Poor Mr. Oliver. He had quite the fevers beginning on Thursday and Friday. As you can see, he coped quite well and hardly complained with a couple of cool paper towels on his noggin.
On Friday, Michael texted me to bring in my stethescope when I got home. Ollie was beginning to wheeze, and certainly seemed to be breathing harder than normal. His temp hit 102.2 under his arm, and I called the clinic. The nurse, who was very kind, explained that the "take to the ER" temperature is 104 under the arm. 104? That's 105 in "real" temperature. Um, I don't think I'm going to wait until he's at risk for a febrile seizure and then take him in, thank you very much. But I waited, as the nurse told me that the clinic opened in the morning at 8 am.
At 8:04 am the next morning, I called and waited on hold for 25 minutes. According to the automated system, there were 15 calls ahead of me. 15! But out of that time I got a clean kitchen and appointment for 9:30.
The physician listened to Ollie and said she was pretty sure he had RSV. My heart sunk. I know RSV all too well. It's a wicked little respiratory virus that hits kids very hard; it's extremely contageous, and very, very nasty. Healthy little kids that get RSV end up in the hospital on oxygen all the time. I know; I worked on a respiratory unit and Children's for 3 years.
A lab tech walked in with a seemingly innocent Q-tip to take a sample of nasal drainage, and warned us that it goes in "pretty far." She should have just said "3 inches," because that's seriously how far it went. We thought perhaps she was going to take a throat biopsy as well, as long as she was back there. I'll say it again: poor Mr. Oliver. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed. Until a nurse came in and set up a nebulizer treatment (a machine that delivers air through a medication to make it into a mist). She attached a mask to Oliver's face, asked us to make sure he sat straight up for the treatment, and he screamed some more. Michael and I did all we could do, which was to kiss his little feverish head, hold his hands, and tell him that he could have whatever he wanted for the rest of his life.
The test came back positive for RSV, and we were sent home with instructions to give Oliver the neb treatment every 4 hours. I have a machine at home for my own athsma. That's one thing I never wanted to pass down to my kid. "Here you go, Ollie. You can have Mama's neb machine. And while we're at it, I'm sure I passed down my athsma to you, too. You are welcome!"
Warned that RSV's symptoms peak somewhere around day 4, we knew we were in for a rough weekend. The nebs aren't really helping much any more, and the poor kid is constantly in a near-pant, with lungs that are so tight and wheezey that every time he breathes, which is about 60 times a minute, he sounds like a rusty Oldsmobile trying to turn over when it's battery is dying.
He goes back to the doctor tomorrow, and I go back to work. In an odd coincidence, my sister is visiting until Tuesday, having found a cheap flight from Cincinnati and booking it before the RSV entered our home uninvited. It's nice to have hands to help, but also to spread the worry around a little. The pediatrician on Saturday gave me great advice. She said, "don't be the nurse, be the Mom." I have been following diligently, feeling like I don't know what the hell I'm doing at some points, and worrying constantly. Oliver seems to have caught on to the weight on my shoulders, and has done his part to remind me that really, Mom, he will be just fine. 
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