As a parent, there is nothing worse than a sick child. You worry, you fret, you call or visit the doctor over things which, if they were happening to you, you’d just make some soup and curl up somewhere and wait to get better. You know that it’s complete irrational and yet you still do it. You can’t help it. It’s wired into you.
I’m sitting in Jack’s room, next to his bed writing this on my laptop (this is why they invented wireless networking). I am listening to Jack breathe and checking his temperature every so often. Earlier tonight he was up around 102.7 and I put him into the bath tub to cool down. After the bath, he was only down to 102.4. After going to bed, he spiked to tie his record high of 103.7. He threw up an impressive amount of phlegm (luckily I was here so it was quickly cleaned and nothing more than his pajama top had to be changed).
We called the doctor who suggested we give him his next dose of motrin a bit early and see how he does. If he doesn’t get better, or if he gets worse, bring him to the ER. We did that just about one year ago. He was throwing up and unable to keep any fluid down and he began to show the signs of dehydration. So we got him in the ER on an IV and he was OK.
This year, however, he seems to be doing better now. His breathing is much smoother since he got the phlegm up and his temperature has dropped below 100.
You hate nights like this when you are a parent. I can recall those friends of mine who swore they would never have kids for reasons like this. They don’t think they can deal with these moments. Or they know they can but they just don’t want to. And, I admit it, this is no fun. And yet, in a strange way that I just cannot explain, I still wouldn’t trade this for anything. My silent (clickity clackity keyboard silent) vigil, as stressful as it is, is important.