Today has been a day for the history books. Emotional doesn't even begin to touch the road I've stumbled down today.
Remember Grant's little injury? Well, when he got up this morning, it was wickedly swollen and red. He was upset that he had PE today and wouldn't be able to sit out since he didn't have a doctor's excuse. I assumed that he was simply whining because he didn't want to run laps. SO, I helped him finish getting dressed since he can't maneuver his arm through his shirt and I got the girls ready to go.
First, I had to drop Dasha off at my parents' house so they could take her to her tutoring gig.
Next, I had to drop Annie off at the sitter's house.
Finally, I made it to school myself. Grant grumbled the entire way into the building so I asked one of the office staff their opinion of his situation. As she looked at his hand, her eyes bugged out and she quickly said that I needed to take him to the doctor and asked if she should get me a substitute. Crap. I told her to find me a sub for the second half of the day and I'd just get him an appointment at the pediatrician's office. Then, I sent Grant on to catch the bus for the day.
I dwelled on what to do. The pediatricians' office doesn't do x-rays so I knew they'd send us somewhere else to have that done anyway so I just chose to go to the Children's Healthcare Urgent Center. The problem was that I now had to make sure that I had plans that were good enough for a sub to follow for the remainder of the day AND I had to make sure I had everything together for tomorrow since I'd already planned to be out on Thursday for that parenting class. To say the least, I was majorly frazzled.
Somehow, I managed to get it all together and left the building around 11:30. I picked Grant up at school and headed to the doctor. When we signed in at 12:10, there was a ginormous sign that noted the wait time was between 90 and 120 minutes. Perfect-o. I love being coughed on by other people's children and watching them puke on themselves. I insisted that Grant and I take seats in a remote corner and act as if we were criminals trying to hide out. He willingly agreed and there we sat. And sat. And sat. And sat. I kept looking at the clock and doing the math. I had to be in car line to pick Dasha up no later than 3:20 in order to get her to the other side of town to pick up her new braces.
Finally, they called us back and the triage nurse checked him out and then stuck us in a room with Yo Gabba Gabba blaring. That might be soothing for a 3 year old but it was nothing shy of irritating to me. I'm convinced that the person that invented that show was high on something (even it was spray paint) when they created that mess.
Finally, the doctor came in and looked at Grant's hand. He abruptly called for the nurse to move us to the trauma room. This is where my major undoing began. The minute that doctor said, "Trauma room," my mind did a major rewind to November of 2004 when the doctor at Scottish Rite said the same thing to us about Ansley. (Mind you, I hadn't even been in the urgent care facility since I was there with Ansley. That was bad enough to keep remembering them trying to give her a nebulizer treatment and declare that she might have asthma). Anyway, I know that I turned three shades of white when the word "trauma" came out of the doctor's mouth. The only thing that might have saved me was that the doctor had a very thick Indian accent and "trauma" sounded something more like "traaamaaa."
While I was focused on keeping myself upright, I neglected to realize that Grant was about to lose it, as well. He didn't have any idea about my struggle. All he knew was that the doctor was acting like something was very wrong and he was scared. My enormous 11 year old giant of a child actually reached out for my hand and hid behind me. I wish I was kidding. I was like a car perched on a ledge ready to fall off the edge into oblivion. The only thing that was tethering me to the ground was Grant. I was trying so hard to act "normal." Do you know how much energy that takes? Trying to keep your feet on the ground, your guts in your stomach and off of the floor, and your mind focused on a foreign doctor's instruction is just about too much!
So, I'll spare you the gruesome details of the procedure that followed. If I hadn't already been in numb mode, I would have been out cold. Poor Grant. He was laying there on a gurney with a nurse readied to hold him down if I failed on my job and the doctor hovering over him. It's one thing to have a sick infant who can't verbalize their needs or feelings but to have a very alert and very verbal kid laying there like that... Memories that I thought I'd packed away for good came flying at me from every direction. What ifs started swirling around me. The looks and smells of that cramped little room just added to the situation.
Finally, the doctor proclaimed that he was done with the procedure and that he'd emptied the abscess. Oh, did I mention the actual problem? His hand was immobile due to the infection that had set in. I thought the swelling was from a sprain or even a broken bone but, nope, infection was the culprit.
Then, there were x-rays to confirm that the stick which punctured his hand had been completely removed and that all "foreign objects" had been cleared. When Grant heard the possibility of there being more stick left in the wound, he plopped down in the chair and the tears started. In his mind, he was already doing the what ifs. What do you say? Telling him that it won't hurt anymore is a stupid lie. I ended up saying all I could, "We'll figure it all out."
When the doctor proclaimed Grant's hand to be stick-free, he moved on to the next plausible catastrophe. He said that he was worried that the tendon might be infected. If that was the case, we'd have to go to the children's hospital and have a hand surgeon look at it. Nice. Did he have to say that in front of Grant? I surely didn't want to hear it but...
So, we were finally dismissed with a prescription for some massive antibiotics and strict directions about what to do with the wound. We'll have it rechecked on Friday to see if the swelling and redness have subsided. If not, I guess we'll be at the hospital. Please, no. I truly don't know if I could make it through that journey with Grant.
Obviously, I'm skipping details but at this point tonight, I think my brain is purposely blanking out some of the sights and smells as a defense mechanism.
I ended up dropping Grant off at mom's house and leaving him there while I rushed to the middle school to pick Dasha up for her doctor's appointment. I admit that I hit a low that I haven't had in a very long time along the way. I cried like I haven't cried in weeks. Grant is my baby. He's been through so much. Damn it! He doesn't deserve this! He watched his baby sister die. He turned off the dead-lined monitor that she was hooked to. He endures lots of trials with Dasha. He's lost his dad. And, now, to watch him lie on a bed shaking in pain... It's too much. The boy deserves nothing shy of a major vacation. I know he can be a royal pain in the butt. However, the what ifs that took hold of me standing in the trauma bay of the urgent care center all started morphing into very scary monsters. Those monsters overshadowed all of the stupid things Grant does to his sisters (and his clean laundry).
By the time I'd gotten into car line to pick Dasha up, I was grateful that I had a few minutes to get myself together.
The remainder of the evening was much less traumatic. However, my big fear has now become wondering if Grant would even tell me if he was having any of the signs of a severe tendon infection in an attempt to keep himself out of the hospital. I keep asking him how his hand feels. I'm not trying to be a ninny but I think I need to hear him say that it feels "fine" in order to keep some of the what if monsters behind their respective doors.
So, I'm heading to bed to collapse. I'm hoping that the what if monsters will hear my fervent prayers and go away and allow sleep to capture me for at least a few hours. Tomorrow, I have to get up and deliver the kids to their respective places and then deliver my own butt to the Marietta courthouse to listen to the million and one ways that divorce can screw up a kid and the million and one ways to make it all better. Hopefully, I can divert my seething aggravation to having to waste both my sick days and my money on this course. Why does someone else's crap become my inconvenience and my job to clean up? As I've said a million times, I would have NEVER thought this would have been the journey that I'd be on.
Tomorrow is another day.
Good night, all.
