Self-limited

The moral of this story is: 

1) Always wear your pants

2) Never let your spouse leave the state

3) Never buy brand name medications

4) All of the above.

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So, this is how it went down: The Bearded Economist was leaving town for a few days to go to a conference. My mom came in to help on Thursday, although she had to leave 24 hours later, and we had backup babysitters for Friday in case I didn't get home for day-care pickup by 6. 

So far all was going well. And then, at 11 a.m. on Friday, I got a call from day-care. Smoosh was running a fever. Of course he was, on the one day where we have no daytime backup plan. I start calling around for sitters, but my attending says: You know what? It's quiet. Go home and be a mom. 

You don't have to tell me twice; I ran home and picked up the baby (getting one of my fabulous co-fellows to cover for me on the way, since quiet never lasts.) His temperature was a pretty mild 100.8 when I got him home at 1pm, so I gave him some acetominophen*. I would have given him ibuprofen**- I know most people think it's more effective in fevers in young kids - but we didn't have any in the house, as we had ever-so-responsibly thrown ours out with the big recall a few months ago (and it's odd that we even owned the brand name version, since everything else we own is the down-rent generic version.). Anyway, we never got anymore. Smoosh was doing ok, so I didn't think much of it. 

The rest of the day, we had multiple abortive attempts at napping, resulting in tears (mine and his).  He cheered up substantially when I stopped trying to get him to actually nap, and at 4, I found myself on our bed with him, chatting and singing "Twinkle Twinkle" ("Winkle, winkle, lidul 'tar.") For some reason, he thought this song was hysterical, and laughed at the end of every line. I guess no one told him it's not a comedy number. We call my parents to say hi, and to check that my mother has gotten back ok; I turn away to hang up the phone, and Smoosh is asleep on my pillow, butt up in the air. Ah, well, I think. He needs it. 

I go into the living room to get some stuff ready for dinner. I text the Bearded Economist about the events of the day. As I press send, I hear a cry and a cough; I go to the bedroom, and Smoosh is sitting up, crying, and vomiting all over the bed. Poor child; he gets very upset when he throws up. He feels pretty warm. I pick him up, effectively getting vomit all over myself, and bring us both to the bathroom, where I throw the faucet open, and sit us both in the tub, fully clothed. I start to pull off his clothes, rinsing them in the water, and then hanging them over the edge. I take off my bottoms, too, since they have a slick of white gunk all over them. I step out of the tub and grab a towel. Smoosh is still crying; I pull the slippery baby out of the tub and into my arms. 

That's when it happens. His eyes roll back in his head, and his teeth start to chatter and his whole body starts to shake. At first I think he's joking, my funny baby. Then I know what's happening. I know it's a febrile seizure, he's seizing, he's seizing. I run us into the bedroom, with him still wrapped in a towel; I note the time. It's been 30 seconds of seizure, then one minute. I know these things are supposed to be self-limited; I'm trying to be calm. But then he's gray, and his lips are blue and I think: Fuck calm. I run with him to the phone and dial 911. I can't get the phone to work. He's still seizing. I get the phone to work. I tell the lady what's happening. She tells me to put him in recovery position, and I say: I knew that; I'm a doctor. I just forgot, I'm forgetting. He has stopped seizing, two minutes, the seizure is over, but his breathing is still raggedy and irregular and wrong, and he's still gray. He has a pulse. I think he has a pulse.

The ambulance is coming. I somehow get a dress over my head; I think I must have put him down on the bed. I take him to the door; I can hear the sirens; I open the front door and I put a doorstop in so that help can get in. I take him to the living room, put him on the floor, and kneel next to him on the floor, talking to my sweet baby. His breathing is a bit more normal now, but he's not responding to me, his eyes are still rolled up in his head. 

The EMTs come, and they take his blood pressure. I notice that the dress I put on is something that is meant to be worn with an under-layer, and I am extremely exposed. I feel stupid that I care. I mess up the baby's birth date, transposing the month and the year; then I realize it's not right and correct myself. No, no medical problems. No history of seizure. No, he didn't bang his head. They are taking his vitals; his oxygenation is normal,, it seems. That's good, he's breathing nicely. I leave him, I run to the bedroom and become frenzied - I put on a tank top under the dress. Then I go to the bathroom. Then I strip the vomit-filled sheets off the bed±. Then I get clothes and shoes for Smoosh,and a toy in case we're in the ED for a long time, because then we'll need it, because he'll get bored and want to play. Because this is self-limited.

"Ma'am?" the EMT says "We have clearance to go." I ask if I can carry the baby, or if they need to put him on the stretcher; they say it's ok if I carry him. I take him to the ambulance, and talk to him about it; he loves ambulances, isn't this exciting? He is beginning to wake up, but only to cry and arch his back; he does not know me. 

We get strapped in together, one seatbelt, on the back bench of the ambulance. The EMT asks me if I think he'll be able to put on an oxygen mask, and I say I'll try. Smoosh is screaming, screaming, and I don't care, it's the loveliest sound of breathing, of air moving. I must have called the Bearded Economist and the pediatrician, and I'm fielding calls from them and from my sister but I can't hear anyone over the baby screaming. I ask the Bearded Economist to fly back right now; I don't know what will be: lumbar puncture? Overnight stay? Head CT? Nothing? I tell him I'm ok, but I would like to not be alone. My sister offers to come - she's wonderful - and I keep saying I don't know if I need her, I'll tell her later. By the end of our very, very long rush hour ambulance ride, I sing "Twinkle, twinkle, little..." and he says "'tar". Now that's the loveliest sound. I text the Bearded Economist that we're going to be ok. 

We get to the ED. The baby looks too good to go straight to a room, and we are sent out to triage, where his temperature, a full 30 minutes after the seizure, is 103.5. He tries to lie down on the scale, and then he tries to kick the triage nurse, and me. The triage nurse tells me that she'll call me soon, but if anything changes I should come up right away. I say, ok, but can I have some ibuprofen so it doesn't happen again? She give me a syringe full of orange medicine, and tells me to  keep him from eating or drinking, in case the doctors want to do procedures. He is still upset, and crying but now asks for milk. I decide that water is ok, and I go buy him a bottle from a vending machine. He is so, so happy to hold the cold bottle, and now allows me to drip the motrin into his mouth. And now he's himself, he's pointing to the kites hung up in the atrium of the lobby and saying "Sky! sky!" and then he falls asleep in my arms, and now I can handle anything, we can be here all night and it doesn't matter. 

An hour later, we are seen by a lovely doctor, and my lovely baby so clearly does not have meningitis,  and is so clearly the healthiest kid in the room that we are sent home after a full exam with the diagnosis of "viral illness". I text the Bearded Economist; I tell him he can stay at his conference, but he's been stuck on a runway for 2 hours due to weather and can't turn back now. I start walking home with the baby, trying to find a 24 hour pharmacy to buy ibuprofen. Six blocks later,  I find an open supermarket with a pharmacy aisle, and pay them enormous amounts of money 

We take a cab the rest of the way home. I wash Smoosh's face. We read his favorite book. I give him more tylenol. I say evening prayers with him. He goes to sleep quietly. I go to our bedroom, pack up all the dirty laundry. I don't cry until 24 hours later. 

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Epilogue: He's fine. He's really fine. I dosed him with ibuprofen every 6 hours for 36 hours, and he was grumpy but never got above 100.8. The Bearded Economist came home. I, however, am still in recovery.•

 

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*Tylenol

**Motrin

± Honestly, this is the part I'm having trouble forgiving myself for. Why did I think the sheets were important? I know I'm being too hard on myself, but I feel terrible about this one detail. Feel free to forgive me if you have it in you; I think it would make me feel better. 

•Please don't tell me, as some people have, that it was a less bad experience because I am a doctor and I knew what was going on. Because it was still? Really terrible.