Croup.

I’m totally drowning in ADD today, which should serve as your warning to NOT expect cohesive thoughts in this blog. In fact, I think I’m writing this strictly because I need to get linear.

We had our first illness with JD this week.

For all of the haters out there that expected me to fall apart at the first sign of illness, take a leap. I did just fine. I didn’t overreact and rush my son to the ER; I didn’t hyperventilate or start a prayer chain at 2:00 am. I didn’t even really have too much of an issue with flashbacks.

I’m kind of proud of myself—I embraced the grace, and got it done. I did my “Mom” thing (with a LOT of help from my Mom, who is officially The Wizard).

He started wheezing at 10; I asked David if we should do something. “What would we do?!? Go to bed,” was the groggy response. By midnight, my son was making this horrible, cat-like cry with a barking gasp for air.

Croup.

I googled it at first, because it’s what I thought it was; I took him outside, praying all the while that the cool, night air would help. Nope.

I called the doctor’s exchange, and was connected to the nurse hotline. A very kind, compassionate nurse could hear my poor boy over the phone, and dispatched us to the Emergency Room, where the official diagnosis was given, followed by breathing treatments and steroids. I texted my mother; she and my dad drove the 45 minutes to meet us at the hospital.

I think my parents saved our lives; at the least, they saved our sanity, because we needed them. Everything was starting to feel reminiscent—the ER, the mask, the horrible breathing—my thoughts were becoming attackers, and I needed my mom and dad to reground me.

JD was there for over 4 hours, for observation (they had to watch for reactions to the medication); he was released around 6 am, and we all went back to my house to grab some sleep.

I had my own medical plans for the day; as my appointment that afternoon drew closer, I noticed that Bug’s breathing was starting to sound bad again, so I called the pediatrician. They recommended us to Cardinal Glennon…and that’s where I lost it. Totally.

David was at work; my mom was napping, and it was just me and Dad in the living room. One mention of “Cardinal Glennon,” and my fragile psyche crumbled. I pulled it together when nurse said I could take him to a different hospital that was closer—that was fine; I could handle that. After a second round of a stronger steroid, JD responded incredibly well, and we came home to baby that was much more like my little guy.  He’s still raspy; we have 5 days before this virus gets out of his system. But, he’s playing, eating, and doing what he’s supposed to do, so I’m happy with that…

Anyway, while my mom stayed with us a few days, he did really well; last night, I think he had a bad night, and it took me hours to get him back to sleep. As I write this from my sleep-deprived-and-Starbucks-fueled brain, I can’t help but reflect on the sheer panic that went through me at the mention of Glennon. I mean, it wasn’t even rational; it was a total flashback/PTSD moment that was crippling. Seeing your child so miserable really does rip your heart out. It’s a terrible, horrible feeling of helpless hell.

I know we aren’t guaranteed a perfect life. We will encounter illness, owies, bumps, bruises, and potentially, breaks (with a boy, that’s pretty much guaranteed). I don’t think that JD is the one who’s going to need to toughen up…

Pretty sure that’s going to be me.