Croup

Saturday morning, very early morning, I woke up to the tell-tale barking cough. It was Jack, sweet as a sick boy can be. I spent the wee hours with him holding me. Then Saturday, after all-day cape making, I came home to a sick little boy. After dinner, which he didn't eat, he was into his footie jammies and off to bed; winter hat on his head, bedroom window open, two blankets, and a humidifier. We were ready.

We weren't ready for a very panicked eight-year-old flipping on the bedroom light at midnight. I grabbed my balcony-sitting sweater and fleece lined slippers I had set by the door in anticipation of Jack's late night waking (yes, we do this often) and Sadie and I were out the door, while Evan got out the second humidifier and made a bed on our bedroom floor. We sat on the balcony for all of ten seconds when Sadie started to have what I call the drowning response. She was pulling at her clothes and pacing, arching her back in air hunger. I started talking to her, desperate to calm her down, she gasped out, "sing." But even singing was not calming her down.

We have grown accustomed to these late night battles for breath, but it doesn't change the fact that I don't understand it. Evan struggled the same way when he was young and he knows the feeling, but I haven't ever gone through this. My tendency is to say things like, "you have to calm down" or "slower, you have to breathe slower." I'm sure they want to scream at me; slower is irrelevant when you can't breathe hardly at all.

As I sit with Sadie in my arms on the balcony and look out at the dark street, I try to imagine my lungs inside my body. What would it feel like to have that space burning and tight. I don't really know, but I'm scared for my child. Sadie's whole body begins to shake and she is crying. She is so cold and yet she has a fever.

We go back inside and start a breathing treatment. It isn't helping. She panics at trying to breathe through the mouthpiece, she struggles in my arms. I let go and she exhales, "too...tight...it's...too...tight."

Two hours, three attempts at breathing treatments, two trips to the balcony, laying down, sitting up, pacing, crying, yelling, lashing, and I keep thinking, I don't want it to be cold and flu season. I don't want to go through this ever again, let alone for the next three to four months. I hate watching my kids suffer and doing it often doesn't make it any easier.

They are back now from insta-care and asking for toast. Appetite is a good sign, but how about a nap? Albuterol, Xopenex, and epinephrine do little to cause a child to sleep. Is 3 PM too early for bedtime?