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| Mr. Sicky-pants, in all his snotty glory. |
A. brought home a cold last week, which, for him, involved a whole lot of nose-blowing and a very red and sore upper lip. It was starting to resolve on Friday, much to his relief; I was just glad no one else had caught it.
I put baby E. to bed at nine, and crawled in half an hour later. It had been a long and busy day, and we soon were both snoring.
At midnight, I woke to a strange, almost hissing sound, and a flailing baby. I sat up and looked at E.; in an instant I knew he had croup. He was gasping for each breath, his whole chest coming in. He could barely breathe at all.
I picked him up and ran for the bathroom, thinking a hot, steamy shower would do the trick as it had for his siblings, so many times before. Instead, his breathing became worse. Then he wasn't really breathing at all. His mouth started turning blue.
"C.! Call 911! Call 911! He's not breathing!" I admit it, I was hysterical.
The 911 dispatcher told us to take him outside in the cool air and to wait for the ambulance. His breathing improved a little, but not much.
Just as the ambulance pulled up to our house, E. started to cough and then threw up an enormous amount of phlegm. He started to cry. It was the sweetest sound I've ever heard.
He spent the night at the ER, getting breathing treatments and steroid shots. We've spent the week since dealing with mild dehydration, a stuffed-solid nose, suction and Tylenol and saline drops. He's finally on the mend, but is now, joy of joys, teething his two front teeth.
This is the first time, I think, I've taken a kid to the hospital via ambulance. I'm hoping to never have to repeat the experience.
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