Almost two weeks ago, on April 4, I was lying in bed with my work laptop, joining calls, answering emails, and trying to function like a normal human being as much as I possibly could before all "real person" rights are stripped from me and I hear the words "bed rest" from my doctor. (For any of you who have talked to Shannon and have heard that I'm already on bed rest, it's really just a technicality. He is already changing every diaper, packing every daycare bag, making every breakfast and dinner, dropping off at day care, picking up at daycare, bathing and entertaining and cleaning and laundry and yard work . . . basically everything that is required of running a household, raising an active toddler, and having a full time career. To him, the term "bed rest" is tom-ay-to, to-ma-to). The highlights of my day, on the other hand, is the hour that I attempt to move from the bed to the couch in the living room and hang out with Adam and Shannon as much as I can.
Anyway, I digress... two weeks ago I got a random call from the daycare. I dropped off a work meeting to answer it, because they really do only call when it's necessary (fevers, rashes, accidents)... and was told, calmly, that Adam had a spill at school and had cut his lip "pretty badly" and was bleeding A LOT. I told them I'd be there immediately. When I got there they were trying to clean him up - he was crying uncontrollably from fear and pain, shirtless and covered in blood. His lip was sliced in two places, pretty deeply. I scooped him up and as I was walking out, tried to soak in the story of what happened (he was trying to climb the BACK of a chair and before his teacher could get there, he fell forward and smashed his face on the table), and took him directly to the ER.
After deftly parking Shannon's truck tightly between two smaller trucks in incredibly small parking spaces, I managed to get my pregnant body out of the car and Adam out without dinging any doors (incredible), and walked in, covered in blood, 6 months pregnant with twins and carrying a very upset little guy who would be 23 months old the next day. He was scared and in pain, and would only stop crying in spurts of about 20 seconds if he could press his whole body up against me and put his head on my chest. Then he would concern himself with the blood on my shirt and cry some more... not because of the blood, but because he didn't like the mess. And when he cried, it hurt more.
They saw that I was pregnant and put us both in a wheelchair, which is lucky because I was pretty close to passing out (me + pregnancy + hospitals + blood = fainting, which I luckily did not do). They were very nice, and fast, and tried to cheer Adam up with a little stuffed animal, which he ignored completely. (And later on, when they were waiting to check us out, the only thing that would cheer him up was playing his toddler songs app on my iPhone and then sticking it down the front of my shirt. Hey, whatever cheers you up, kid).
They put us in our room, and I looked at the little bed and remember thinking... There is no WAY in hell that I will a) be able to help them physically hold my baby down to give him stitches, or b) be able emotionally to help him go through that if he needs stitches.
You know how when they put you in those tiny rooms with nothing to do, time seems to stand still and you're pretty sure they forgot about you, regardless of how loud your child is being. Shannon got there and was directed back to the room about 15 minutes after we got there, which was such a relief for both of us. I was never so happy to see Shannon as I was at that moment, since I have a hard enough time picking the little guy up for more than 2 seconds (which I'm not supposed to do anyway), and at that moment Adam was certain that we needed to be standing up so we could LEAVE THAT ROOM NOW.
After Shannon got there, Adam kept looking at an IV contraption that looked like a large cup and whining and trying to get it... because he was dying of thirst. I found a nurse who gave us a cup of water, and Adam drank some desperately, which, or course... hurt. The doctor and nurse came in and checked him out, and deemed the cuts "bad" and that they probably deserved a stitch, but due to Adam's age he said he wouldn't recommend it because it would cause more trauma than it was worth.
Shannon asked if he thought it actually needed a stitch, and the guy looked at him and said, "If it were you, I would stitch it. But I wouldn't put my own kids through it."
I was relieved, to say the least, and we walked out with a prescription for hydrocodone and antibiotics.
(While Shannon took Adam home, I stopped at CVS to fill the prescriptions, and while I was waiting decided to take my blood pressure. After all that, and even considering my own physical state, my blood pressure was borderline low. Go figure. I guess I was made for ER visits. (That wasn't an invitation, Fate.)
When I brought the medications home, Adam had a hard time calming down from the pain, and we somehow managed to get some hydrocodone in him... which we found out does NOT make him drowsy. In fact, he got hyper. Cheerful and blissfully unaware of the deep cut on his lip, but he had a very hard time settling down. I'm fairly certain that he was even hallucinating. Shannon finally had to take him for a drive, and after he fell asleep Shannon brought him back and Adam and I took a nap in Mom and Dad's bed.
When he woke up, it was like he had no cares in the world. We gave him another (smaller) dose of hydrocodone, but he was perfectly fine, and we quickly decided that he didn't need anymore hydrocodone. And if anything at all, we'd give him Children's Advil (which he also didn't need). Less than 10 hours later, he was performing more tricks for us in his drug-addled state.
We went to bed that night not at all looking forward to the next day, when we expected it to be the most sore, and black and blue... Shannon took the day off knowing that his cut would still be too bad (open) for day care activities and germs, and we gritted our teeth and waited for the pain and misery of the next day... when he came out of his room grinning and talking, happier than he is most mornings. He still needed a day of rest so it was good he was home, but we were amazed at his pain tolerance.
So all day Thursday, Shannon mused that his kid was just "really tough." It's apparently genetic, since I have a fairly high pain tolerance and Shannon was mowing the lawn not 4 hours after getting his wisdom teeth out last year.
My only hope is that Adam gives it another few years (or decades, or never) before he gives the ER another visit.
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