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April 7, 2006 ~ Sicknesses
Friday.
It's been a trying few weeks.
First, Monty got sick. Waking us to go out every hour or two, needing monitoring to make sure he was getting enough water, cleaning up of messes when he didn't make it out.
Then Rose scared the hell out of us. One evening last week she started acting strangely, walking around all tense, stiff, and submissive as if she were in a lot of pain. While we were trying to figure out what was wrong with her, she collapsed on the floor, eyes slits, wouldn't get up. Can a dog look pale? She looked pale. And then her breathing got very erratic and labored. I swear to God I thought she was dying.
Morgan carried her out to the car, laid her in the front seat, and sped to the emergency animal hospital, hoping like hell they wouldn't refuse to treat her because of her breed, cursing that we hadn't gotten the emergency vet's number from the rescue yet. It was very hard for me not to go, to wait at home with Grove and Monty. I anxiously sat for hours with my phone in my lap, wishing that Morgan would call with good news.
Finally, around 1:00am, the phone rang. They didn't know exactly what was wrong with her, some sort of infection judging by her elevated white blood cell count, but she was going to be okay. Some adrenaline had kicked in during the car ride and her breathing was back to normal. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her lungs or heart, and she wasn't showing signs of other emergency problems like bloat. Definitely in some pain, still, but infections can do that. They were going to check a few more tests and then send her home with antibiotics.
And so, we waited. It was three before Rose was home safe, and it was a tense night frequently checking to make sure she had not relapsed.
Then I got sick. I felt off all day Sunday, spacey and kinda dizzy, but I figured it must have been lack of sleep (more on that later). Monday, though, my... intestines made known their displeasure, so to speak. That night I developed a high fever. And when I got up Tuesday morning, I knew I was in trouble when just walking from the bed to the bathroom had me clutching the counter, vision blacked out and ears loudly ringing. I made my way blindly back to bed where slowly I regained full consciousness. I very nearly panicked. What if I'd been holding Grove? What was I going to do, taking care of him all day long, if I couldn't even count on myself to not pass out? Mothers don't get sick days.
Well, I stayed in bed. With him. And some of his toys and a few books, and a lot of liquids for me to drink. Grove didn't mind at all. Cuddled up in bed with Mommy all day long, being read to whenever he wanted? Able to play or nap or eat at will, with the 24-hour Breast Milk Buffet on tap right next to his head? Hey, can we do this every day?
I dozed with him all day, only getting up to change his diaper or for runs to the bathroom. Honestly, it was pretty enjoyable. If I've got to be sick, he is pretty good company (though I wish he'd let me nap more).
And today, three days later, is the first day I even felt up to getting dressed, though I may have jumped the gun on that. Ugh. If anything, though the fever is gone, the intestinal problems have only gotten worse. It's time to start using some elderberry (naturally antiviral), methinks. Why I didn't do that from the start is a good question...
We're just hoping against hope that Grove doesn't get it. Poor little guy would be miserable.
The effect of all of these events has been most detrimental on our sleep. What with the waking up every hour to deal with sick dogs, late bedtimes, interrupted naps, time change, shorter and shorter night darkness, and days spent entirely in bed with no structure... Grove's beautiful sleep habits were completely screwed up--waking every hour, fussy, overtired all day. Yes, he's a baby, that's normal, but you see:
With a few good tips from our doctor, the midwives, and a really good book, Grove was sleeping for four-hour stretches by four weeks old, and even sometimes up to seven-hour stretches by two months old. He liked sleep. This was without any harsh "make him cry it out" sort of tactics. We had just encouraged the right habits at the right times until we came to a point where he'd sleep quite happily nestled between us all night long, only waking once or twice for a feeding. We'd become spoiled, in other words.
Now we're in the process of gently trying to get him back to his old routine. We'll get there. After all, we're the stupid adults who screwed up his routine. It's just hard not to get frustrated when it feels like the only thing I need to get well is a little more sleep.
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