Timely acts of kindness aren’t forgotten

Some days, whether you have children with special needs or not, your day doesn’t go exactly as planned.  Other days, you long for those mere “not exactly as planned” days, because on these other days what starts as a pretty bad day gets progressively and dramatically – almost comically! – even worse.  You’re not sure how you’re going to get through it.  You feel sorry for your children, sorry for your spouse, sorry for yourself.  You feel ill-equipped.  You feel helpless and alone.

It’s on these days, I think, that it is most important to recognize the things that went right; the people who made you feel like maybe you weren’t quite so alone or so helpless.  To see humor; to express gratitude.  So here goes.  Here’s my day.

8 am:  Without warning, 8yo suddenly projectile vomits all over the living room.

8:05:  I clean it up; it’s every bit as retch-inducing as you think it might be; enough said.

8:15:  There’s disagreement as to whether we are driving 6yo to the bus for school, or walking.  I insist on driving, so 8yo can stay in the car.  But both kids take off walking.  I follow in the car.

8:25:  8yo, who has been insisting since 8:05 that he should still go to school (despite the projectile vomiting) gets “locked in.”  Refuses to come to the car.  I attempt calm, firm, rational explanation that it’s against the rules to go to school on a day you’ve thrown up your breakfast.  That we have to make sure he gets rest; that we can’t risk spreading germs to his friends.  He likes rules; he likes to rest; he likes friends.  But the explanation doesn’t help.  I sense an autistic meltdown coming on.  I feel my own panic rising.  (I am temporarily unable to appreciate the happy fact that my 8yo must really love school if he’s insisting on going despite the vomiting.)

8:30:  Kind Neighbor offers to make sure 6yo gets safely on the bus when it comes, so I can focus on 8yo.  Thank you, Kind Neighbor!  I’m grateful.

8:35:  Bus approaches; I know 8yo will try to get on it.  I try reasoning with him one more time.  It fails.  I begin dragging 8yo over to the car, to avoid having to drag him away from the bus while other children are trying to get on.  He’s solid; it is not easy to get him to move.  He’s shouting “no, you’re hurting me!  I need to go to school!  Why aren’t you letting me go to school?  I don’t like what you’re doing!”  I question my parental methods.  I worry that everyone in the neighborhood is staring and judging us.  I’m close to the car now.  Feeling my tears welling up; grateful I’m wearing sunglasses.

8:36:  Kind neighbor #2 comes over:  “How can I help?”  She talks to us calmly.  She reinforces that it’s best to stay home when you’re sick.  She doesn’t judge.  She helps me get 8yo in the car. I attempt a joke, “wow, and I thought cleaning up the vomit was going to be the worst part of my day.”  I have no idea what’s still coming.  Why would I ever say such a thing?  I’m an idiot.  But, thank you, Kind Neighbor #2; I’m grateful.

9:20:  I hear back from my (relatively new) boss – it’s fine if I work from home today to be with my sick child.  Despite the fact that I so recently had to take a sick day to care for my other child, who was sick last week.  Despite the week before that, when I took a day off to visit my dad recovering from hip surgery.  Thank you, Kind New Boss!  I promise you that I am not a slacker.  I’m just having some bad luck right now.  I’m grateful to you for the flexibility.

9:40:  Realize I don’t have a charger for my work laptop.  I will run out of battery before the end of the day.  This fact will impact my objective to show my new employer I can still be productive even when I’m home with sick kids.  Suggest to 8yo – now resting comfortably on the couch, watching tv – that maybe we can take a quick trip to Mommy’s office to get something she needs to work today.  No go; definitely no go.  I don’t have the energy for another tantrum. I shouldn’t expose my co-workers to a throwing up kid anyway.  Enter kind co-worker.  I mention via email that I don’t have a charger.  She happens to be working remotely too, not too far from me.  She offers to bring over her spare.  Thank you, Kind Co-Worker!  I accept.

10:30:  Kind Co-Worker shows up with the charger and – bonus! – muffins that she happened to bake fresh this morning.  Wow!  Thank you, again!  I’m grateful.  Unlike 8yo, I haven’t been throwing up; I can eat a muffin.  They taste great with my coffee.  Even 8yo perks up a little.  “Mommy when do you think I can have a muffin?”  Hopefully tomorrow, little man.

11:15:  Start introducing clear liquids back to make sure 8yo stays hydrated.  Set timer in kitchen for 5 minutes.  Tell him that every 5 minutes, he can have a sip.  Tell him this is what Nana used to do with me when I was sick.  So you don’t drink too much at once and throw it all up.  He thinks it’s a game.  He loves that his mom’s mom played this game too.  He insists that we keep up the cycle for an hour.  I’m up out of my seat every five minutes, but it works.  He keeps the liquid down.  Thank you, Mom/Nana!  Your method works for my boy just like it once worked for me.  I’m grateful.

3:00:  Working away on my laptop.  Realize the TV has stopped running Sesame Street and Arthur reruns.  Walk over and peek at peacefully sleeping child.  Feel relieved that 8yo is finally getting some sleep; he needs it.  Turn back to my work.

3:45:  Hear 8yo snoring.  Smile to myself; he was really tired!  My sweet boy.  Wait.  That is not a snore.  That is more like a fitful moan.  Oh, no.  Walk over to the couch to investigate.

3:46:  Oh, no.  It’s a seizure.  I thought we were done with this.  (I keep thinking we’re done with this.)  Turn him on his side.  Look at my watch.  Start timing.

3:52:  Seizure hasn’t stopped.  Lips purple.  Eyes open.  Wave my hands in front of his eyes. He doesn’t blink.  Ask him to tell me if he can hear me.  No response.  He’s convulsing and unresponsive.

3:53:  Dial 9-1-1.  Tell the operator what’s going on.  Yes, he has a history of seizures.  Yes, he took his medication this morning.  Well, he took it, but he may have thrown it up.  No, the seizure hasn’t stopped yet.  Ambulance is on the way.

3:55:  I don’t think I can wait for the ambulance.  Dig the emergency seizure medication out of the closet.  See that it expired 6 months ago.  Administer it anyway.  Pretty sure I remember the neurologist saying the expiration dates have no meaning.  Not 100% sure, though.  Still:  can’t let the seizure go on too long.

4:00:  Sirens.  Fire truck.  Ambulance.  EMTs.  They come in, I share the history and status.  Express uncertainty about having administered expired medication.  (Think to myself, was that really bad? Did I screw that up?)  Kind EMT says “I would have done the same thing.  You did just fine.”  Thank you, Kind EMT!  I’m grateful for the reassurance.

4:05:  EMTs give 8yo oxygen through a mask.  His normal coloring returns.  He starts coming out of the seizure.  We’re still in my living room.  Thank you, Arlington County FD!  You have helped us so many times.  You’re heroes.  I’m grateful.

5:00:  We’re at the hospital.  Vitals appear stable, but nurses have to draw blood and put in an IV line.  He doesn’t like it.  He’s crying and shouting.  They have to attach a board to make sure he keeps his arm straight.  He keeps trying to pull the board off.  But hey, he’s awake.  He’s conscious.  He’s clearly expressing something he doesn’t like.  That’s good; that’s normal.

5:15:  Husband/Dad and 6yo arrive.  6yo was worried; he wanted to come.  He loves his brother (despite intense sibling rivalry that is a constant source of worry for us).  Awww.  My boys love each other.  I’m grateful.

7:30:  We’re released.  Clean bill of health.  (Well, clean bill of health other than the epilepsy, autism, ADHD, and a gastrointestinal virus.  But we already knew about the first three and we had guessed at the fourth.  I consider that a clean bill of health, given the circumstances.)

8:10:  Children home and in bed.  I run out to fill the prescriptions.  Pharmacist, who knows our family and who observes the Virginia Hospital Center Emergency Room prescription pad on which the scripts are written, doesn’t mention what he must be able to guess has happened, but simply says, “I will get that for you right away.”  Puts it in front of everything else he was doing.  Has it ready before I’ve even had time to pick out a 50% off chocolate Easter egg to console myself.  Thank you, Kind Pharmacist!  You’ve made a very long day a little shorter than it could have been.  I’m grateful.

Here’s hoping tomorrow is one of the good days.