I'm lucky. I know this. I had a blog all set to be written, on my daughter Riley's third birthday, about HELLP Syndrome, and her crazy birth story that almost cost both of us our lives. It was about how I couldn't hold her for the first 4 hours, because she was in the NICU and I was being worked on, attached to restraints in case I had a seizure, and injected with medicine to make sure I didn't seize, and didn't throw up. About how my mom came and held my hand before I could hold my daughter, and how it felt to realize what an incredible bond you share with your children, long before they will ever realize it. About how I had to see my daughter for the first time post-C-section in the dark, because I wasn't allowed to have any lights on, and how I was able to make out her perfect little face in the glow from the hallway lights.
I'm going to write that one, but it's not going to be today- on a side note, though the beginning was iffy, we're both strong, and healthy, and I'm grateful (which, mind you, seems a completely inadequate word in this situation).
This week, though, I was reminded again, almost three years to the day, just how lucky we are. The scariest moments in life often come out of the most mundane days. I remember this from September 11th, and from the night my dad died. And now, for a random Wednesday, lying in the bed, covered in a Lightning McQueen comforter. I was trying to relax and get a few minutes of sleep while my kids played in the other room with my husband, when I was vaguely aware of my three year old climbing over the edge of the bed, and onto my back.
"Mommy," she whispered. "Mommy, my eyes hurt. Blow on them."
This is pretty normal. Any boo boo, any scratch on her arm, or soreness from bumping into something, mommy blows on it and everything is okay. I sighed, knowing this is more often than not just a need for attention in this crazy hectic world. In the darkened room, I opened my eyes, intending to blow into Riley's. And then I saw them. Or more importantly, I DIDN'T see them.
Her eyelids were so swollen, I couldn't see the normally bright blue eyes of my daughter. Her cheeks were puffy, and even in the slight light coming in from the hallway, I could tell her skin was pinker than usual. I grabbed her as I swung my legs out of bed, and hit the floor, literally running. My dogs lifted their head, in case I had food on me, and my husband looked up from his computer screen as I, with all the calmness of Peyton Manning in a two minute offense, said "She's having an allergic reaction. We're going to Valley."
I grabbed my purse and keys from the pile of papers and mail on the counter, and swung myself towards the door as Jeff called out, "Wait- I'll get Ella and we'll-"
I cut him off. "There's no time. If this is what I think this is, I need her in the ER NOW."
I threw Riley into the carseat and probably resembled Danica Patrick more than a soccer mom as I maneuvered through the back streets of Ridgewood on the way to the hospital. "Riley, sing 'The Wheels on the Bus,'" I encouraged, trying to gauge if she was having any problems breathing or speaking.
"No mommy, ABC's." In the middle of utter terror, I laughed at my daughter's obstinence, noting that one, she seemed to be breathing, and two, that even in the most dire of circumstances, it's nice to know she is little miss bossypants.
I passed at least one person in an SUV who was kind enough to pull over through a double yellow line, and went through a no turn on red at the light by the hospital, careening into Valley, and silently thanking them for having valet service. I grabbed Riley out of the car seat, and ran through the doors that opened with a whoosh.
There was someone ahead of me, giving his name and information, but the nurse off to the side took one look at my daughter, and said "Allergic reaction?"
"I think so," I said, grateful that she, in one motion, opened the door, and ushered us through to the pediatric ward on the right.
"I need a room," she stated, not so much a question, but a "don't mess with me" statement.
"Well, this one is available now, but w-"
"Get me a doctor- allergic reaction," my new best friend said as I followed her past a curtain and into the small room, smoothing my daughter's hair the whole time, and kissing the top of her head.
I was amazed to see the number of people who appeared within seconds. There was a nurse with a dark, loose ponytail, holding a syringe in her hand, and a small bottle. There was another woman, with a fairer complexion, hooking my daughter up to the blood pressure machine, and placing a little gripper on Riley's tiny finger to check her oxygen intake. The third woman, who I am assuming was a doctor, made a game out of checking Riley's other vitals. She asked, "can you open you mouth big?"
I finished with a silly rhyme I knew Riley would recognize "...and wide. Where's your tongue? It hides inside!"
On cue, she stuck out her tongue, opening her mouth wide enough that the doctor could see her perfectly shaped little uvula.
"Good news- her airway is clear," she nodded to me, smiling. Then, she turned to the nurse holding the syringe. "No epipen, but give her 10 mL of prednisone, and 6mL of Benedryl, and let's see if that works. Let's try it orally- I don't think we need an IV."
I held Riley's hand, which seemed so tiny all of a sudden, and as the frenetic pace around us slowed to a more manageable one, I breathed for the first time since I'd seen Riley's swollen face. I know the dangers of allergic reactions, having had an uncle who almost lost a battle to a peanut when he was a child, and a pecan pie later in life. The doctor and nurses continued to check her out, noting the blotchy, raised hives taking over he belly, legs, and arms, while I answered questions at length about our family history of allergies, our health insurance, and Riley's food intake that day.
After about 15 minutes, we started to see the hives go down, and Riley's eyes were finally visible at the half hour mark. She was tired from the Benedryl, and by the time Jeff arrived with Ella (I'd been unable to get texts through to him), she was fast asleep with me curled protectively around her on the little child sized stretcher. She felt tinier in that moment, delicate, and as precious as she had when I'd held her for the first time. Three years, almost to the day, and I wasn't about to let her out of my sight, or out of my arms.
