It's like a dream, these past two days. A, What the Fuck Just Happened? or What the Fuck Was That?, kind of a dream.
Wednesday, watching Kyra skate on the ice, Lydia playing around the entrance, myself, talking to a new friend.
Lydia comes to me several times, "Mommy, my belly hurt."
"I'm sorry, Babe. What can I do?" She runs off to play again.
Then it happened. Doubled over, clutching her stomach, screaming with such agony I haven't heard before. "MY BELLY HURT, MOMMY!"
I pick her up, squeeze her tight. We sit down on the bleachers as I apologize to my friend, "I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on. This isn't normal. This isn't like her. She has issues, but this isn't noramal."
I excuse myself to call the pediatrician. With Lydia screaming into my neck, I barely hear the nurse tell me to take her to Urgent Care. Rushing back in to collect Kyra and our things, I apologize again. "I don't know what's going on, this isn't normal," I keep thinking aloud, as Kyra's coach strips her of her skates and stuffs her into boots. My friend, looking on, confused and helpless.
Urgent Care employees take our information and whisk us to a room immediately. The nurse starts checking vitals as Lydia continues her guttural screams, squishing her knees to her chest. It's then I notice how her stomach is contracting, almost reminiscent of severe menstrual cramps or labor contractions.
By the time the doctor comes in to check her, she'd been crying for nearly an hour before she cried herself to sleep. The examination is done with Lydia in my arms, curled around my waist. She never stirs.
The doctor is confused. Knowing Lydia's GI history and her impending appointment less then 24 hours away, invasive actions might be more of a hindrance then a help. X-ray of the abdomen is ordered.
Lydia wakes shortly thereafter, sucking her thumb, looking confused for a few moments until she hears a door close. "What's that?" she perks up, sly smile spread across her face as if nothing has ever happened.
By the time the doctor comes back in to check on us, Lydia's chatting away in the most animated, two year old fashion. A happy, confusing sight.
X-rays are taken, Jeremy arrives, Lydia's asked to dance and jump with the doctor. Normal. She's completely normal.
Jeremy takes the girls to the registration area while I sit in the room, waiting to sign the discharge papers. Just as the nurse finalizes the computer, in through the doors Jeremy strides, with a screaming Lydia. Curled up, knees to chest, begging for Mommy.
Consultations are made. Second doctor comes in with the first. Confusion. Utter, confusion. Clearly no one knows what to make of this.
We can't treat with pain medication because it could irritate her already temperamental GI track. Can't do invasive procedures because it could hinder her appointment the following day.
Damn it. Why couldn't this happen on Thursday?
Discharged again. Chalking it up to constipation and gas. The kid, who 6 months ago, shit 8-12 times a day. The kid, who still today craps no less then 2-4 times a day. Constipation is the least of our worries.
Whatever puts your mind at ease, doc. Clearly you're wishing, just as much as I am, that we were near our GI and not three hours away.
Screaming and writhing in pain, I strap Lydia into her carseat.
She suffers these painful bouts until we get her to sleep at ten o'clock at night, in a hotel room.
This morning she wakes up fine. Perfectly and absolutely fine.
Her GI doctor runs over yesterday's events with us as she watches Lydia squat on the floor, banging two cars into each other before sending one racing into the wall with squeals of delight. You'd never know anything out of the ordinary ever happened.
History of the last six months given, how everything went perfectly fine until mid August, when things started to fall apart. Abdominal distention, belly aches and not sleeping through the night are rehashed. Complaints of, "my neck hurt" and an associated cough are new issues.
GI doctor suspects Lydia is outgrowing her current Zantac dose and a stronger acid medicine could be necessary. This is not a good thing, she says. Children her age should grow out of these things, not need stronger medicines. It's also mentioned how this is a sign she might not be a candidate to come off of antacid prescriptions. I can't help and think, "long term or short term?" ...but I never ask.
Scopes are ordered for later this month. They're looking at both the top and bottom of Lydia's GI system. The only problem GI doctor foresees, the anesthesia usually used to put the patient to sleep is soy based. As of last week's food challenge, Lydia still doesn't tolerate soy. There will be discussions in the coming weeks to find an alternative.
No one knows what the hell happened yesterday. Jeremy and I continue to turn it over, discuss it. Did we change something? She doesn't react unless we change something. Even then, she doesn't react like this. This was new, brand new. Similar to her uncontrollably crying colic days, but not the same.
Maybe it was a fluke. Or maybe it's something more. Maybe the invasive scoping will finally give us more answers then questions. Or maybe we'll be left right where we are today, coping with the black and white we know while dancing around the uncertain grey.