Note: the events here took place nearly a year ago. We all remain fine and healthy. It took awhile to see the lighter side of this situation, but it finally feels like I can share with a rueful laugh and a slightly-reduced level of mom-guilt.
I think we can all agree that Covid life made every bad thing worse.
My baby had a 102 degree fever. This is inherently negative. He didn’t feel good, he didn’t sleep, I didn’t feel good, I didn’t sleep, he cried, I worried. But add a dash of Covid in the atmosphere and what do you get? Not just extra anxiety. No, you also get to Covid-test your baby—your poor, innocent, tired, sad little baby—because his sister’s school won’t let her in until we confirm whatever is causing his 102 degree fever is something other than Covid.
Fun, right?
Even better is when your local pediatrician’s office is really busy, so they refer you to a satellite testing location almost an hour away.
Did I mention said baby boy also hates his car seat?
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Our odyssey began when Jack cried off and on for hours one autumn night in 2020. On what seemed to be a related note, we had decided to sleep train him that same evening. We assumed he learned of the plan and became enraged, waking up far more often–and angrier–than usual. Then at some point in the wee hours of morning, Ryan’s sleep-deprived brain clicked over from blaming sleep training to deciding it was all my fault for putting Jack to sleep in fuzzy pajamas when it was CLEARLY TOO WARM FOR FUZZY PAJAMAS. He changed said pajamas in a fit of frustration and accused me of trying to cook our baby. Naturally I was indignant. However, when it was soon my turn to give Jack a pat and reassure him that mommy and daddy loved him but it was simply time to sleep, I had to agree he was warm. Since the offending pajamas had already been removed, I resorted to science and a thermometer. It read 102. Turns out, neither sleep training nor fuzzy pajamas was the culprit.
We were horrified and overcome with guilt, immediately providing Tylenol and cuddles while castigating ourselves for our failures as parents. Jack seemed to appreciate that we were finally reading the room.
Later in the morning, the real drama unfolded. Informed of the fever during our daily pre-attendance report, Lina’s school determined that she could not enter the grounds until we determined that Jack’s fever was not Covid-related. We were pretty sure it wasn’t, because where on earth could he have caught Covid? We didn’t bring him to public places, we washed our hands, we wore masks. But then again, how did he catch literally anything? Covid seemed as likely as any other infection, which is to say not at all likely but apparently possible.
I called the pediatrician’s office as soon as they opened.
Me: Hi my baby has a fever, can we see the doctor today?
Receptionist: Sure, just a few Covid screening questions.
Me: Okay, I mean that’s kind of why we’re making an appointment, but okay.
Receptionist: Has he lost his sense of taste or smell?
Me: Oh great question, I’ll ask. Tiny baby, can you taste stuff?
Baby: Ma ma da guh.
Me: I’m not sure.
Somehow I managed to secure an appointment with our doctor, despite our utter failure to complete the screening. The receptionist strongly implied that a virtual visit would be sufficient, but based on nothing but my complete mystification about what could have made him sick, I thought we might want to get his ears checked. They begrudgingly gave me an appointment for 11. They also wouldn’t order a Covid test until then.
Mind you, in spite of Jack’s fever and fussiness, he didn’t seem dangerously ill. If this wasn’t the Time of Covid, I would have continued with the cuddles and Tylenol, and waited a day or so before talking to the doctor. Kids get sick. Kids get fevers. But with Lina languishing at home until we cleared the Covid hurdle, I didn’t have a lot of time to waste. Lina loves school. Lina loves her routine. Abruptly keeping her home, without an explanation she could understand, was hard for everyone. I crossed every finger for a quick Covid test and even quicker results. I showed up for our 11:00 appointment at 10:45, ready to get this over with.
Alas, more screening questions awaited.
Receptionist: Anyone in the family with a fever the last two weeks?
Me: Yes. My baby. The patient. Literally why we’re here.
Receptionist: Oh! Has he had a Covid test?
Me, through gritted teeth: Literally. Why. We’re here.
Receptionist: Oh! Let me just uhhhh….[backs away slowly, donning third mask].
The doctor was fine and pleasant, albeit covered with a terrifying array of PPE that thoroughly disturbed by erstwhile isolated baby boy. I knew there was no other option, but I deeply regretted that Jack’s first interaction outside our bubble was with a talking hazmat suit.
“So tell me what’s going on?” the nice doctor asked.
“SCREEEECH!” said Jack.
“He’s not used to strangers,” I apologized, stating the obvious.
Turns out, his ears, nose, and throat were fine. His fever, however, remained around 101. The doctor hemmed-hemmed and concluded, inconclusively: “There’s no way to say whether it’s Covid without a test. And he should probably get a test.”
“Fine,” I said, “Can we get in today?”
“Mmmmm…” he typed at his computer. “We can get you in at the Woodlands this afternoon.”
For those unfamiliar with the Houston metropolitan area, “the Woodlands” roughly translates to “Canada.” It’s a picturesque suburb—possibly even exurb—nearly an hour North of the city, assuming traffic cooperates.
“Any other locations?” I grasped at straws.
“Nope. Not today.”
It had to be today, so my daughter could resume school as soon as possible. I resigned myself to the drive and got my passport ready.
Of course, the appointment happened to overlap with Jack’s usual nap schedule.
Me: SO sorry to wake you from your nap when you’re not feeling well buddy, but we have to drive 90 minutes round-trip in a car seat you hate so someone can jab a swab into your mucous membranes to check for Covid germs!
Jack: WAAAHHHHH!
Me: Fair point.
He cried the entire 45 minutes to the testing site. Toys, books, and his binky didn’t help. Over my shoulder I tossed him platitudes like, “We’re almost there!” But I knew that was hollow comfort when “almost there” meant “almost ready to make your day EVEN WORSE!”
At the site, I was required to stay in my seat while another PPE-clad, non-human hellion (read: extremely friendly nurse) opened the rear car door and terrorized my son. The best I can say about the swabbing is that it was brief in comparison with the drive. Nonetheless, Jack was convinced that his life was not only ending but that he was going to die at the hands of a mask-covered monster, abandoned by his mother.
As soon as the test was done, I gunned it out of the parking lot, tires squealing. It was a maze of barricades and orange cones, Jack sobbing in the back while I searched desperately for a place to pull over. I found an office park of dull, brown buildings and screeched to a halt. It was like the slowest and most anticlimactic getaway scene you could imagine in a B-grade movie. “Come here, buddy, it’s okay! Mama’s here!” I pulled him out of his car seat and clutched him to my chest, sniffling and hiccupping (him and me both), sinking to sit on the curb. His nose left a trail of snot across my shirt like a giant wayward snail. I didn’t care.
In spite of his fever and his rough afternoon, after a few minutes of snuggles he managed to become interested in the brown leaves decorating the sidewalk by the office building. I placed one in his palm, and he let it fall back down to the damp cement. He held his hand out for more. A passing grey-haired office worker, dressed in baggy black slacks and faded cardigan, tossed a grandmotherly smile in our direction. I returned it, but just barely. I was pretty much done for the day.
Jack did not have Covid. (For those curious, he got a rash a few days later and was diagnosed with the common childhood illness Roseola.) Lina returned to school. We abandoned sleep training for at least a month. That night, putting him down after a dose of Tylenol in appropriately light, non-fuzzy pajamas, I was still feeling like a terrible mom, still hating this Covid-era we were living through, but I thought, at least I’ll be getting up with him in a few hours.
Do you ever think to yourself, maybe one day I’ll miss these late night nursing sessions? Hahahah me neither. But on this particular night, it was reassuring to check on Jack, ensure he continued to breathe, and help him get a little comfort in this big, strange world. I may have needed it as well.
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