Friday, November 23, 2007
frazzled
Home for the holiday, yes. But if you will please allow me, my dear reader, the indulgence of another cheesy holiday metaphor; if a week in the hospital was the river we are over it but we are not yet through the woods.
I'm ranting. . .
I awoke around 5:30 this morning to the sound of that all too familiar beeping, "bee-bee-beep bee-beep".
Pulse-oximeter alarming. The Boy's blood oxygen dropping down. "Desat" or "desatting" is what they called it in the hospital. That's the prefix "de-" as in getting less and going down; and "sat" as in saturation, the level to which his blood his saturated with oxygen.
It's just something he's done at least once every night since this whole ordeal began. On a good night, it means that his position has shifted and he's curled up or something. You simply reposition him, i.e. straighten him up to keep his airway open, and tuck him back in all snuggly like with his sleepy frog. It takes less than five minutes and The Wife and I can be back asleep in less than ten.
On a bad night, you spend an hour or two wrestling with positioning and repositioning and everything you can think of praying that works because you don't want him to wake up because frequently when wakes up in the middle of the night it scares him and then he freaks out and things just go all to hell for a little bit.
If he wakes up, or more accurately when, because you're fucking with him every few minutes, turning his head this way, twisting his hips that way, placing his arm here, trying to find the optimum spot to fully open up his airway; you have to decide if he needs to be suctioned or not, or does he need a nebulizer breathing treatment, should you try to get him to cough so he can clear some of the gunk on his own, or should you just tuck him back in and leave him alone so he calms down and goes back to sleep. He's a very complicated little creature and there are no quick or easy answers and your every option is a crap shoot anyway because what worked last time may not work this time. Or maybe it will. Or maybe it will make things worse.
On a really bad night you do all those things for eight or nine straight hours.
This wasn't the worse night by far of the past two weeks (now into number three), but it was also not the best.
The Wife has been in full momma bear mode for two weeks. She is fully exhausted. I am also, but that's a different story. So around 5:45 or so this morning, I reassured her "things are fine, I can handle it, I'll stay with The Boy until he's breathing better and falls back asleep. Go back to bed honey, I'll be there in a few minutes."
Wrong.
Two hours later and he's all right but not good, which is to say that he is not good, but not critical. He just keeps bouncing around that line. His sats go up, his sats go down. I finally give up and decide it's time for a little stronger intervention. He needs a neb treatment. He needs CPT. I can't remember what the damn initials stand for but we use this electric percussive device, similar to a massager to shake up his chest to knock mucous and gunk loose in his lungs.
This means waking him up and moving him into the living room where we have it all set up.
I set up the neb treatment and get everything ready. I turn on the TV. Where's the remote? I look, I search, I move all the couch cushions and pillows and blankets. Where's the remote? Where's the damn remote? Where's the mother fucking remote control? I start to freak a little. I literally pick the couch up and turn it over and shake it. Where is the fucking remote control?
In almost a panic because I can't find the damn thing I wake up The Wife. She is groggy but reassuring. She finds it in about 30 seconds.
Long story short (right), it's now two hours later. The Wife is back asleep. The Boy is now breathing easier and sound asleep on the couch. I'm on my second cup of heavily spiked with Irish whiskey coffee and am finally feeling calmer.
The Boy has never been this sick for this long. This has got to end soon.
|
I'm ranting. . .
I awoke around 5:30 this morning to the sound of that all too familiar beeping, "bee-bee-beep bee-beep".
Pulse-oximeter alarming. The Boy's blood oxygen dropping down. "Desat" or "desatting" is what they called it in the hospital. That's the prefix "de-" as in getting less and going down; and "sat" as in saturation, the level to which his blood his saturated with oxygen.
It's just something he's done at least once every night since this whole ordeal began. On a good night, it means that his position has shifted and he's curled up or something. You simply reposition him, i.e. straighten him up to keep his airway open, and tuck him back in all snuggly like with his sleepy frog. It takes less than five minutes and The Wife and I can be back asleep in less than ten.
On a bad night, you spend an hour or two wrestling with positioning and repositioning and everything you can think of praying that works because you don't want him to wake up because frequently when wakes up in the middle of the night it scares him and then he freaks out and things just go all to hell for a little bit.
If he wakes up, or more accurately when, because you're fucking with him every few minutes, turning his head this way, twisting his hips that way, placing his arm here, trying to find the optimum spot to fully open up his airway; you have to decide if he needs to be suctioned or not, or does he need a nebulizer breathing treatment, should you try to get him to cough so he can clear some of the gunk on his own, or should you just tuck him back in and leave him alone so he calms down and goes back to sleep. He's a very complicated little creature and there are no quick or easy answers and your every option is a crap shoot anyway because what worked last time may not work this time. Or maybe it will. Or maybe it will make things worse.
On a really bad night you do all those things for eight or nine straight hours.
This wasn't the worse night by far of the past two weeks (now into number three), but it was also not the best.
The Wife has been in full momma bear mode for two weeks. She is fully exhausted. I am also, but that's a different story. So around 5:45 or so this morning, I reassured her "things are fine, I can handle it, I'll stay with The Boy until he's breathing better and falls back asleep. Go back to bed honey, I'll be there in a few minutes."
Wrong.
Two hours later and he's all right but not good, which is to say that he is not good, but not critical. He just keeps bouncing around that line. His sats go up, his sats go down. I finally give up and decide it's time for a little stronger intervention. He needs a neb treatment. He needs CPT. I can't remember what the damn initials stand for but we use this electric percussive device, similar to a massager to shake up his chest to knock mucous and gunk loose in his lungs.
This means waking him up and moving him into the living room where we have it all set up.
I set up the neb treatment and get everything ready. I turn on the TV. Where's the remote? I look, I search, I move all the couch cushions and pillows and blankets. Where's the remote? Where's the damn remote? Where's the mother fucking remote control? I start to freak a little. I literally pick the couch up and turn it over and shake it. Where is the fucking remote control?
In almost a panic because I can't find the damn thing I wake up The Wife. She is groggy but reassuring. She finds it in about 30 seconds.
Long story short (right), it's now two hours later. The Wife is back asleep. The Boy is now breathing easier and sound asleep on the couch. I'm on my second cup of heavily spiked with Irish whiskey coffee and am finally feeling calmer.
The Boy has never been this sick for this long. This has got to end soon.
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