Before we pick up where we left off, here are links to the story so far. In order, starting with the oldest post first:
When we left off, I'd just been told that my son, who'd been sick on and off for almost a week, was being admitted to Children's Healthcare of Atlanta Scottish Rite. The admitting doctor estimated a minimum 48-hour stay. I still had no idea what was wrong with my child, but I had hope that we would finally get to the bottom of it and get him well.
It was close to 3:45 a.m. when we were moved from the emergency room to an inpatient room. LittleDude had long since fallen asleep, and I could barely keep my eyes open. Once we left Emergency, the hospital corridors were dark and quiet, and if I hadn't been so tired, I might have found them to be a little eerie. As it was, I just thought they were long. I was so ready to get some sleep.
We finally got to our room, where the night nurse was waiting for us. She got us settled, showed me where my linens were, and somewhere between 5- 5:30 a.m., I went to sleep.
- was sent frm 1 ER to another yest, still no clear ansr. Good news - LittleDude admitted to Scottish Rite last nt. 5 August 9:25am
Our first morning in the hospital arrived with a gaggle of doctors surrounding LittleDude's bed. LittleDude was still zonked out when the doctors came in. Despite sleeping, I didn't feel very rested and was unbelievably groggy when the docs gathered 'round my kid's bed. I may not have been able to sleep well, but my son was sleeping like a rock. At their request, I told the doctors my son's story to that point, the whole time wondering why they didn't just consult the doctor's notes in his chart. I would later liken that experience to being in an episode of Scrubs, but without the funny.
LittleDude finally woke up, and he was famished. As the day nurse brought him something light to eat (I can't remember for certain, but it might have been some Jell-O and Gatorade), I secured permission to run home and grab the few things we would need for a hospital stay into the weekend.
It was weird. We'd just arrived the day before -- hadn't even been there a full twelve hours yet -- but still when I climbed into my truck, it felt like I hadn't seen it in forever. And when I pulled out of that parking garage, man was that sun bright! I raced home, threw a few things into a bag, made a few phone calls, then raced right back to the hospital. LittleDude was in a strange place, filled with strange people, and I wanted to leave him alone as little as possible. I wasn't sure how he'd handle it; he'd been through so much already.
It turned out I didn't have to worry. When I got back to the hospital room, LittleDude was happy as a clam (considering the situation), laying comfortably in his bed, watching one of the DVDs the nurse had secured for him. When I walked in the door, the first thing he asked me was if I'd taken his Nintendo DSi with me (I had -- unintenionally -- it was in my bag). The second thing he told me was he'd been told he couldn't eat anymore. He wasn't too pleased about that -- neither of us had eaten much of anything in the past twenty-four hours and he had been craving tacos since he'd been in the previous ER (he'd smelled something that reminded him of tacos).
With the news he couldn't eat or drink anything, that mild craving that had started the day before escalated to obsession that would continue throughout his hospital stay. My son was fantasizing about a big bag of tacos.
Something else had changed while I was gone, as well. A yellow notice had appeared on my son's door instructing all who entered to wear gowns and masks and to wash their hands before and after. In other words, my son had been put on "contact". I later found out from the lady in the hospital library that "contact" is their version of isolation.
My son was in isolation and I had no idea why.
The story continues: Definitely Pancreatitis