylenol. Cool washcloth. Kisses and assurances. Finally we went back to bed.
At 4:00 she was crying pitifully, her tummy wracked with diarrhea cramps. After the second bout she just sat and cried, and asked if she couldn't go to the hospital.
Now I don't know what it is about Sadie; she's a tough little kid, and smart besides. It just seems like when she gets sick she gets REALLY sick. Like the time we were in Pennsylvania visiting my parents and she had febrile convulsions twice in 12 hours and we had to cut our visit short and subject her to a brain scan. Or any of the numerous times she's projectile-vomited. Maybe it's just that her personality is so huge that when she's laid low she seems unbelievably small and fragile.
I guess I just don't think a five year old should be asking to go to the emergency room. I took her the last time she was sick, the time she was feverish and couldn't hold down any liquids and she'd been lying limp on the couch for so long that I started to panic. We sat in the waiting room for upwards of an hour, then in a brightly lit room for a while after that. They ended up forcing her to drink half a liter of Pedialyte under threat of having an IV; then we went home. Besides being largely unhelpful and possibly traumatic, it was a ridiculous waste of a $100 copay. And since the fever had broken and she only had stomach cramps (I've had enough of these to know they hurt like hell but generally don't kill you) -- and because I couldn't imagine what treatment the ER could come up with that wouldn't involve her sitting on a toilet, and we have one of those at home -- well, I couldn't justify a midnight trip to the local hospital.
That didn't stop the nagging worry that she had some horrific rotovirus that would kill her in her sleep, however. (Because even though I can sleep through my kids crying, I'm still haunted by the notion of having to plan funerals for them.) So I spent the next hour curled uncomfortably at the foot of her bed, listening to her breathe until I could hear the morning commute starting outside her bedroom window. I figured at that point it was fair to have her dad listen, but I forgot to tell him that when I dragged myself back to bed.
12 hours later, she's running a low fever again and has no appetite, but she hasn't had any further vomiting or diarrhea and she's keeping down the little she's consuming.
I don't know what to give them for dinner; at this point leftover pizza is looking like a viable option since probably only Danny will eat anything. He's been really, really good today. I forget how much he benefits from individual parental attention.
No ballet today, obviously. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow; I guess it'll depend on how she makes it through tonight.
It was the pathetic little cry for help that roused Jon. Once again failing to qualify for Mommy of the Year award, I guiltily dragged myself after him.
He'd already stripped her bed; she was standing shivering in the bathroom, vomit dripping from her pajama sleeve. Thank God for a gag reflex that isn't particularly triggered by smells.
I cleaned her up and gave her a cup of water to rinse out her mouth while Jon took the soiled bedding down to the washing machine in the basement. I scrubbed the wall and remade the bed with clean sheets, tucked her in, and took her temperature. 102.9° F.
Tylenol. Cool washcloth. Kisses and assurances. Finally we went back to bed.
At 4:00 she was crying pitifully, her tummy wracked with diarrhea cramps. After the second bout she just sat and cried, and asked if she couldn't go to the hospital.
Now I don't know what it is about Sadie; she's a tough little kid, and smart besides. It just seems like when she gets sick she gets REALLY sick. Like the time we were in Pennsylvania visiting my parents and she had febrile convulsions twice in 12 hours and we had to cut our visit short and subject her to a brain scan. Or any of the numerous times she's projectile-vomited. Maybe it's just that her personality is so huge that when she's laid low she seems unbelievably small and fragile.
I guess I just don't think a five year old should be asking to go to the emergency room. I took her the last time she was sick, the time she was feverish and couldn't hold down any liquids and she'd been lying limp on the couch for so long that I started to panic. We sat in the waiting room for upwards of an hour, then in a brightly lit room for a while after that. They ended up forcing her to drink half a liter of Pedialyte under threat of having an IV; then we went home. Besides being largely unhelpful and possibly traumatic, it was a ridiculous waste of a $100 copay. And since the fever had broken and she only had stomach cramps (I've had enough of these to know they hurt like hell but generally don't kill you) -- and because I couldn't imagine what treatment the ER could come up with that wouldn't involve her sitting on a toilet, and we have one of those at home -- well, I couldn't justify a midnight trip to the local hospital.
That didn't stop the nagging worry that she had some horrific rotovirus that would kill her in her sleep, however. (Because even though I can sleep through my kids crying, I'm still haunted by the notion of having to plan funerals for them.) So I spent the next hour curled uncomfortably at the foot of her bed, listening to her breathe until I could hear the morning commute starting outside her bedroom window. I figured at that point it was fair to have her dad listen, but I forgot to tell him that when I dragged myself back to bed.
12 hours later, she's running a low fever again and has no appetite, but she hasn't had any further vomiting or diarrhea and she's keeping down the little she's consuming.
I don't know what to give them for dinner; at this point leftover pizza is looking like a viable option since probably only Danny will eat anything. He's been really, really good today. I forget how much he benefits from individual parental attention.
No ballet today, obviously. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow; I guess it'll depend on how she makes it through tonight.
