by ayallawt | May 23, 2009 2:37 am
I don’t know about you, but when a doctor tells me not to worry, I immediately start fretting.
Unresolved health issues are worrisome enough when one’s own health is concerned. They turn downright terrifying when your helpless little man cub is on the line.
Pajama parties in a hospital room with my baby girl, oxygen tubes in her tiny little nose are not my definition of fun. Unlucky for us, we had to go through that several times this last winter, until our doctors zoomed in on the culprit, asthma. Her little lungs inflame at the most innocent of colds, cutting off the oxygen supply. A common infant malady they said, nothing to worry about.
My husband and I tried our best not to worry. we try not to worry every morning when we send her to the petry dish also known as daycare. We try not to worry when she evidently returns with a runny nose. We lay in bed practically worry free listening to her cough in the wee hours of the night. And we tell each other not to worry when we undress her to examine if her labored breathing is “pulling” on her sides. We pretend not to worry when we bring her to the emergency room “just in case” her oxygen saturation is on the low side. We joke with the tired nurse, pull our brave faces on and not worry when our miniature toddler is hospitalized once more, after making all the machinery in the crash room light up and beep like a Christmas tree on steroids.
Another insignificant little detail we were told not to worry about was out Tod’s weight. She steadfastly refused to stay on any growth curve known to man, stubbornly surviving on grapes and cheese. What could have been almost cute, turned out to be a nasty cocktail when shaken and stirred with pulmonary problems. At a certain point we didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry when at the same clinic visit we were dismissed by the nurse and the nutritionist declaring in sync that the baby is fine and dandy, only to be followed by an emergency specialist appointment administered by the concerned pediatrician. As long as they are coherent, I always say.
I am happy to report that we are all better now that the cystic fibrosis test came back negative. No worries.
Our last pediatrician visit went better then expected. The little one was cheerful, blissfully unaware of our tension. Four months break of hospital admissions mercifully erased the nasty experience out of her little head. She actually tried to kiss the doctor. I ended up wanting to kiss him as well, straight after he declared that she had gained a full 500 grams and almost 3 centimeters. Joy.
My joy would have been complete if not for 1 small inconvenience. The day after our meeting with Dr. kissable, I was to travel alone to see a high risk pregnancy specialist. My very unrisky dull pregnancy discovered life on the edge right after my last ultrasound, in which the doctor suggested my baby’s head was too small. It’s more likely that I am mistaken, he said, but just to play it safe he booked me with the specialist right away. I packed my best drama queen maternity wear and went. 48 glamorous hours later The ob-gyn measured my little budding lead character’s head and determined that it is well within normal. My sigh of relief must have been heard all the way to Hollywood.
I was, as usual, too quick to rejoice. I would like you to come back here in 4 weeks, the good doctor said. Just to make sure your placenta is providing well and that the baby’s growth is not slowing down. I marked the date on my calendar and set sails back home. There I would celebrate the good news with my family. Me? worried? you heard the doctor. It’s probably nothing.
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