Slog slog slog.
Jan. 7th, 2008 08:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rivkaMichael called me at work today to report that Alex was refusing liquids and barely needing to pee. Around lunchtime, she threw up the meager helping of dry Cheerios she'd ingested that morning, refused all liquids - including what ought to have been the irresistible siren call of the popsicle - and fell asleep.
I called our pediatrician's office and waited on hold for half an hour to talk to the advice nurse. That was my first clue that we might not be the only ones in town having this problem. She told me, firmly, that we had to get fluids into Alex whether she wanted them or not. She suggested a medicine dropper, a different brand of electrolyte solution, an every-three-minutes schedule, and TV for distraction. And she explained when we'd need to head to the ER: if Alex didn't pee for twelve hours, or if she cried and didn't make any tears.
I came home from work an hour early, bearing the new brand of electrolytes. Michael had recently started the every-three-minutes routine with the disfavored brand, and Alex was submitting to it. Meanwhile, I had thought of another idea I thought would coax her into drinking more: an extremely fancy glass. (We have these little cordial glasses decorated with tiny beads and chains.) I poured an ounce of electrolyte stuff into the cordial glass, and Alex happily gulped it down. I felt like a genius.
Until five minutes later, when she threw it up. Huh. I guess she knew what she was doing, all that time that she was refusing to drink juice or pedialyte from a cup.
I took over the medicine-dropper routine. For the next two-and-a-half hours, Alex lay limply on my lap watching TV through slitted eyes. Every three minutes, she obediently opened her mouth for a dropperful of electrolyte solution. A teaspoon every three minutes means a tablespoon every nine minutes, which means an ounce every eighteen minutes. Three ounces an hour. Rehydration at three ounces an hour takes a very. Long. Time. But she kept it all down.
When I came home from work, Alex was so sick that shocked tears came to my eyes. She was barely there. By the time we'd gotten nine ounces of electrolyte solution into her, she was actually able to sit up, converse a little, interact with a book instead of staring blankly at the screen.
She's asleep now. I hope that in the morning she'll actually be able to drink. Otherwise it's going to be a dropperful every three minutes. All. Day. Long. It's like Chinese water torture, except that it's keeping our kid out of the ER.
I called our pediatrician's office and waited on hold for half an hour to talk to the advice nurse. That was my first clue that we might not be the only ones in town having this problem. She told me, firmly, that we had to get fluids into Alex whether she wanted them or not. She suggested a medicine dropper, a different brand of electrolyte solution, an every-three-minutes schedule, and TV for distraction. And she explained when we'd need to head to the ER: if Alex didn't pee for twelve hours, or if she cried and didn't make any tears.
I came home from work an hour early, bearing the new brand of electrolytes. Michael had recently started the every-three-minutes routine with the disfavored brand, and Alex was submitting to it. Meanwhile, I had thought of another idea I thought would coax her into drinking more: an extremely fancy glass. (We have these little cordial glasses decorated with tiny beads and chains.) I poured an ounce of electrolyte stuff into the cordial glass, and Alex happily gulped it down. I felt like a genius.
Until five minutes later, when she threw it up. Huh. I guess she knew what she was doing, all that time that she was refusing to drink juice or pedialyte from a cup.
I took over the medicine-dropper routine. For the next two-and-a-half hours, Alex lay limply on my lap watching TV through slitted eyes. Every three minutes, she obediently opened her mouth for a dropperful of electrolyte solution. A teaspoon every three minutes means a tablespoon every nine minutes, which means an ounce every eighteen minutes. Three ounces an hour. Rehydration at three ounces an hour takes a very. Long. Time. But she kept it all down.
When I came home from work, Alex was so sick that shocked tears came to my eyes. She was barely there. By the time we'd gotten nine ounces of electrolyte solution into her, she was actually able to sit up, converse a little, interact with a book instead of staring blankly at the screen.
She's asleep now. I hope that in the morning she'll actually be able to drink. Otherwise it's going to be a dropperful every three minutes. All. Day. Long. It's like Chinese water torture, except that it's keeping our kid out of the ER.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-01-08 02:24 pm (UTC)