Dear Colin

Dear Colin,

I write this letter to you as I sit by your hospital bed at Children's. You are fine; in fact, you are doing very well now. But oh, what a week this was . . . when you were 9 weeks old.

On Sunday afternoon I heard you wheezing and knew immediately what that meant. You and Claire were scheduled for your two month check up on Wednesday and I optimistically hoped that maybe it was a fluke and you could wait it out, but realistically knew we were probably in for a doctor's visit on Monday. Overnight you got a little worse, and by Monday mid-morning, I was very concerned. So your dad came home from work to cover me and hang out with Adam and Claire while you and I took a trip to the pediatrician. They diagnosed you correctly the first time, and told me it was bronchiolitis. Since all three of you kids have been sick for a few weeks now, we came home with antibiotics and orders for breathing treatments and was told to suction out your nose as much as we possibly could to help you fight the cold (I know, you're thinking, "Gross, Mom. Skip that part." Sorry kid.)

3 sick babies watching Curious George in Mom and Dad's bed.

Antibiotics

So we did those things, and did those things, and did those things. On Dad and Mom's bed, I had even made a little hospital bed for you and Claire (who is also sick but not nearly as sick as you) with the cool mist humidifier, the nasal aspirator on standby and even a little classical music in the background (you actually did not like that very much). I said even said aloud Tuesday morning: "Okay guys, today we are devoting ourselves to getting better." But on Tuesday, you neither got better or worse.

Overnight (maybe about midnight or 1), Adam screamed from his room. Then the thunderstorm hit and he was awake and even more scared. I went to comfort him, then let Dad take over, and when I came back, not two seconds later you arched your back, turned red, and cried. I picked you up and you were burning up, so I ripped open your cute little baseball footie pajamas all Clark-Kent style and went to get the thermometer. By the time I got back, your fever had dropped... and dropped and dropped until it was normal and you were comfortably back to sleep. I checked Claire's temperature even though she was sleeping peacefully and didn't look very sick - and her's was very high - 101.6 degrees. I stripped her down and cooled her off, and slowly her temperature came down. I breathed a sigh of relief and thought maybe we had in fact "gotten better."

But by 4 am Wednesday morning, things had changed very drastically. Claire had a low grade fever but nothing too scary. She was breathing better than she had in weeks and was more alert than she had been too. But you had gone the opposite way. You were so red and your skin so mottled that you almost looked purple. You gasped so hard for air that you couldn't even cry. I gave you a breathing treatment at 4 am. You fell asleep and sounded a little better, and somewhere along the way I fell asleep too. By 10 am things were not looking great. You were just barely okay while you slept, but when you woke up you immediately were distressed and gasping for air. Even Claire was scared and looked so concerned for you. She whimpered and pouted when you struggled. So you, me and Claire packed up and went to the ER.

(This video breaks my heart. I took it while you were already in the car seat and packed up to go. I wanted to be able to show it to a doctor if there was any question about how you were breathing while at home.)

It's hard to see, but these are your mottled hands and feet

Claire offering her support.

And at the ER... we waited. You had a 101.8 degree temperature when we arrived. They came in and looked at you, then left. I was told that they were understaffed that day and had just had a very critical patient who had CPR arrive that they were working on, and they apologized for the wait. They sent in a respiratory therapist to suck out the mucus out of your nose and kept insisting to me that "that's all you need." It's insulting, really, as if I hadn't been taking good care of you or hadn't thought of it myself. And I felt a strange sense of satisfaction when they couldn't do it any better than I could, even with their fancy equipment. She also took a sample of mucus for your RSV test (which later came back negative). She left, and we waited some more.

Someone came in and out quickly and took chest x-rays. We were told they were clear of pneumonia.

They came in with some Tylenol for your fever and someone to take blood and give you an IV. But your skin was so mottled and your little arms and legs so small, that they couldn't even see one. So they called in a nurse from Pediatric ICU to come try, and in her one shot she tried the vein on your head, and failed. I don't deal well with blood, and especially not IVs, so this was heartbreaking and challenging for me. You were crying but it was so hard for you to breathe that you couldn't even tell them just how mad you really were. There was blood, and it was on your head, and in order to prevent myself from passing out I had leaned over with my head on the bed next to yours and stroked your cheek and told you how much I knew it hurt. I felt so helpless as they searched and searched on your arms and legs for another vein to try, and was so relieved when they admitted defeat and left the room without sticking you anymore. This whole time, Claire had been quiet and supportive and never complained, but she had been sitting in the car seat in the stroller for 4 + hours. Dad got off work and he and Adam came up after 5 and took Claire home.

Someone said they'd give you a steroid, and we saw that promise followed through over an hour and a half later. The doctor came back and said that she wanted to give you a shot of antibiotics and thought it would be best if you stayed the night for observation, but that since they couldn't find a vein they would just skip it since it seemed you were eating and drinking well. It seems they continued to ignore me when I told them that you had vomited your last full meal a few hours ago while we were sitting in emergency room #5 waiting for them to do something. But I was exhausted and didn't want anyone incompetent coming at you with any more needles. They said that was the plan, but before that they needed our pediatrician to sign off on it. That comforted me since your pediatrician has never steered us wrong. Then they sent in a lab technician to simply take blood for a CBC, which showed a high white blood cell count.

Our pediatrician said "yes" to the antibiotic shots, "yes, absolutely," to staying overnight, and then insisted that if you were sick enough for that then you definitely needed an IV. If they couldn't do it, then you absolutely needed to be transferred to Children's hospital. I was relieved and nervous. I agreed he needed an IV but dreaded the trauma that they were having being able to do it. They told me if it was "easier" I could wait in the hall while you cried because they knew it was hard. I refused, but allowed one more try if they were confident they could find a vein. So they sent in another "expert" nurse, and she tried on your bicep... and failed again. So they called in the Children's transport team, who I was absolutely relieved to see, and you and Mom got our first rides in an ambulance. Mamie and Grandpa had come over to watch Adam and Claire so Dad could come up, bring me dinner, and follow us over to Children's. Before you left the ER at Presbyterian, two nurses came in with the antibiotics shots (two syringes), and stuck you in each leg at the same time. The steroids had kicked in so you were breathing better at this point, and you let out the most heart-wrenching cry I have ever heard. And afterwards, the shot site on your left leg bled a lot so they had to put lots of pressure on it and re-band aid it. You were furious. Those shots hurt worse than anything.

At Children's, they got the IV in your wrist easily. They never asked me if I wanted to leave or look away, but I think she could see the look on my face so before she attempted it she asked if I was going to be okay. I paused and said, "ummmm..." and she told me to pull up a chair so I could sit with you and stroke your head. I appreciate that she didn't ask if I wanted to leave. No, I didn't want to leave.

By this time it was 9:30 pm. We had gotten to the ER at 1 pm and you were so sick of people touching you and poking you that you were a mixture of furious and despondent. The last thing anyone wants when they are sick is to be messed with, and it seemed every time you finally dozed off in exhaustion someone else would come and poke you with a needle or move you around.

At Children's they did all of those same tests over plus some more, including more chest x-rays and a urine sample with a catheter, which you did not like. But they did them all at the same time so it would be over, and then they let you sleep. I was so tired, I don't even know what all they did. Your dad and I sat and watched you for hours, and the ER doctor came in every 15-20 minutes to talk to us. You were so exhausted you couldn't eat, but the steroids and Tylenol you had gotten made it look like you were feeling lots better. They diagnosed you with Bronchiolitis most likely caused by a different strand of RSV, which is why the previous test had come back negative. They suggested that you would be fine continuing to recover at home, and while I wasn't quite sure about that, you were sleeping and breathing so much better that it was deceiving. They released us around 12:30 am - so we got home 12 hours later.

That night, you slept almost too well. You still had very little appetite but you were breathing a lot better, and we had a follow up appointment with Dr. Han at 11:30 Thursday morning. The Tylenol and steroids had worn off at this point so they noticed immediately that your breathing was no where near what it should be and that your oxygen levels were low, so she sent us back to Children's right away to have us admitted.

When we arrived, it was much more calm. They took your weight and vitals and watching you for a while. They gave you another IV and let you sleep. You slept all day with only interruptions being to eat or change your diaper or to use this loud machine to suck the mucus out of your nose, which you hated. You and I hung out in the quiet room and got some one-on-one time, which I think you really enjoyed despite feeling so terrible.

 
Later that evening the fluids helped you sneeze the mucus out and I convinced the nurses that you did better with that than the respiratory machine they were using to suck it out, so we were all relieved when it was easier to spray the saline in and just wait for you to sneeze it out. Dad came up to visit with you while Mamie and Grandpa watched Adam and Claire again, and you cuddled for an hour or so. After Dad left you ate a big bottle and were wide awake at 10 am, happy and content and more alert than I had seen you in days, but you had a fever close to 101 degrees that just wasn't going down on it's own, and with your fever came slightly high blood pressures. They gave you some Tylenol throughout the night (you're a little night owl, you know), and I swear they bugged you more at night than all the day before, but it may have just felt that way since I was so tired.

This morning they said that you may even get to go home today, but the fever snuck back in and your appetite is lacking, so we're going to stay another night. I'm disappointed, but would much rather walk out of here with a happy, healthy baby than one who's just right on the edge and then risk having to come back. Again.

Everyone keeps telling you how cute you are, how strong you are, and how you have such a great social smile for just 2 months old. You, Claire, and Adam are great with those smiles. Every single doctor and nurse has also noticed how smart you are when I have to tell them that you don't really want that pacifier they are offering to you (unless it's covered in sugar water - you like that). Once you realize there's nothing coming out of it, you spit it out and look at the person who gave it to you like they must not realize that it's broken. If only all of us could learn at such a young age when to stop our futile attempts.

Dad is staying with you tonight and the doctor says he is about 97% sure that you will go home tomorrow.

I will sit next to your hospital bed for as long as you need me to, Colin, and I will never complain once. But Dad and Adam and especially Claire miss you very much and are ready for you to feel good again. Home just doesn't feel the same when you aren't there.

Love,
Mom