A Teeny Tiny Broken Femur
I follow an Instagram mom with three kids. Two of her kids have Down Syndrome and the sweet Instagram mainly centers on them. As I was scrolling through instagram one day I saw one of her little girls in what seemed like the worst possible predicament for a little kid: a cast that seemed to separate her legs and confine her to an immobile life. "How does she live like that? How does the mom keep her entertained? What do they do all day?" I thought about little Mateo and said a quick prayer of thankfulness that he doesn't have Hip Displasia and that we would never have to worry about that cumbersome cast.
Fast forward a few months, I'm living in my own fear now, trying to make the best of it.
While walking to church, my ankle gave out and unfortunately I was carrying Mateo. It happened in a split second and luckily I held on to his head and back, but somehow he still landed on his knee/thigh. Once we realized he wasn't crying because of a small scrape and he couldn't bear any weight on his leg, we took him to the hospital.
The first hospital stay itself was awful.
When we got there I was full of hope that they would just overcharge us for an "ER" entry that wasn't really an emergency. Then they came in with a large X-Ray machine, asked me to step out, gave Joe an apron-like thing. They told him to hold baby Mateo down while they took the x-rays. Mateo was his calm self, obviously in pain, but taking it all in.
"We'll be back in just a few minutes" they said pushing the scary machine away. I asked them what a few minutes meant and they said about an hour. "That's not a few minutes" I said, quite rudely.
It was now past bedtime (I'm a stickler for his sleep so this gave me anxiety). He hadn't eaten in a few hours and they weren't letting me feed him, just in case he would need surgery. I was so angry. My baby was in pain and hungry and I couldn't feed him. Luckily he snuggled up on Joe's chest and slept for a while, possibly 30-40 minutes, before they came in to tell us the bone was indeed broken.
Once they knew it was broken they told us it was just a small fracture, they'd have to put a small cast on his tiny leg for about 4-6 weeks. They'd have to transfer us to the Children's Hospital first, however, so that the orthopedic pediatric surgeon could perform the procedure. As we realized we'd have to take an ambulance because that was protocol, I was ridden with more guilt. Joe had wanted to go straight to the Children's hospital but I had said it was too far away. Half because I didn't want to admit I knew the bone had broken, half because I just wanted the ordeal to go away.
Luckily they told us the procedure wouldn't be until the next morning, so I could feed him before the ambulance was ready for us. Again they said a 'few minutes' when they meant 30-45 minutes.
Every nurse, PA, doctor, (even the paramedics) that saw us asked us what happened. Every single time I swallowed my pride and told them my ankle had given out when I was holding him. I hadn't been able to protect him, flashed in my head every single time. I told Joe I knew why everyone was asking: when an infant breaks a bone they HAVE to call CPS. I am glad that's protocol. Hopefully because of this they can help out a child who is neglected or abused. That made it a little easier not to yell "I JUST TOLD THEM! I MESSED UP, OKAY?"
Mateo was his normal chill self, just crying out in pain when his leg moved. He seemed to love the ambulance and just looked around calmly, strapped into a huge board.
Once we arrived at the second hospital I don't remember many specifics: it's honestly a very blurry mix of crying for me. At some point they admitted us into a room in Emergency Care, stabbed his tiny hands to get the IV in him, wrapped his teeny leg to immobilize it, and told us to wait a million times. We were lucky we had some good nurses, but one specific one angered me.
Poor guy was the one that told us we had to put him in a Spica Cast. At the first hospital they'd just said a small cast. Now he told us Mateo would have to be put under general anesthesia to get a Spica Cast in an OR by a "very good" orthopedic surgeon. "Both legs will be casted," he said, "with a bar at the bottom, for immobilization." Shots of the Instagram kid came to my mind. Oh no.
Joe and I both cried and were so angry. This was not what they had told us.
He then told me we couldn't feed him because he can't eat before surgery.
"I understand he can't eat six hours before surgery, but do you know around what time the surgery will be so I can feed him before we hit that mark?"
"Well the reason you can't feed him 6 hours before surgery is because...." he explained for the umpteenth time WHY we couldn't feed him, but not WHEN I COULD.
"Yes, but do you know around what time?"
"Well it will be in the morning but we just don't know when the doctor will do the surgery."
"Do you think we could possibly ask the doctor?"
At least that's how I remember parts of the conversation. I was trying so hard not to yell at him, "I don't want to know what time the surgery is just to get to the ball game, I need to know so I can feed my hurt child!"
I really don't remember everything. Luckily our little Dallas troop arrived (my mom, Lau, and Kevin) and they brought food and little gifts. I couldn't eat anything, but having them there cheered us all up.
A nurse came back and told us the surgery was scheduled for 7:30am, so we could feed him before it hit the 6 hour mark. My mom had thought to bring a bottle and formula thank goodness, so I more than eagerly fed him.
A few hours later the Dallas troop left and we just waited in that room, trying to get Mateo to sleep. He was exhausted, so he kept on falling asleep. Unfortunately the Heart Rate monitor would beep every so often, or he would jerk in his sleep and wake up in extreme pain from his leg... it was a miserable hour or so for all three of us. Finally at 1am they took us to another building where they were able to turn off the machine sounds and give Mateo more morphine.
Joe and I shared a tiny sofa-bed: we had to bend our knees to fit on it. Obviously neither one of us even thought to complain of how uncomfortable we were- our baby boy was writhing in pain and waking up every 30-60 minutes screaming. Luckily we could call the nurse every so often to ask them to give him more morphine, and this would calm him down and let him sleep for a few minutes.
After the longest night of my life, a nurse came in at 7 am turning on all the lights and loudly telling us we had to get down to the OR.
Fast forward a few months, I'm living in my own fear now, trying to make the best of it.
While walking to church, my ankle gave out and unfortunately I was carrying Mateo. It happened in a split second and luckily I held on to his head and back, but somehow he still landed on his knee/thigh. Once we realized he wasn't crying because of a small scrape and he couldn't bear any weight on his leg, we took him to the hospital.
The first hospital stay itself was awful.
When we got there I was full of hope that they would just overcharge us for an "ER" entry that wasn't really an emergency. Then they came in with a large X-Ray machine, asked me to step out, gave Joe an apron-like thing. They told him to hold baby Mateo down while they took the x-rays. Mateo was his calm self, obviously in pain, but taking it all in.
"We'll be back in just a few minutes" they said pushing the scary machine away. I asked them what a few minutes meant and they said about an hour. "That's not a few minutes" I said, quite rudely.
It was now past bedtime (I'm a stickler for his sleep so this gave me anxiety). He hadn't eaten in a few hours and they weren't letting me feed him, just in case he would need surgery. I was so angry. My baby was in pain and hungry and I couldn't feed him. Luckily he snuggled up on Joe's chest and slept for a while, possibly 30-40 minutes, before they came in to tell us the bone was indeed broken.
Once they knew it was broken they told us it was just a small fracture, they'd have to put a small cast on his tiny leg for about 4-6 weeks. They'd have to transfer us to the Children's Hospital first, however, so that the orthopedic pediatric surgeon could perform the procedure. As we realized we'd have to take an ambulance because that was protocol, I was ridden with more guilt. Joe had wanted to go straight to the Children's hospital but I had said it was too far away. Half because I didn't want to admit I knew the bone had broken, half because I just wanted the ordeal to go away.
Luckily they told us the procedure wouldn't be until the next morning, so I could feed him before the ambulance was ready for us. Again they said a 'few minutes' when they meant 30-45 minutes.
Every nurse, PA, doctor, (even the paramedics) that saw us asked us what happened. Every single time I swallowed my pride and told them my ankle had given out when I was holding him. I hadn't been able to protect him, flashed in my head every single time. I told Joe I knew why everyone was asking: when an infant breaks a bone they HAVE to call CPS. I am glad that's protocol. Hopefully because of this they can help out a child who is neglected or abused. That made it a little easier not to yell "I JUST TOLD THEM! I MESSED UP, OKAY?"
Mateo was his normal chill self, just crying out in pain when his leg moved. He seemed to love the ambulance and just looked around calmly, strapped into a huge board.
Once we arrived at the second hospital I don't remember many specifics: it's honestly a very blurry mix of crying for me. At some point they admitted us into a room in Emergency Care, stabbed his tiny hands to get the IV in him, wrapped his teeny leg to immobilize it, and told us to wait a million times. We were lucky we had some good nurses, but one specific one angered me.
Poor guy was the one that told us we had to put him in a Spica Cast. At the first hospital they'd just said a small cast. Now he told us Mateo would have to be put under general anesthesia to get a Spica Cast in an OR by a "very good" orthopedic surgeon. "Both legs will be casted," he said, "with a bar at the bottom, for immobilization." Shots of the Instagram kid came to my mind. Oh no.
Joe and I both cried and were so angry. This was not what they had told us.
He then told me we couldn't feed him because he can't eat before surgery.
"I understand he can't eat six hours before surgery, but do you know around what time the surgery will be so I can feed him before we hit that mark?"
"Well the reason you can't feed him 6 hours before surgery is because...." he explained for the umpteenth time WHY we couldn't feed him, but not WHEN I COULD.
"Yes, but do you know around what time?"
"Well it will be in the morning but we just don't know when the doctor will do the surgery."
"Do you think we could possibly ask the doctor?"
At least that's how I remember parts of the conversation. I was trying so hard not to yell at him, "I don't want to know what time the surgery is just to get to the ball game, I need to know so I can feed my hurt child!"
I really don't remember everything. Luckily our little Dallas troop arrived (my mom, Lau, and Kevin) and they brought food and little gifts. I couldn't eat anything, but having them there cheered us all up.
A nurse came back and told us the surgery was scheduled for 7:30am, so we could feed him before it hit the 6 hour mark. My mom had thought to bring a bottle and formula thank goodness, so I more than eagerly fed him.
A few hours later the Dallas troop left and we just waited in that room, trying to get Mateo to sleep. He was exhausted, so he kept on falling asleep. Unfortunately the Heart Rate monitor would beep every so often, or he would jerk in his sleep and wake up in extreme pain from his leg... it was a miserable hour or so for all three of us. Finally at 1am they took us to another building where they were able to turn off the machine sounds and give Mateo more morphine.
Joe and I shared a tiny sofa-bed: we had to bend our knees to fit on it. Obviously neither one of us even thought to complain of how uncomfortable we were- our baby boy was writhing in pain and waking up every 30-60 minutes screaming. Luckily we could call the nurse every so often to ask them to give him more morphine, and this would calm him down and let him sleep for a few minutes.
After the longest night of my life, a nurse came in at 7 am turning on all the lights and loudly telling us we had to get down to the OR.
Comentarios
Publicar un comentario