Me, upon discovering Christine has brought Miranda downstairs while Henry naps away: “Miranda! Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Her: “I sleeping last night!”
Duh, Mom.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Miranda, to Jack, after watching him give me a hug and a kiss goodbye in the morning: “You loving Mommy!”
Duh, Miranda.
Ethan likes to “help” me play Words With Friends, and tonight he asked if we could play instead of reading a story. He snuggled up to me as I opened the app, and about four games in, I realized he had stopped making suggestions, so I waved my hand in front of his face.
No reaction.
He started first grade a few days ago, so it’s no wonder he’s exhausted. Gone are the summer days of staying up a little and sleeping in a lot. The first two mornings were not so hard. He was excited for school, especially knowing he was assigned to the same teacher he had last year. We are all excited for that!
This morning, however, I was met with a whine and a grunt.
“I’m not going to school today. I’m too tired!”
Clearly that didn’t fly with me.
So off to school we eventually went, with Henry and Miranda flanking him in the car. We were fifteen minutes early and as we approached the valet line, he exclaimed, “Ooh! I have time to play on the yard before the first bell!”
“Aren’t you too tired?” I joked.
“Huh? What do you mean?” he replied, grabbing his backpack and heading out the door. “Gotta go! Bye, Mom!”
He was clearly kept busy all day, as evidenced now by his face mashed up against me, eyes closed, steadily dreaming.
I’m afraid to extricate myself, but my body no longer is willing to stay in its current position.
Wish me luck.
For the story up to here, read this.
Luckily, when we got to the emergency room, there were only two people in front of us, so the wait wasn’t too long (though it must have seemed like forever to Jack, who was barely holding it together in a wheelchair). Jack was hooked up to an IV, and given fluids for dehydration along with much-needed pain meds. I was told to have him drink two huge cups of contrast liquid — a sickly sweet-tasting red liquid — so they could give him a CT scan.
In a nutshell, he eventually puked it all up and they had to put a tube down his nose and into his stomach (called an NG tube). The amount of fluid that was pumped out would have been almost comical, if it hadn’t been so alarming. Jack was a dutiful patient when they inserted the tube, and his sigh of relief once the pressure of all that liquid was reduced was a sure indication of just how much pain he had been in.
He was admitted in the wee hours of the night. I got home at four in the morning, exhausted, yet unable to sleep.
The next day was a was a wait-and-see day. It had been determined he had a small bowel obstruction, but they couldn’t be sure from what, so they were trying a last resort of pushing fluids into the body to see if it can have sort of a Drano effect on the bowels (so much more complicated than that, obviously, but that is the analogy the doctor used, so I’m going with it).We were told sometimes these these things have a way of working themselves out, and that is the first, conservative, course of action. The NG tube kept the pressure off his belly, and his pain was somewhat controlled by the meds.
A GI specialist came by his room for a consult and explained that Jack’s was a very strange case because he’d never had abdominal surgery before and he wasn’t a narcotic user. The surgeon came by and said there was a 90% chance of surgery happening.
I spent half the day in the hospital with Jack. The other half day was spent gathering up some files for him so I could pass them on to his co-workers, because it was made clear to us that he would be in the hospital for at least two or three days, more if a more invasive procedure had to be done. At some point my sister instant messaged me: I can use my miles to get Dad a flight down there tonight. Do you want him to come?
I did want him to come. As much as he had to juggle his schedule around, I wanted to be selfish. Yes! Please! Thank you! Arrangements were made.
I talked with Ethan when I picked him up from camp. Later that night I wrote down the conversation we had had:
“So you know how Daddy has been throwing up a lot?”Head nod.“The reason is because there is something blocking his intestines. Do you remember what intestines are?”Head nod. I wanted to make sure he really did know before I moved on.“Show me where?”He points to his belly-area.“Yes! Well something is stuck in there, and guess what? Poor Daddy cannot go poop. He cannot even toot.”A little giggling that Mommy is talking about Daddy pooping, and we move on.“So the something that is stuck has been blocking all of his food and drink and what happened is all that stuff had nowhere to go but back into his stomach and his stomach got bigger and bigger until it just could take the pressure anymore and what do you think happened next?”He says, “He threw up a LOT!”“YES!” I answer, “So they had to find a way to get all that yukky stuff out of his tummy so want to know how they did it? They are very clever.”He nods. He wants to know.“They put a special tube down one of his nostrils, aaaalllll the way down his throat.”Eyes are wide with amazement at this point.“And all the way into his stomach.”“Whoa.”“Yep. Whoa. It does not hurt Daddy, though, as you can imagine, it is not very comfortable having something stuck in your nose going down to your stomach. What it DOES do, is pump all that yukky stuff out of his stomach and what do you think that does for Daddy?”“It makes him not throw up anymore!”“EXACTLY!”
“What Daddy needs to do — very gently so it doesn’t hurt him — is he needs to slowly shake back and forth like he’s in a conga line, and that will shake the thing that’s stuck loose, and it will kind of just fall all the way down to his tushie.” (Word for word, I swear. There was a conga line at the Mother-Son dance at his school and the kid retains EVERYTHING.)
So he got to see Jack. And Jack got to see Ethan. And that was a really good thing.
My Dad arrived that evening.
The next day, June 21st, was a day full of failed tests. Jack could not keep down the contrast liquid long enough for them to do full scans — despite the anti-nausea medication he was given. They finally gave up on testing..
Jack went into surgery at about 3:40pm, and came out at about 6pm. The surgeon came to the waiting room and told me that he had to re-sect a portion of the bowel. He found a mass in there that he at first was convinced was a tumor but when the pathologist looked at it it most definitely wasn’t a tumor. It was something he’d ingested over time. We’d know more when the pathology tests were completed.
The surgeon also told me that Jack was pretty intensely dehydrated and in a lot of pain, so they were moving him to the ICU overnight. Because of the 2:1 patient to nurse ratio, his pain would be well-managed. One night in the ICU, and then back to a regular room. Then an anticipated 4-5 day post-surgery recovery stay.
That prediction was all wrong.
(To be continued later — too many other things to talk about in the meantime.)
He was sure it was the stomach flu, or food poisoning. He spent that Friday upstairs with the door closed, only leaving the bed to grope his way to the bathroom, where he would surprise himself with the intensity of his heaving.
His belly hurt. It was an unfamiliar, unrelenting pain.
The next day wasn’t much better. Still vomiting, still in pain. Over the counter indigestion medication was tried, heartburn tablets were tried. All to no avail.
Water and Gatorade were forced down in small spurts, as there was fear of dehydration. Food was out of the question.
There were small periods of relief, but they didn’t last long. Restful sleep seemed to always be just beyond his reach.
“Do you think you ought to go to Urgent Care?” he was asked, repeatedly. His response was always a curt “No. I’ll be fine.”
He was convinced it would pass. Didn’t these things always pass?
——————————
Time went on that day, and I became increasingly alarmed about Jack’s state. Somehow he convinced me to go to our friend’s birthday dinner. We’d still have the sitter come, even though Jack would not be joining me.
I had a great time, and I would later feel both guilty and relieved for having had a relaxing evening out that Saturday.
I would sleep on the couch that night, for the second night in a row. I couldn’t risk catching whatever it was he had. Not after having gone through the migraine-from hell just a few days prior. After returning from the party, before settling in, I went upstairs to refill his water.
“I can call our next-door neighbors right now to come sit in the house and be here for the kids so I can take you to the emergency room,” I said. “You know they’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Jack, having been sick for well over twenty-four hours, and convinced that whatever this was had surely reached its worst, felt he had to be on the mend already. He snapped at me to “stop talking about the emergency room, I’m FINE.”
I googled his symptoms. I sent them in a message to my sister and brother-in-law (who is a doctor). I started convincing myself it was his gallbladder.
“PLEASE let me take you to the emergency room, Jack!”
“Stop. It. Abi.”
So I resignedly descended the stairs, and headed to my couch-bed, setting my alarm for 4:15 in the morning in order to check on him.
——————————
It was just before 4 AM when I got his text from upstairs.
I am doing so much better!
So I didn’t check in on him until the kids woke up at seven, when I poked my head in the door and blew him a kiss.
“Happy Father’s Day, my love!”
He smiled, but weakly.
Later that morning I made him one scrambled egg, which he managed to keep down. He sort of was doing better. No more vomiting, at least. But his belly was now distended and painful most of the time. He couldn’t shift without ripples of pain.
Throughout the day, I had been in contact with my sister and brother-in-law (who were in Mexico) via instant messenger on my phone.
Please take him to the local emergency department now. This sounds like it may be more than simple gastroenteritis. We will call you now to try to convince you of what I have just advised.
I told them they didn’t need to call — I wasn’t the one who needed convincing.
It was midday. “I can take you to Urgent Care,” I said to Jack. “The stroller is in the car, and I can have the kids in their seats within ten minutes.”
“No. I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”
Men are such stubborn patients sometimes, aren’t they?
—————————-
At 4:30 PM he texted me.
What time does urgent care close tonight?
My reply:
An hour and a half ago.
—————————-
So I started scrambling. And I was ticked as all get-out. Why-oh-why couldn’t this man have listened to me and let me take him to the ER the day before? It was now 4:30 PM on Father’s Day, and how likely was I going to be to find someone to come take care of the kids?
I was fuming. And I was scared.
I called my uncle, who lives about an hour away, and almost immediately burst into tears. I told him I was going to try to reach some local people, but would he come at 9 PM if I couldn’t find anyone else? The little ones would hopefully be asleep by then, and Ethan would require only snuggling. He didn’t hesitate.
“Of course,” he said.
I love my family.
—————————-
At 5:45 PM my sister sent me an IM, asking how things were going. By then I had arranged for Amy, Christine’s sister, to come after her other babysitting job (Christine was at home with her family still, for Father’s Day). My sister asked me how he was, and I told her, and then she started campaigning for me to find someone who could come to my house sooner. No, I replied, it’s Father’s Day and my children are animals when it comes to bedtime.
YOUR HUSBAND NEEDS TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL, she messaged. Caps intentional.
I called Christine. Her family celebration for Father’s Day was over. She came through for us, again. She’d stay until her sister arrived. Amy would stay as long as necessary, and Christine would come back in the morning.
We’ll be able to leave in 30 minutes, I messaged my sister.
Good.
I spent the next half hour simultaneously tending to my kids and gathering together the things I thought we would need in the hospital. Jack’s blood pressure and back pain medications, check. Insurance card and Jack’s license, check, check. Jackets in case it was overly air conditioned, check. Cellphone chargers, check. An extra undershirt for Jack, check. Water bottles, snack for me, my migraine medication, check, check, check.
Christine arrived just as I was stuffing the last item into my bag. I ran up to get Jack, who was struggling to put on his sweatpants.
As we headed out the door, I shot Christine a look of sheer gratitude. Her look back said holy-crap-he-looks-awful-good-luck.
And with that, knowing my children would be in safe hands for as long as it was going to take, I drove my husband to the emergency room.
Folks, it has been been a while. I have some really, really good excuses, though. The past month has been chock full of health issues here at the House of Chaos, with things just finally getting back to some semblance of normal.
But where to start? Hmm… how about with the day after my eye procedure…..
So.
Vicodin? And me? Yeah, we don’t mix well. It was all fine and dandy, our first encounter the night of my procedure. Vicodin lured me in with hints of comfort and calm. Vicodin lulled me to sleep, putting all thoughts of pain behind me.
The morning came and memories of Vicodin were sweet. At 6:30am I called upon Vicodin’s powers. “Give me some comfort like you gave me last night?”
But Vicodin is fickle. No longer comforting, no longer wiping the pain away, Vicodin reared its ugly head and made my body shake and sweat.
“What are you doing to me? Don’t you love me anymore?”
Vicodin had shown its true colors.
————-
By 8:45am, Jack had already left for work, and Christine had taken Henry and Miranda out to run errands. I had already recognized that it wasn’t going to be a good day. Faint, familiar feelings of nausea had already made brief appearances, but I had to get Ethan to a doctor’s appointment by 9:30.
“Ethan. Listen to me carefully,” I said in a low voice. “I do not feel well. I might have to throw up. Please go get your shoes on and make sure you are ready to go when I say so.”
His eyes grew wide, and he nodded. “Okay, Mommy,” he whispered with memories of the last time he had to witness Mommy tossing her cookies. I made a dash for the bathroom and he made a dash for his shoes.
I pulled myself together, and we got into the car. We made it to the doctor’s office — late — and I spent the bulk of the time with my head on the table, apologizing profusely for the state I was in. We ended up staying in the waiting room when the appointment was over so I could lay my head down and still my body. Bless Ethan’s heart, he played with a mancala game while he patiently waited for me.
“Come on, buddy. We have to get you to camp.”
Out the door, in the elevator, down to the first floor. Out the door, to the car, step by step I barely held it together. I opened the car door, tossed Ethan my cellphone, and told him to get in.
“You can play a game on the phone, dude,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going to throw up again.”
And so I did…right on top of the bark in the huge potted plant next to my car in the parking lot. Twice. I don’t think anyone was around to witness it, but I hardly cared at the time. I DID care enough to cover it all up with other bark, however.
I got him to camp, staggered back to my car where I had to lie still for ten minutes, and then went to my eye doctor for the day after follow-up. The eye looked great; I did not.
The rest of the day played out similarly to the morning. Christine (thank heavens for Christine!) picked up Ethan from camp on her way to another babysitting job (for one of Ethan’s friends — she called ahead and they were happy to have him there) and Jack picked him up later in the evening. I was in no shape to drive. By the kids’ bedtimes I was still feeling shaky, but better. I vowed to never take Vicodin again.
At 6:30am the next morning I woke with a jolt as Jack bolted out of bed. “What’s wrong?” I queried.
“I’m going to throw up.”
He stayed in bed all day that day (it was a Friday — you’ll need to know that for the next post), and though my day started out okay, it became progressively worse. See, I was riding out a full-fledged migraine, but didn’t really know it. The pain was focused in the eye socket of the eye that I had had the procedure on, so I assumed it was post-procedure eye pain. 
It turns out, as my eye doctor and I figured out later, that my eye pain and strain had triggered a migraine. By the time I took my migraine medication, I had already thrown up twice.
Yeah. Good times in the House of Chaos.
It took only forty minutes for my migraine medication to alleviate the massive pain and nausea I had been experiencing for hours (HOURS!). Throughout all this, Jack had been upstairs, in and out of sleep, and in and out of the bathroom, paying homage to the porcelain gods.
Christine picked up Ethan from camp again that day, as I was in no state to drive. After they got home — since we had already made plans for her to come back the next day for a few hours — she stated that she was taking one of my little ones to her house overnight so I wouldn’t have to deal with the two of them at bedtime. “You need to get to bed early.” She packed up a bunch of things, ushered Henry to her car, and didn’t return until ten the next morning.
I slept on the couch that night, worried that I might catch whatever it was that was ailing Jack. By the morning I was feeling like a new woman, but Jack was feeling much, much worse.
Some of you might already know how this plays out. For those who don’t, stay tuned…
