We got through Day One in the hospital, and as I watched the sun stream through the window on our second morning, I truly felt the worst was behind us.
I was wrong.
Blythe was talking, responding, and feeling hungry – all great signs that her health was improving. Her blood sugar was extremely low, because she was unable to receive “normal” IV fluid, which contains dextrose (and therefore corn) for that very reason.
It was important that she start holding down fluids so that she could get her blood sugar regulated.
We started with ice chips, which came right back up.
The doctors, nurses, and pharmacy techs were researching like crazy to find an anti-nausea medicine that didn’t contain corn. There are few choices, especially for children, and they never found one.
Good to know, for the future.
In the meantime, I had my mom bring in corn-free popsicles, which were a huge success.
We all breathed a sigh of relief, putting our hopes for good health right there on that popsicle stick.
But she couldn’t sleep. She began to get agitated. She had screaming fits.
She wanted to go home.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but her behavior was showing me signs that she’d been exposed to corn.
It’s my job to protect her, and I do so, fiercely, every moment of the day.
I watched the nurses like a hawk, questioning everything they brought in, making sure they’d washed their hands, bringing only my own approved popsicles, juice and broth.
How could I have known? Sysco brand cups, the type the hospital supplied for her popsicles, juice and broth, contained corn. In an effort to be more eco-friendly (which I obviously support), had replaced the polystyrene in their products with corn.
When kept cold, with the popsicles and juice, the corn in the cups only leeched into her system in minute amounts.
But when the nurse warmed her broth in the cup right before bed, the heat released a deluge of corn, right into my baby girl’s mouth.
Thank goodness, she only drank an ounce before falling asleep next to me, exhausted.
Soon, she woke. Coughing. Crying. Screaming.
I buzzed the nurse and asked for motrin.
And then I turned on the light.
Her face, my beautiful baby girls’ face, was distorted and swollen, and she was clawing at her mouth.
I buzzed the nurse a dozen times, afraid to leave for even a moment.
I grabbed Blythe’s Zyrtec out of my purse, but the nurse took it from me, saying she needed the doctor’s approval first.
I told her she’d better go get that approval, NOW, because it wasn’t going to be pretty if we didn’t stop the reaction.
She ran for the phone.
Blythe was screaming. Crying. Flailing. Kicking.
She yanked off her heart monitor and threw herself against the rails of the bed. Clawed at her face.
The nurse ran back in and said, “OK! Do it!” and I could see that her hands were shaking as she handed me the bottle of medicine.
I couldn’t get the Zyrtec into Blythe’s mouth, she was thrashing too much. The nurse tried to hold her down, but most of it spilled.
We waited a minute. Two.
I looked at the nurse and said, “It’s too late. She needs Epinephrine, and she needs it NOW. I have an Epi-Pen in my purse.”
“I need to call the doctor and ask,” she replied, and ran from the room.
Blythe somehow ended up on the floor, throwing herself repeatedly into the tile, into the wall, into my legs.
“Mommy HELP ME!” she screamed as the hit herself in the face, neck, chest.
“I’m trying, baby,” I whispered, reaching out for her.
She smacked my hand and went into the bathroom, trailing her IV line.
Three more nurses arrived and just watched my baby thrash around in pain.
I screamed at them, “Get the Epinephrine! Her insides are on FIRE, don’t you understand?”
The answer I got infuriated me. They told me if she’d stopped breathing, they’d have given the
Epi to her immediately, but since she was breathing, they had to wait for the doctor.
Blythe started tearing the tape off of her IV. “It HURTS!” she screamed.
I wrapped my legs around her body and held one arm still as a nurse tried to save the IV.
Blythe’s body had become incredibly strong, and I struggled to hold her down. She screamed and thrashed against me, begging me to make it stop.
The nurse pushed the call button over and over and over again, and told me she was so sorry.
Finally, the charge nurse arrived with the Epinephrine and, tears streaming down my face, I lifted my red and swollen child up for them to put it into her IV.
It took every ounce of strength I could muster to keep from dropping her while she flailed in my arms.
And in a moment, finally, it was over.
She collapsed against me, weeping.
I sat on the hospital bed, my arms around her, and sobbed, “Thank you”.
To Blythe. To the staff. To God.
They left us alone, and we lay there together, both of our tears falling down her face.
Blythe’s nurse came back in.
She told me I was strong.
She told me she was sorry.
She told me she hadn’t believed me when I told her Blythe was having an allergic reaction, that she just thought Blythe was throwing the worlds biggest temper tantrum, and had maybe hit herself in the face to cause the swelling.
She told me she’d never seen anything like that, and that it had scared her.
For hours we lay there in the dark, unable to sleep after what we’d been through.
And then, wrapped up together, Blythe and I finally fell asleep.
