As I gaze at my beautiful son sleeping peacefully on the sofa, I am grateful, thankful, and brought to tears. You see, my beautiful son has not slept peacefully in over a week. His precious little body has been wrought with pain and fear. He has been fighting his own war, refusing time and time again to give up, only to find his tiny little feet taking steps backward rather than forward.
Logan became sick with the "flu" on August 13th while on vacation. After 18 hours of throwing up, we thought he was on the mend only to find him once again throwing up the following afternoon. "The tail end of the flu" we assumed and continued to load the car up and return home.
Logan slept reasonably well at home that night and awoke Friday in a chipper, cheerful mood. He was ready to face the world the only way he knew how...head on! Seems the powers that be had other things in mind, however. After wreaking havoc on his upper digestive tract, the virus decided to migrate south and play it's nasty games. Over the next day and a-half, he went through enough diapers to last him a lifetime.
All was well from Saturday evening to Sunday evening. Logan seemed a little tired, but that was to be expected after the battle he had just fought, and, assumingly won. I packed him up in the car for a trip to the grocery store, a trip that was long overdue and not meant to be. As soon as I got him buckled in and sat myself down in the driver's seat, I heard the all-too-familiar wretching followed by the fear-filled cry. "Please God, don't let it be what I think it is" knowing all to well that it was. Once again, the groceries would have to wait.
The process continued in the same pattern as before. Throw up, go to bed, wake up, all is well...I was certain that this time was to be the last. After all, he was eating, drinking, and keeping it down throughout the day. What is it they say about "assuming?" Uh huh, you remember. At 6:15 p.m. on Monday August 18th, I got a call from Papa. Logan had thrown up. I called his pediatrician's office and got him in immediately. After looking Logan over, the doctor informed me that he was mildly dehydrated. Before sending him for IV hydration, he wanted to give Logan the chance to recover on his own since he was only "mildly" dehydrated. Take him home and give him small amounts of Gatorade every 5-10 minutes. If he kept the liquids down, had a good pee-pee overnight, and no vomiting, chances were he was recovering. If he started to vomit again, he would need to be seen at the clinic or, if it was after-hours, at the Emergency Department.
I took my little man home hopeful that he would do fine. He laid down on the sofa at 5:00 p.m. and fell asleep. At 9:00 p.m., the sound of pitter-pattering feet down the hall brought a smile to my face. My precious boy was finally awake. "Well hello my sweet boy" was met with a scene straight from The Exorcist. In my 42 years, I have never seen the amount of vomit I had just witnessed erupting from my son's mouth - over and over. At that moment, I felt a fear that I had never imagined possible. What's wrong with my child? This can't be normal. I called Gippy, cleaned up my son and the mess, and we headed for the Emergency Department. After the standard three-hour wait, a $50 anti-nausea drug placed under the tongue, and half a glass of apple juice, we were sent home with (ta-da) a diagnosis of the flu. I questioned the doctor about hydrating Logan but he said it really wasn't necessary. "He isn't too bad" and "the anti-nausea pill should help" were the only words of advice we were given. Guess what buddy, Mom's not buyin' it!
I called Logan's pediatrician Wednesday morning and an appointment was made. Just as I had suspected, he was now moderately dehydrated and had lost another half pound. His color was ashen and pale, he had dark circles under his eyes, and the veins in his upper eyelids were very apparent. Orders were written for Logan to be admitted to the hospital for IV rehydration, a process that would consist of one bag of normal saline, one bag of dextrose, one bag of sodium, and one bag of potassium, as well as an overnight stay. Throughout the night, Logan's tummy would become distended and hard with no apparent bowel sounds, a sign that the digestive system was not doing what it was supposed to. Watching my little boy grimace in pain and cry what minimal tears he had left, broke my heart. I am his mommy, I am supposed to protect him and keep him from harm and pain. This, however, was not in my control. There was nothing I could do but hold and rock my precious gift.
Logan improved tremendously throughout the night. He was taken off solid food until his tummy settled down and was placed on a BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) diet at the time of discharge Thursday afternoon. He has been eating well and keeping it down. He is slowly returning to the Gatorade but is just a little hesitant. He has been asleep for a little over two hours. I find myself once again praying that all-too-familiar prayer, "Please God, let my angel be okay when he wakes up."
I am so proud of my brave little boy. He has been through so much in the last week: doctors, nurses, pokes, prods, needles, and unfamiliar environments. He fought the enemy so hard and, in the end, won a great battle. He is my little hero. And the nasty, unrelenting enemy he was figthing was finally given a name...
ROTAVIRUS
I have never derived such joy from cleaning out closets as I did today. I started with Logan's as it was time to prune out the summer clothes and bring in the fall. I always become very sentimental when cleaning his things out. It just signifies that my little baby is growing up - and much, much too fast at that. I suppose that hanging on to his "baby things" will keep a part of that memory alive. The memories, however, are kept safe in my heart. The "baby things" only contribute to cluttering his closet. Sooo...on with the pruning. 
