Marissa mentioned that she was taking Max for his one-year shots yesterday, and I shook my head in sympathy. I know so many moms out there for whom shots are traumatizing, and Marissa's so sweet that I imagine she's one of them.
I smiled, kind of happy that shots typically don't bother me. Sure, Zoe cries. I know they hurt. But a lollipop can cure those crocodile tears so fast that she forgets anything happened within moments.
But then I remembered. There was that one time...
Zoe started daycare when she was four months old, and soon after, the ear infections started. They were constant for a while, and when the doctors finally told me that she was walking around with fluid in her ears at all times, and that it would affect her hearing and speech development, I gave in and let them put the tubes in.
That ended the ear infections, but it didn't prevent RSV.
Oh, it was awful. She was never officially tested for it, but the constant coughing, the constant runny nose - our doctor didn't have to test her to diagnose her. We took home a nebulizer that day and began a breathing treatment regimen that Zoe hated.
And after a while, she got better. Her nose dried up and the cough stopped during the day.
But there were still the nights, and the cough refused to quit. Countless trips to countless pediatricians at our local practice had us trying Benadryl, Singulair, Zyrtec, humidifiers, pillows, etc. We didn't use the breathing treatments anymore because they weren't helping.
And the antibiotics. I shudder to think of how many courses of antibiotics little Zoe has already had in her short life. I hate that she's been so medicated - that can't be good in the long run, right?
And the cough wasn't getting any better.
By now, Zoe was nearing 18 months old. We finally decided to see Zoe's primary pediatrician, rather than any of the others in the practice, as he hadn't seen her in a while and we wanted to hear his thoughts.
He tried one more allergy medicine, but when it didn't help, he referred us to an allergist/asthma specialist. I was a little surprised to be thinking of asthma - my brothers and I all have it, but we always attributed it to second-hand-smoke inhaled as a kid. I hated to think of Zoe as a kid who would be attached to inhalers her whole life.
The allergist checked Zoe out, listened to her lungs and heart just as all the others had done. He recommended we go back on the breathing treatments, with the addition of a steroid for the time being. And then he paused.
"You know," he said. "Just to be safe, let's get her a chest x-ray. Have any of the doctors ever ordered that?"
They hadn't, so we walked out with a prescription for one chest x-ray.
I took Zoe for her x-ray the next day, by myself. Charles was busy at work and it was easy for me to leave a little early so we could make it to the radiology place by our house before it closed.
Thus began 15 minutes of hell.
We pulled up and walked in, Zoe blissfully unaware of what was coming. I'd made an attempt to explain. "They need to take a picture of you, you'll have to stay really still," but she wasn't even paying attention. I also didn't know how they planned to keep my wriggly toddler still for long enough to get a clear picture of her lungs.
Here's how they did it.
They saw us coming, and sent two techs out to get us. They ushered us quickly into the room with the x-ray machine that terrified Zoe and made her start crying pitfully real tears immediately. They quickly took her from me and undid the metal straps of her overalls. They quickly stuck her in a plastic contraption that they quickly closed tight around her chest, her feet dangling helplessly three feet above the floor. They quickly snapped the picture and ran back into the room to develop it, leaving Zoe dangling in case they needed to take another picture.
Then we waited. While it developed.
And the screams. Oh, they were loud. As soon as those techs had touched Zoe, she began to scream. Blood-curdling, horror movie screams that hit me in the gut with the sheer terror infused in them. Tears ran down her beet-red face, snot poured from her nose, and her mouth never closed for even a second while she screamed and pleaded for her life.
I have never heard anything like those screams. I hope to never hear them again.
I just kept saying to myself, "Be calm. Hold it together. Do not fall apart." I had to be strong for my baby. I had no choice.
I HAD to hold it together.
And I did.
Luckily, the first x-ray was a success, and the techs were soon quickly removing Zoe from her plastic prison and handing her back to me. My hands shook as I fastened her overalls back up and muttered about ice cream treats and hugs and kisses to come. Nothing calmed those screams, though, until we were out of that building, safe and sound in the car.
Zoe sat in her carseat, her breath ragged and labored. I called Charles, told him we were done and tried not to cry at the sound of the concern voice. I stopped at Sonic for sundaes on the way home.
I could still barely breathe myself.
Turned out, she had a very mild form of pneumonia. I cried, when we got the results. As much from relief that the screams had been worth something as from sadness over my sick child.
My mom always told me about when I had a spinal tap as an infant. She had never heard anything like my screams that day, and while I have absolutely no memory of the incident, she will never forget how they sounded.
I know it's no comparison between the two, but I promise you: I will never forget the sound of these screams either.
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