A medical adventure featuring the world’s most charming three year old and also a threat.
Baby girl had trouble breathing. Not the kind where you wait and see. The kind
where my nurse sister texts me a paragraph of medical jargon and I text back tell
me like I’m a child and she texts back get her to the ER.
So I did what any reasonable parent does first. I called the pediatrician.
Yeah. You shouldn’t bring her here. Take her somewhere else.
Fantastic. Love the confidence. Really appreciate the direction.
I don’t do regular ERs for kids. We learned that lesson with kiddo. Took him to a
normal ER once and they looked at us like we had wandered into the wrong
building. We deal with grown humans here. Good luck. So I found a pediatric
urgent care and off we went.
In the lobby there was a child who had clearly decided she ran the place. In and out
to the car for tablets and cords. The full operation. Baby girl watched this with
great interest and then turned to me.
I need to go to the car.
You don’t need to go to the car.
I need my tablet.
We didn’t bring your tablet.
This was technically a lie. We did bring her tablet. I was just making her use my
phone. But she didn’t need to know that and thankfully they called her name
before this became a full negotiation.
Pediatric urgent cares give you your own room which I appreciate because it
maintains the illusion that your child’s behavior is not visible to the general public.
The doctor came in. Baby girl lit up.
Hi doctor. Look how tall I am. I like your gloves.
The gloves were pink. Pink is baby girl’s favorite color. This was noted and
celebrated.
The doctor assessed her. Retractions on her chest. Flaring nostrils. A few other
things above my pay grade as a mother which pays zero dollars and compensates
entirely in love which does not in fact pay the bills. The verdict was X rays to rule
things out and a breathing treatment to follow.
They left to get the X ray technician.
The door shut.
Baby girl stopped. Turned. Looked at me with the energy of someone who had
been waiting for this moment.
I’m going to hit you now.
I’m sorry.
I’m mad. I’m going to hit you.
Why are you going to hit me.
Because I’m mad.
I want to be clear that we were at an urgent care. For her breathing. Because I
brought her there out of love and concern. And she was going to hit me. I am also
aware that three-year-olds are incapable of logical thought and she probably just
assumed this was a boring adventure I had dragged her on for funsies when in fact
I was trying to make sure she kept breathing. Still.
Before I could fully process this the X ray technician knocked and walked in and
baby girl’s entire face rearranged itself into something angelic.
Oh hello. Do you like my shoes? I’m ready for my X rays.
She got her X rays like she had done this a hundred times. Stood completely still.
Did every single thing they asked. Was not scared by anything. Received
approximately fourteen compliments from the staff.
We returned to the room.
The doctor followed shortly after. X rays looked fine. Nothing wrong with her
lungs. They set her up with a breathing treatment and a steroid treatment and
showed her what to do.
She knocked it out of the park. They told her she was doing amazing approximately
six times. She received a popsicle in her favorite color and thanked them with the
warmth of someone accepting an award.
I love your stickers. Thank you so much for taking care of me.
Her breathing had improved. The treatment had done its job.
They left.
She looked at me.
I’m going to hit you. I’m throwing my shoes at you.
The shoes were thrown. The crayons were thrown. Baby girl went fully feral for
approximately ninety seconds until the door opened one more time and she
transformed back into the delightful creature the entire medical staff believed her
to be.
The doctor came in for discharge. Her breathing had improved. They weren’t
entirely sure what was going on. They asked if I felt comfortable taking her home.
I am not a doctor. I needed a doctor’s opinion. And now you are asking me if I feel
comfortable making a medical decision. How about you tell me what to do to keep
my daughter breathing and I will do that thing.
But okay. Fine. Discharge instructions.
The steroids kick in within six hours and last seventy two. Get to your pediatrician
for a follow up but don’t go within the seventy two hour window because the
steroids will still be working and the pediatrician won’t be able to accurately assess
what’s actually wrong.
So wait until she’s struggling to breathe again. Then take her to the pediatrician.
This is the same pediatrician who, at the jump, told me that if she couldn’t breathe
that was a big deal and I should go somewhere else. So to recap: pediatrician sent
me away, urgent care sent me home with instructions to wait until she got bad
again, and then go back to the pediatrician.
Cool system. Really airtight.
I told dad when we got home. Relayed the whole thing. The threats. The crayons.
The shoes. The instant transformation every single time a stranger walked through
that door.
His response was something to the effect of you probably deserved it.
Victim blaming. Noted.
But here is the thing. In the moment it kept happening I started questioning
myself. Was this really happening? Was it as bad as I thought? Maybe I was
overreacting. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe I was misreading a three year old
who was sick and scared and expressing it in a completely reasonable way.
And then the crayons flew across my face.
Oh. Maybe it is as bad as it is.
Baby girl is fine. The steroids worked. She is currently somewhere in this house
being absolutely delightful to someone who is not me.
Not bad for a Tuesday.