The Worst Kind of Rush

My train derailed at 8:42 yesterday morning.  That was when Charles suddenly started wailing, and I mean wailing, about a tummy ache.

 

I did the normal mom things (have him drink a glass of water, have him try to go poop), but Charles went from zero to doubled over in excruciating pain in about three minutes.  By 8:45, we were headed to the Emergency Room.  Charles couldn’t walk, so I carried him, all 68 pounds of him, from the couch to the car and the car to the ER, his shoes in my purse.  He screamed like I did when I gave birth.  His hair was sweaty.  He writhed in pain.

 

 

I thought, for sure, that we were headed for surgery.  Appendicitis?  Bowel obstruction?  Testicular torsion?  The doctors didn’t know either.  After pain and anti-nausea medications were administered via IV, he began the rounds of testing: blood, urine, x-ray, ultrasound, and finally, a CT scan.

 

I spent six hours alternately praying that he would be okay, holding back tears as I watched him struggle against the pain, and reading Voyage of the Dawn Treader when he was awake (I was hoarse after a couple of hours).

 

 

At 2:45, we got the results of all the testing: mesenteric adenitis, an inflammation of the intestinal lymph nodes most likely related to constipation.  We were instructed to treat the constipation aggressively and the adenitis with pain medication.

 

The doctor looked at me, somewhat worse for the wear after six hours of adrenaline and anxiety, and stated the obvious because I clearly hadn’t internalized the results yet: “This is a good thing: no surgery.”

 

The relief was profound.  I left the hospital in a daze.  Charles was able to walk out.  He hadn’t eaten all day and he said he was hungry.  I administered my first ever (and his first ever) suppository and I was still so shell-shocked from the day and the fact that I wasn’t wringing my hands while my baby underwent surgery that I didn’t even bat an eye.

 

He’s mostly fine now.  I, however, have an adrenaline hangover. 

 

That’s a real thing, you know, an adrenaline hangover.  I treated it with a giant glass of wine and an early bedtime.  Tony treated it by tending to Freddie in the middle of the night so I could sleep.

 

Today, I’m simply grateful.  Grateful for the first-class hospital and the first-rate doctors and nurses and other medical staff.  Grateful to God that my child doesn’t have to have surgery.  Grateful for the continued health of my family. 

 

No surgery.  Those are beautiful words.