a little trip to the e.r.

Like I said Judah and Amie and I had differing degrees of colds and sinus trouble all week. Yesterday Judah obviously wasn’t himself, a bit droopy and tired all day with an increasing cough. In the evening he started wheezing, which I took note of, but it’s happened before when he has bronchitis.

He grew more agitated throughout the evening, and said his chest hurt, but it still appeared more like discomfort than like anything urgent. I gave him a steamy hot shower before bed, tried to put him down in his room, but he was whimpering and short of breath. So he laid on the couch while Linda and I sat with our books (and that meant that Amie laid on the floor next to us). At my bedtime I tucked Judah in bed with me. I kept starting to doze off, but felt more and more uncomfortable observing my boy. His breath was short and gaspy and even though I could tell he was very tired, he tossed and turned every few seconds, and whimpered, “I’m so sick, Mommy.”

At 1:00 I finally reached for my phone and looked up “asthma attack” on WebMD and decided that was what we had on our hands. I woke Linda and asked her to listen to him but neither of us could quite discern how serious it was. I tend to be an over-reactor, so I tried to take time and be objective. Finally though, after agonizing over my decision, I knew that I just needed to get up and take Judah to the ER.

I scooped up my boy and loaded him into the car and we both made the quiet, late-night drive through deserted downtown Lititz and over the hill to Heart of Lancaster Hospital, where he was born on a humid Saturday evening almost six years ago. Memories flooded over me as we rounded the turns and pulled up to the sprawling brick building and I told Judah, “Hey buddy, we’re visiting the hospital where you were born.” What a perfect day that was, September 8th, 2007.

You know you’re in a small town when the ER parking lot was nearly empty and the waiting room was even emptier. We checked in while Judah gasped and panted next to me, and within minutes a nurse came through the door. She listened quick to Judah’s heart and told us to follow her and walk very slowly so his breathing wouldn’t get worse.

I don’t mind admitting here that I take my anxiety meds at night before bed, so I was thankful to feel extremely laid back throughout the entire process, even when the nurses looked alarmed at how low Judah’s oxygen was. But with all the huffing and puffing, Judah was still somehow his sharp-witted self. He climbed up and stretched out on the bed and said, “A kid could get used to this.”

From that moment he had his nurse wrapped around his little finger. He was treated like a king. Every joke was laughed at. He was brought fresh blankets at regular intervals from the blanket-warmer (after awhile, I even got to curl up with my own warmed blanket). Judah got an oxygen mask and loved looking like Darth Vader. He got a steroid shot in his thigh and didn’t shed a tear (which I marveled at since his last experience with shots involved much kicking and screaming and a perspiring South Asian doctor).

I was warned that once the steroid kicked in, Judah would be wound up, and that’s what happened. It seemed one moment he was slumped, dozing in the bed, and the next he was his bright-eyed, talkative self, only more so.

The breathing treatment lasted close to an hour, then we got up and walked down the hall for a chest x-ray to rule out pneumonia. Judah chatted with the x-ray technician about superheroes and Star Wars and encouragingly told her, “You’re hilarious!” when she cracked a joke. He loved seeing the photos of his bones and especially his still-hidden adult teeth. He loved receiving his “Special X-ray Club” sticker. He told me, “Thanks for bringing me to the hospital so I can breath better.”

The night ended with good news. The doctor (who was South Asian, ironically enough) and medical staff said the asthma attack was probably a fluke incident, perhaps from Judah’s cold or the high-corn-pollan content in the Lancaster County air this time of year. They said kids his age almost never develop asthma; they either get it as babies, or as grown adults. We left with prescriptions for a nebulizer, antibiotics for bronchitis, and a steroid.

I was also told, “You did a good job, Mom. Next time, bring him in sooner.”

Note taken. In case you’re wondering, the respiratory staff said, “If there’s a question about a child’s breathing, never feel embarrassed to bring them to the doctor. Kids’ breathing can go from bad to worse very quickly.” I was told that signs to seek immediate medical attention are wheezing with rapid, short breaths, and to check under ribs or at the collar bone. If one of those spaces gets concave when they’re breathing (Judah’s was under his ribs), that means they’re struggling for oxygen.

I’m so thankful to God for protecting my boy last night. I’m thankful for that persistent, uncomfortable feeling in my gut that wouldn’t let me drift off to sleep. I’m thankful for yet another wonderful experience with the Heart of Lancaster staff, who attended us well and kept the mood light and made Judah feel like a million bucks.

I’m thankful for my boy, who bounded down the hall at the end of our two-hour hospital visit, calling out to his audience of doctor and nurses, “This was a great night! When I grow up I’m going to be a doctor and work at this hospital!”