I won’t go into the trillions of tiny, messed-up details about his experience here. It’s been terrible. I left work early to meet them in the ER. This is how Darth Branko looked when I arrived:
I’m not going to write a stupid, redundant post called “Top 10 Things You Didn’t Know About Baby Pneumonia” or “20 Things to NEVER do with a Nebulizer”. I could, however, write and write and write about what you shouldn’t do to cope when your baby is in the hospital: shots, McDonalds, yelling at husband, listening in on other parents’ conversations in order to gage how bad things really are for you, etc. In other words, I have no actual useful pieces of information. I was a complete mess for the first twenty-four hours. I was showing signs of extreme anxiety, I couldn’t be in the room with Branko without weeping, and all I could think about were the worst possible scenarios.
And then, just as quickly as all the bad news seemed to come, a handsome Irish doctor (husband’s words, not mine) decided to give us a tiny little nanolitre of hope. He wanted to try a different method of treatment, which involved, well, stopping the current treatment. He wanted to discontinue using almost all of Branko’s asthma meds — because he believes that Branko doesn’t actually have asthma. Please note: I’m not suggesting using your kid’s medicine as kindling. We are now into our 5th or 6th hour of our ‘non-treatment’ and, right now, Branko is sleeping. SLEEPING. He hasn’t done that in weeks. We are taking it as a good sign. I suppose the point of this tale is to wait. Be patient. Don’t expect the worst possible scenario, even if you have this ‘feeling’ that something is dreadfully wrong. (Those ‘gut feelings’ are just a mish mash of residual fear from other past shitty things that have happened. Also: Jim Henson’s death was atypical!!) And lastly, when the going gets tough, try to believe in the power of handsome Irish doctors.