Owen's First Cat Scan and Our First Encounter With Social Services

I am playing with Owen on the floor when Mitch comes home.  He picks Owen up and says, "What's this bump on his head?"  "What bump?"  I ask, because I did not notice any bump.  To be fair to me, Owen has a very large head with fabulous contours so a bump is not easily noticeable.  He is in fact 97 percentile in head size and 25% in height and weight.  Having a rather large head myself, I'm glad they stop measuring heads at some point in your life.

I take Owen back from Mitch to examine his head.  There is in fact a LARGE bump on his head, that is soft and squishy to the touch, much like it is filled with blood.  I have no idea how this happened.  Turns out Mitch does.  Apparently they were playing while we were on vacation in Palm Springs and Owen wiggled out of his arms and smacked his head on the marble counter top in the bathroom.  He cried for about five minutes and then seemed fine so Mitch forgot about it and moved on.  Part of me wants to zero in on the fact that head injuries really should be mentioned even if they seem to be minor but that's a conversation for later. For now I have other priorities so I do what any mother would do here - freak out.

I call my sister and ask her if she has any advice.  My sister works in a hospital so I assume she knows all things medical though she is in fact not a doctor.  Well, she is a doctor but in bio-medical engineering and medical physics which does not give her the knowledge to tell me if my son is about to die from a bump on his head.  She also has two kids which gives her an edge.  She does her best to help me regain calm. (see how handy it is) though it does not work that well.  I debate with Mitch what I should do.  He thinks Owen seems fine so I might as well wait until Owen's doctor appointment which happens to be tomorrow.  I then do what one should not do - Google.  I go onto Dr. Sears's site because I figure if I am going to go to the internet for research I should at least narrow my fear scope.  I don't want to end up with someone's personal diary about the demise of their child.  Under head injuries, it says that hematomas can develop up to 4 days after an injury which is about what it is now.  It also says a few more things that lead me to call Owen's doctor right away.

Since it is night time, I have to leave a message with the service who then relays it to Owen's doctor who calls me back in about two minutes.  After my explanation she asks where the bump is.  I tell her, an inch above the ear.  "Go to the ER," she says.  "Anywhere else I would say, don't worry about it, but in that area we always send people.  There are some major arteries there and it. . "  Well the rest of it does not really matter because I start to pack a bag while I am still on the phone.  I add extra diapers, a jacket, and our un-eaten take out dinner, Vietnamese sandwiches and two ears of corn covered in coconut-mayo dressing.   Then we go out to catch a cab.  We debate if we should take the car seat and stroller but I can't imagine trying to maneuver in it around a crowded ER.  Also, it is raining and it's easier just to put him in the Ergo carrier and go.

We go out to the street and of course there are no cabs to be found.  I stand staring at St. Vincent's Hospital which is about a block away and stands dark and shuttered in the rain.  It has been empty for over a year and there is no hospital in our neighborhood anymore.  It makes me angry that we could have already been in the ER when I am still trying to flag down a cab.  I watch cab after cab go by until finally one stops.

between the rain, the traffic, and my growing fear, the ride to the hospital takes forever.  When the cab driver drops off off, I think I tip him 50% on the ride.  I am so thankful he stopped and it seems like good karma somehow to tip a lot on your way into the hospital to make sure your baby is okay.

When we go in, we realize we are dropped off at the wrong location.  Right hospital but it is not the ER wing. We ask for the ER and the man near the front desk asks, "Is it for the baby?"  "Yes," I say, and before I can move, he starts whisking us through an elaborate series of corridors, elevators and back ways until we somehow wind up in the ER.  I am thankful enough to kiss him but it also terrifies me somehow, as if there is more urgency than I thought.

Soon enough we get to the ER and my first thought is that if my son does not have a skull fracture that he might still leave with a disease.  All of the seats are taken and no one offers their seat.  I guess this makes sense because no one chooses to be at the ER at 8:00 on a rainy Tuesday evening.  Still, there are a few people who look like they could have waited.  I once gave up my seat in a clinic for a women with a baby when I had cut half my finger off with a cuisinart. . of course she didn't take it.  Probably because I had already bled on it but still.

Good news is we don't actually have to wait that long.  Long enough that we do get a seat and solve a puzzle or two on Wheel of Fortune which is comforting because this is actually what we would be doing at home.  Except at home we would be eating our Bahn-Mi sandwiches but there is something about the thought about pulling out a pork belly sandwich in an ER that makes me want to remain very very very hungry.

At some point, they call our name and we move from one room to another, to another.  People ask us what happened, we tell them.  They take his vitals, which appear to be fine.  They examine his head, which appears to not be fine. Still, the doctor does not think anything is really wrong, or is this the impression I get.  We are moved from a room to a little curtained partition, basically a curtain around a bed.  There is barely room for the three of us in there when two of us are on the bed.  I think how different this looks from all the ER shows.  A camera couldn't even follow someone in the lane in front of us.  Mitch and I are getting hungry but still not desperate enough to eat while the woman in the curtain next door is speaking about bed pans and blood samples.  Finally the doctor comes back in and says after talking to my pediatrician, they think that we need to have a cat scan to make sure there is no fracture and/or internal bleeding.

When they are ready to us, we take Owen over to the cat scan machine.  As we wait in the hallway outside of the cat scan room, I slump against the wall and start to cry. I can not imagine my little baby in that big machine.  I had a cat scan once and had to meditate through the whole process because it was so intimidating,  and now my poor little guy is going to be there all by himself.  I think I mutter something like, "my baby, not my little baby."  Mitch tries to comfort me and I have only one moment where I want to blame him, to say something awful but inside I know that nothing I say will bring me any comfort and it will just always be out there in space so I let him hug Owen and I in a tight little circle.

They won't let me stay in the room.  They wrap Owen in a lead swaddle and drape an apron over Mitch. Mitch holds a pacifier in Owen's mouth who is oddly, not crying.  In fact he seems to be the calmest he has been since he was born. I, on the other hand, am held together by dissolving stitches.  I stand outside of the room and cry again.

It is over in seconds. Then there is more waiting.

Finally the doctor comes back.  The fact that it takes so long gives me a sense of relief.  I assume if there was really something wrong with him that people would come faster.  Dr. H comes back and tells us that Owen does indeed have a skull fracture.  A hairline fracture running horizontally across his skull.  "Their heads are basically like eggshells," he tell us, "these are really very common. It should heal with no problem."

I am still trying to process that he has a skull fracture.  The good news is there is no bleeding inside the brain, nothing requiring surgery.  But before they let us go, they want us to wait for a neuro-surgeon consultation.  I think it is at this point we eat our sandwiches.  We still can't stomach the corn on the cob.

I call my mom and dad.  I update a group of mom friends on line and read with comfort their responses and prayer, wishes for Owen to be okay.  Most of them, I only know from online but they are the only friends I reach out to right now.  Well, them, and two friends in Brooklyn who I ask to say a prayer for us.  I am not really an ask for prayers person but I do it and I know they are the type of people who will actually pray for Owen and it feels good.

I go to the bathroom more to just get away for a moment than for anything else.  I get lost and end up somewhere I shouldn't be but I find a cleaner bathroom.  When I come back, I see a man standing in front of Mitch asking questions.  When I get closer I can see that he has a clipboard that says social services.

I walk up and say hello and he sort of smiles back at me.  And then he asks me why it took me so long to bring my child into the ER.  I ask him what he means and he says, "Why did it take you four days to seek treatment?"  My mind starts racing because the implication seems to be that a good parent would not have taken this long.  I stay calm though and answer that he had no symptoms before then.  I want to sound like a responsible parent without seeming like I am trying to sound like a responsible parent which is what I would be doing if I was not a responsible parent.  It feels like trying to tell someone you are not drunk when you are in fact not drunk but people think you are drunk.  I go for the approach that any Law and Order episode would teach you - give the facts but don't go out of your way to explain why you are innocent.  "As soon as we noticed the swelling, I called my pedicatrician,"  I say, pointing out how I immediately sought a professional opinion.  "We have our 6 month check-up tomorrow," I say, "but I was too worried to wait, so I wanted to ask her if I should go to the ER."  I hope this also points out that we indeed have regular appointments.  I want to say, " I AM A GOOD MOM! I TOOK HIM TO THE ER WITH A COLD LAST WEEK.  I ROCK HIM WHEN HE CRIES AND CRIES AND FEED HIM AND LOVE HIM AND SING TO HIM AND KISS HIM AND BREASTFEED AND CO-SLEEP AND GO TO MOMMY AND ME YOGA AND THE PARK AND EVEN EAT ORGANIC BERRIES SO NOTHING GETS IN MY MILK AND I LOVE MY BABY AND I MAY SING ABOUT SHAKING MY BABY BUT I NEVER EVER EVER HAVE"  but I figure this makes me seem a little crazy.

Social Services man asks more questions.  He asks what we do for work and I say I am out of work and then immediately think I should have just said I am a stay at home mom because out of work people are probably more stressed and . . . breathe, breathe.  He asks what I did before that.  I make my job sound very intellectual and professional.  I am very calm and succinct on the outside.  Inside I am still a lunatic.  He asks if Owen has had any injuries before.  I say, "No," then inside of my head think.  SHIT THAT'S A LIE.  MITCH FELL WITH HIM BEFORE BUT THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL TOTALLY AN ACCIDENT BUT YOU WOULD THINK TWO TIMES IS NOT AND EVEN MY ANGRY MOMMY SELF KNOWS MITCH IS THE BEST DADDY IN THE WORLD AND WE LOVE OUR BABY AND GO AWAY PEOPLE PLEASE  Finally he does go away.

Finally neuro-surgeon people get out of their surgery, come by and do a few tests on Owen and then say they think he will be fine.  Social Services man is with them and listens as neurosurgeon man asks a lot of the same questions about our jobs, our lives, etc.  I wonders if Social Services man thinks we will confess something else to the doctor that we would not to him.  I do have to say the doctor is pretty slick about it and if I had anything to spill, I might.  Something about the way he asks questions, while examining Owen, as if they were just chit-chat, like, "It's a rainy night huh?  Well, he seems to have equal reactions bi-laterally which is a good sign? What do you do for a living?  So, do you often throw your kid against the wall?"

Finally, he leaves.  Dr. H comes back again, sets us up with a follow-up appointment with the neuro-surgeon to make sure Owen's skull has healed and finally we pack up to go home.   Dr. H is great.  He is calm, he smiles, laughs, assures us that Owen will still be a genius if he would have been a genius in the first place.  Our nurse is wonderful too.

My dad has come to drive us home and it is a blessed relief to climb into his car instead of trying to hail a cab home.  I am exhausted, physically and mentally but so, so happy to be going home with my family all in one piece, even of some of the pieces, mental and physical will take a little time to heal completely.

Why You Don't Take A Baby on Vacation When It is 115

We were headed to Palm Springs for a friend's 40th birthday party and were already having misgivings about going.  When we booked this trip we neglected to look up the weather and a few days ago learned it would be roughly 118 degrees with a low of 104.  Still, the trip was starting out better than our last one where we almost missed our flight.  We were at the airport early enough to buy water and coffee and change a diaper so things were looking good.  I had recently bought Owen a small maraca and while we were waiting to board I was shaking it for him and dancing around singing, "Shake, shake, shake.  Shake, shake, shake, shaker your baby, shake your baby," to the tune of 'shake your booty.'  

"You can't do that," my husband said to me, appalled.  "To Child Protective Services, that's the equivalent of making a bomb threat in the airport."  I wanted to point out that we were in an airport and he had just said bomb threat but I am trying to be nicer.  I did point out that I highly doubted that there were undercover CPS agents casing the waiting area by the gate and I'm also pretty sure that the people who do in fact shake their babies don't sing about before they do it.  They more likely do it in a fit of rage or frustration much like I experienced four months ago.  (For anyone who did not read that post  I DID NOT EVER SHAKE MY BABY.  I just wanted to.)

But stopped shaking the maraca and singing.  Not to be nice but because I am as easily bored by myself as Owen is and it was also time to board.  Owen was actually great on the plane.  Our second leg, a short jaunt from Vegas to Palm Springs was a little anxiety producing. The plane was roughly the size of a Smart Car and our ride felt like we were on the Spin Cycle of a washing machine from 1930.  I was pretty sure that holding Owen in my lap was a bad idea because at every other bump I was pretty sure the man in front of me was going to end up catching him, or dropping him.  I kept watching the flight attendant's face for panic (which is a trick a pilot friend of mine taught me - don't worry until you see fear in their eyes) but she seemed calm so I tried to remain calm.  (As an aside, I am bothered by the fact that usually when people say 'remain calm' that they are no longer calm.  People should really say 'regain calm'.   But that's a different blog.)   So, I regained calm, we landed safely and I thought the worst of the journey was over.

That's when I got off the plane and stepped into an oven - at 11:00 AM.

It was at this moment that I realized that this trip was going to be a challenge.  I don't really enjoy heat - even this it's not really as hot because there is no humidity stop lying to me it's still 119 heat.'  But Owen enjoys heat even less than I do.  Maybe because at 15 pounds and existing entirely on breast milk and the occasional spoon of banana, he can de-hydrate about as fast as a puddle in the Sahara.  And he has skin just slightly paler than the skin of my Albino sister-in-law's 1 year old. That's right - I said paler.

But, after almost having a meltdown while we waited an hour and a half for the hotel to get our room ready, I regained calm once I go into the air conditioning of our room - and there we stayed until the sun went down and it cooled off to a frigid 108.  Then finally we ventured out to meet our friends.

Aside from us, only one other couple had a kid and he was a hearty four year old who could survive without things like naps and an air-conditioned hut.  So for everyone else, the poolside misters, shade, and frozen alcoholic drinks made it easy to hang out for most of the day.  (Okay not easy - a lot of people gave up at 1:00 and headed for the safety of their rooms - but easier)  But for us, our schedule was very different.  We were out by the pool at about 7 AM where we got to go swimming until 9:00 and then we went back to the hotel room where Mitch and I basically took turns watching Owen while the other person went out.   It made for a hard vacation.

One day, we went with a few other folks to ride the aerial tram high above Palm Springs.  It was something that everyone recommended doing but one of the major draws for all of us was it was rumored to be twenty degrees cooler up on the top.  This sounded amazing.  We could be with other people, be out during the day, and have a panoramic view of. . well, the desert.  What I was not told, was that the elevation change was actually so drastic that it would cause Owen's ears to pop so he cried the entire way up on the tram.  I tried to shift him in the carrier to nurse him but in between the awkwardness of the carrier and the fact that the tram floor was constantly moving around in the circle, I had no choice but to let him cry and try to comfort him the best I could.   The good news is it was much cooler on the top and Owen slept happily through the entire visit.

On the way back to the hotel, we also stopped at In-And-Out Burger, my very first time.  Owen was awake for this.  He did cry in the car but magically stopped when I shook the maraca to, " If you like Pina Coladas," when it came on the radio.  That, and ABBA's 'Fernando'were the only things that seemed to calm him.  (Look, I am not responsible for his taste in music.)

Evenings were a challenge.  In between our perpetual exhaustion, Owen's early bed-time/waking time, and my breastfeeding, gone are the days of drinking until 1:00 and rising at 10:00.  Even on the night that Mitch offered to stay with Owen so I could go out, I was so tired, that I came back after ninety minutes. One night while Mitch stayed out, he ate by the pool while I ate a black bean burger in the dark, afraid to make noise or turn on a light that would wake Owen, feeling around for morsels of food on my plate as if I were blind, but without the finesse of someone who is actually blind.

Overall, we still had a good time.  We got to see fabulous friends, share some good meals (even a few together with those friends) but nothing was easy. And what is the scariest part is that people say that travelling with babies is the easiest travel you will ever have with kids.  But maybe, this doesn't count when you are trying to take your baby to a Bacchanal Feast in the desert.  Maybe that's easier when they are older, like twenty-one.