| Thursday, July 13, 2006 |
| On the banks of the beautiful river Wah-Hoo... |
This morning I woke to the sound of "Mama. Mama? MAAAMAAA!" over the baby monitor.
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After Kawasaki's, the tests and hospitalization, Libby was different. When they finally diagnosed her and started treatment, the last question I asked her cardiologist was when she would be herself again. The cardiologist stammered something about IVIG working, blah blah, Reyes Syndrome, blah blah bluh nice cafeteria, wait.
I asked the cardiology resident. "I don't know. We'll see."
Libby improved steadily. The fever and pain subsided, the tests became less frequent, and she began to eat and drink again. We were jubilant.
When we brought her home she relaxed, obviously more comfortable at home. But she still wasn't herself. Not quite.
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June was a quiet month, full of quiet conversations. We had been ordered to keep Libby calm, so we modified her physical therapy, and gave her anything and everything she wanted to keep her from crying.
She was afraid of everyone. She had no problems with Ben or I, and welcomed attention from my parents, but would scream if anyone else came near her. Checks with Dr. Turtle were nightmarish. Church was almost an impossibility.
She began to play again, smiling and laughing, but still timid. Her naps were short and often, and almost always snuggled with one of us.
Toward the end of the month, her physical therapist and I discussed how she was doing developmentally. We both felt that she had stopped. Not regressed per se, but had just paused during her illness, and was perhaps just taking a bit to recover.
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The answer to my question was a month and a half.
In the last couple weeks she has picked up speed, changing visibly almost daily. She sings to herself, chattering and babbling endlessly, squealing happily anytime she sees Billie. She's crawling (help!) and standing occasionally, as long as I am right behind her.
Her desire for independence is fierce. She prefers foods she can pick up and eat herself, she pulls her own shirt off when changing, and crawls around the living room most of the day chasing Billie. She naps alone in her crib without protest.
She's busy. Too busy sometimes to even notice or care if I'm here. She works her way around the room, navigating around furniture, looking for something to chew on or that sad, pathetic cat.
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Sometimes she falls, or bangs her head against something, or Billie fights back, and the tears and timidity appear, but after a few minutes of hugs, kisses, and cuddles she's off, all the old hurts forgotten.
She's herself again. |
posted by Tarah @ 4:11 PM  |
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| 1 Comments: |
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There is no other sound so sweet as your child calling out your name ... unless it's three o'clock in the morning and they're covered with either poop or puke. Or both.
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There is no other sound so sweet as your child calling out your name ... unless it's three o'clock in the morning and they're covered with either poop or puke. Or both.