Charlie is the ox in our family. He gets into and onto everything, knocks everything over, and eats like an Olympic swimmer. He has also never had a fever, and has had a mere two mild colds in his entire 14 1/2 month-old life. Which is why we were freaking out a little when Charlie was fussy all day on Friday, and developed fevers by evening.
"His ears. I bet it's his ears," I said. I blame everything on ear infections. Likely because the first time Oliver had an ear infection as a baby, we completely missed the signs (for him, he just woke up at night a bunch but was fine during the day). I felt horrible that his ears looked so infected by the time I took him in (though was in good company- many a parent on Facebook assured me that they had no clue their kids had ear infections until they went in for their well-child checks). But it wasn't just a desperate attempt to not miss Charlie's first ear infection; his left ear was a vibrant red and well, he screamed all day long. He cried throughout the night as well, and wouldn't eat much. An ear infection was a good guess.
"Tell me that's what it is," I instructed our pediatrician. She laughed. "No really, just tell me it's an ear infection, because then we know how to make him better." She agreed, " I totally know what you mean. But," she said, as she looked in Charlie's ears, "it's not his ears." I let out an explicative. Poor, poor Charlie had been sobbing all morning, whether I was holding him or not. He actually leaned forward to put his head on the ground and all-out sob. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen, and Michael and I continued to exchange worried glances that began the night before. Because the night before, during one of his longer crying jags, Michael took him downstairs saying he had thrown up, and Charlie was burning up. Holding miserable Charlie, I didn't smell vomit. I looked on his pajamas, which indeed were wet, but with what looked like cherry Kool-Aid, which he most certainly didn't drink.
"It's not vomit," I said. "It's blood." Looking at his crib sheets, my heart sank to see a circle bigger than the size of my head of saliva and blood.
We looked at his ears, his nose, and his mouth. No sign of blood. I nervously half-packed his diaper bag thinking we should, no we shouldn't, we should, no we shouldn't, take him into urgent care. We decided to stay home as the bleeding was not frank bright red blood, and it wasn't vomited blood, and although he was breathing 60 times a minute, he had no other symptoms that warranted emergency.
And so I told all of this to our pediatrician who stared at the stained sheets and pajamas I brought in. "We think he bit his cheek," I said. She shook her head. "Not with that much blood." Looking in his mouth as Charlie screamed, we saw a large white patch on the inside of his left cheek. "There are four of us doctors on today, and they're all going to come in. I have no idea what this is, and I need all of their thoughts." It should be noted here that our pediatrician is extremely bright and has a reputation for being one of the most experienced and skilled docs in the clinic. She also cares for our kids, all of us really, a whole heck of a lot.
And thus began our 3-hour clinic appointment. Sad Charlie, who was beyond unhappy, was even sadder as I held him down for three more inspections of his pained mouth, a lab draw, a very painful injection of antibiotics, and an x-ray which he fought so hard that I left marks trying to hold him still. He kept reaching for me and sobbing every time someone walked into the room, and time after time I was instructed to hold him down for something painful.
"I don't know what this is," our physician said. "Do you have my cell number?"
"Uh, no??"
"You will now," she said. The plan was to start Charlie on antibiotics at home as well as stronger pain medicine, and if he got worse on Sunday, he should go to the Emergency Room. He was to be back first thing Monday morning.
The short version of the following two days is that Charlie's pain was a bit better on Sunday but his fevers crept higher and he stopped eating. Monday he cried miserably all day and valiant Michael offered to be the one to take him in hold him down for more pokes and assessments in the clinic. Charlie's white blood cell count on Monday was unchanged (it was high on Saturday, indicating infection), he had more white patches in his cheek and the poor baby now had pus on his tonsils. Every day we watched him nervously, expecting him to be admitted to Children's. Our pediatrician offered an admission for IV antibiotics, and while I wanted Charlie to just get better, I wasn't sure that putting him through more medical treatment anxiety was going to benefit him. We've done that before with Oliver, and Charlie in a room where he can't crawl around, hooked up to an IV....no, we said, we'll watch him closely at home. He was started on an antiviral medication in addition to the antibiotic.
Monday night around 6pm, I put Charlie down on the floor and he didn't scream. He crawled a little and reached for a toy. And then, for the first time in a very long time...he smiled. I was cautiously optimistic that the antiviral medication was our solution. An hour later I called Michael into the dining room to see something. Charlie was in his highchair, eating, smiling and playing. Charlie really was getting better.
Today's white blood cell count was almost within normal range, the pus is gone from his tonsils, and his cheek is better. His temps have crept back down, and he continues to eat. This was a very long and scary three days for us, not knowing what was going on. We still don't know what it is beyond a virus, and we don't know how he got it. That's still unsettling to me. The pediatric nurse in me thought of all of the worst case scenarios, as nurses always do. We felt so helpless seeing him in so much pain, and not knowing if keeping him home was the right thing to do. But prayer prevailed, and before he could get too sick, Charlie got just the right medication. Our ox is back. We can exhale.
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