The otolaryngologist (who would prove to always know best, every damn time) warned us about colds for Sammi, but we didn’t know what that meant. As a baby, Ronni had never had a cold. Not ever. We had no idea how a baby with a cold should sound or look. When we left that doctor’s office with a diagnosis, Sammi was 6 weeks old and I was on maternity leave. When I went back to work six weeks later, she still sounded like Darth Vader, but it was her normal.
I went back to work on a Monday, leaving her at day care for the first time. My plan was to work from home two days a week and have our girls home with a sitter one day a week, leaving them in day care just two days per week. I was home Tuesday. They went to daycare Wednesday. The sitter came on Thursday. I came home on Thursday evening and could hear Sammi’s breathing when the door opened, and she was three rooms away.
She hadn’t wanted to take the afternoon bottle I’d left with the sitter. She was breathing louder, and faster, Darth Vader on a treadmill. She smelled like spit-up, though she had not actually spit up anything. After several hours of worrying, our fear overcame my discomfort with asking for help.
I knocked on the door of our neighbor, a nurse practitioner. When she answered, I hung my head and asked, “Can you come over and tell us if we should take Sammi to the ER?”
Now I knew a word I could use, a powerful sword to brandish at triage nurses. It gave me the power, every time I had to take her to the ER, to command a position at the front of the line, a quick path to the oxygen mask and the steroid shot. It got the job done: “I have a three month old baby whose chest is retracting. We need to see a doctor right away.”
“I have a five month old baby whose chest is retracting.”
“I have a one year old baby whose chest is retracting.”
What I didn’t have was the knowledge that a bronchoscopy and a laryngoscopy were two different tests. The question we got in the ER, time after time, was “has she been scoped?” I said yes, but that wasn’t what they meant, and the difference would turn out to be monumentally important.
What I knew made everything scary.
What I didn’t know made everything scary, too.