The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

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Just when I thought the disease around here was weakening...

Last night, just before dinner, the wee one went into the bathroom to do her thing. Suddenly, as I was coming down the stairs, I heard her begin to weep, that sort of panicky, hand-wringing kind of crying that always rips a mother's heart out. Mom, I think I did something bad in my underwear, she said weakly, her little eyes looking up at me with horror and worry. I assumed she'd peed her pants, or perhaps experienced a bout of diarrhea, but no--it was blood. I vaguely remember her and M. mentioned that she'd fallen earlier in the day while I was at computer class, but neither made it out to be much of a happening so I had dismissed it. Then, when M. came to the bathroom and saw the browning drops of blood in her underwear, he calmly said 'this must be from the fall earlier'. He always stays calm when I have panic on my face. He knows it's the only way to get things done.

It turned out that she had fallen off of a stool my mother had painted for her with her name on it a couple years ago, that when she fell, the stool flipped over and she landed on the legs, squarely on that area. I cross my legs even now just thinking about it. Aside from the flu she's been battling, my wee one had also been dealing with this injury for about four hours and hadn't thought to mention it to anyone, and my heart felt like it was going to stop just thinking about that. So, I sat her in the bath with some warm water and epsom salts, and the whole time she assured me she felt okay. After the bath, she had a small bit of dinner, after not eating for a couple days, and though I was not satisfied with the little bit she had eaten, she was adamant that she had eaten her fill.

Cut to midnight, when I've just got into my bed after telling M. I want him to check on her and assess whether or not her fever is back (I always think she's warm), I hear her moving around in her room, the panicky wailing on its way to bursting through the door. The door did indeed pull open, and she came rushing through my own, covered in vomit. I jumped out of bed, kept my voice calm and reassuring, and called out to M. to take stock of her bedroom situation. As is my way, I was immediately blameful toward him, wondering why he hadn't hopped up immediately when I'd mentioned I thought she was warm, like it could have stopped this. I said nothing, though. I knew enough to keep my irrationality to myself. The wee one cried and apologized for the mess she'd made, with vomit in her hair and all over her face and pajamas. Dark brown it was, which I assumed had something to do with the small bit of chocolate ice-cream she'd had earlier, but then I decided it wasn't that at all, and under the surface I began to panic. What if this was blood? Was she internally bleeding? Was she on her way to having an infection of sorts? What was going on?

I bathed her, washed her hair, dried it, braided it, and tucked back into bed, though it was missing most of the bedding. She was exhausted, having eaten so little in the last few days and sleeping even less, and I went to bed thinking about how I should have asked her more questions, how I should have sensed something was wrong. The thing was, I did. I knew when I put her to bed and checked on her that something wasn't right. I didn't know if it was the cold, the injury or what. I just knew that she was not herself, and that caused me to stare into the black and worry.

So, this morning, after I woke up to the sound of her gentle sobbing in the bathroom downstairs, I rushed down to find her hurriedly putting her pajama bottoms back on, and telling me it hurt to pee. I realized then that she hadn't gone since the afternoon before, and I began to fret. I tried to get her to try, but she wouldn't, saying that the 'pee has gone away', so I took her to the couch and cuddled her for an hour or so, strategizing. When M. came down, I told him that she hadn't gone to the bathroom in nearly twenty hours, and when he told me that he thought she hadn't had much to drink, that maybe she didn't need to go, I became annoyed. Everyone pees, no matter if they'd had less to drink or not, I snapped. I told him I was going to have a shower, and while I did, I decided I was going to call the doctor. A fever, throwing up, an injury, coughing, poor appetite...the more I thought of it all, the more I started to panic.

When I got out of the shower, M. told me that he had called the doctor and made an appointment for the next hour. I was grateful that he finally seemed concerned, that he was beginning to see that I wasn't a hysterical mother. I decided to miss my class in order to go, and off we went. When we got there, the wee one seemed almost happy that we had decided to take her, which only increased my guilt at having waited so long. My usual doctor was not available, so we had an intern instead. She was sweet, very detailed, and it was clear that she knew what she was talking about. Though the wee one kept telling her that she didn't need to pee, she took me aside after feeling her abdomen and told me that the bladder felt very full, that we needed to get her to pee or we'd have to go to the children's emergency room at the hospital. No amount of coaxing, though, would get the kid to try it. She thought it would hurt, and she kept telling us she didn't need to go, and I actually think she believed it was true.

Within the hour we were at the hospital, and I was beyond nervous. I was told that they may have to insert a catheter, and I knew the wee one would not respond well to that, but more importantly, I knew they would have to examine the injury which is never a comfortable thing for anyone, particularly because of its location. I was grateful that every doctor we had help us was female, knowing that this put the wee one at ease, but when the actual exam took place, it was me who had to wear the gloves and pull at the various folds so that they could see what had happened. I know that this made her more comfortable, but I was really unnerved by the sight of the redness, the swelling and the residual blood. They assessed that it was something like a 'crossbar injury', the kind of thing that happens to girls when they fall onto the crossbar of a bicycle. There was a slight tear as well as some bruising, but they felt she'd be fine after a few days. The most important thing, the doctor said, was that the child needed to empty her bladder. You can't leave until she does, she said firmly, but I think maybe a sitz bath might help. I'll send in a small tub with some tepid water and you can try to have her pee in that. I cringed. I smiled hopefully at the wee one who looked at me, confused.

She wailed when she saw the tub. She cried fat, round tears at the prospect of having to sit in it. She told me repeatedly she didn't have to pee, that she just wanted to go home, and I was caught between frustration and despair. This went on for about five minutes, each one feeling like an hour, and then suddenly, the crying stopped and without even touching the water, she started to go. Can I just say that the sound of the hissing splashes was akin to music to my ears? I held her under her arms as she went, and the whole time I was making excited exclamations about how great she was, how brave! She must have peed for sixty seconds straight, and I could feel her body slack when she was finished, like all the tension and hurt had been evacuated as well.

Can we go home now?, she asked wearily.

They had given her some pain medication before we left, so in the car, she fell into a fitful sleep. I carried her into the house, tucked her in on the couch, and ate some turkey chili without tasting it. I could not believe how the day had turned out, with five hours in a hospital surrounded by sick children, including my own. Little boys and girls in wheelchairs with twisted limbs and pained faces, some gasping for air, others pink with fever. It wrecked me as I sat there waiting, my own girl on my lap with her head against my chest. I could not imagine what it must be like to watch my girl suffer something more serious, something potentially deadly. I know that this is part of the deal of parenthood, the eventual sicknesses and physical suffering that happen to us all, but it's different when it actually happens than you'd think it is. There is such an extreme sense of helplessness, of headspinning and cold sweat, as well as undulating waves of calm and certainty that things will be fine. The parent has to believe this, has to be responsible for the solution to the pain, because collapsing into a heap of worry isn't going to make the child well. You know this, and when you're lucky enough to have the pain subside, for the child to calm and sleep soundly, your body suddenly loses its tension too. I fell into bed, fully clothed and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then, I slept for what felt like days, except it was only two hours, but it was a soft and violet sleep, every muscle of my body tingling with pleasure. I only woke up when something in my conscience came in to tell me that it was Pancake Tuesday, and that I had promised to make them for dinner.

She ate very little, but at least she seemed happier, less distracted by her body. My pancakes were blueberry banana, but hers were plain, just the way she likes them. I bathed her again, took note of how many times she used the bathroom since we got home (three!), and tucked her into her bed, under mismatched sheets (hers are in for a second washing, the vomit stains stubbornly refusing to fade) and read her a story about princesses. She told me she loved me, and she kissed my cheek, and I know she meant it. I squeezed her gently, joked about her not throwing up tonight (we don't have any other sheets!), and told her that she is the most important person in my whole world. I meant it, too. I've decided that she will stay home from school tomorrow, though M. seems to think this is unnecessary. I stood my ground by saying that the she is still sick, that today was a lot to handle for her, that she hasn't eaten or slept properly in days and that it doesn't make any sense for her to go just because she's beyond the contagious period. I know he thinks I'm overreacting, but I could care less. Overreacting is better than not reacting at all.

It never ceases to amaze me, how being a parent changes the order of things in your life. I've stopped being number one in my world of priorities, and oddly enough, I don't mind the demotion.