Human Metapneumovirus, For Good Measure

Back at emergency after 9 hours at home, this time with a fever and a whole lot of screaming, we were given the full treatment. Urine sample, respiratory swab, blood sugars, a chest x-ray as well as regular obs. More doctors than I could keep track of wanted the whole damn story and apparently everyone wanted to listen to the baby who hates doctors' chest.

The chest x-ray showed a spot on Frankie's lung and by 9am we were being walked up to the ward. Another hospital admission. Frankie had slept all of about 10 minutes since 1am. She was on high-alert, convinced everyone was out to hurt her. While we waited for a spot to open up in x-ray we were trialing nasogastric feeds, back into her stomach that hadn't had feed in it since August when the transpyloric tube was inserted. To everyone's great surprise, she kept the feed down. But, the doctors didn't seen to trust her to keep going with the ng feeds so we would still need a TPT inserted.

By midday we were having dejavu, walking through the familiar corridors towards medical imaging. Frankie had her head on my mum's shoulder. She didn't move a muscle. It was as if she knew exactly where we were going and was hoping, with all of her terrified little heart, that if she just stayed still enough, we might forget she was there and not do this horrible, painful thing to her.

Walking into x-ray had Frankie crying yet again but a squirt of sedative up the nose slowly calmed her back down so we could lay her on the table and start the procedure. The calm lasted a few short minutes. Then, she lost the plot. She thrashed and squirmed with all of her mite, kicking the x-ray machine. She was hysterical. There was no other word to describe it. And it went on and on as we grabbed her arms and legs, pinning her to the table while she screamed in terror and they tried to get this damn tube in place. As tears filled my eyes I felt the arm of our ever-familiar x-ray assistant wrap around my shoulders. And then, Frankie was silent. My heart filled with dread as I thought back to the nurse explaining why they'd had to bring a cot to imaging with us...in case she stopped breathing and they needed somewhere to put her while they worked on her. But, her vitals were fine. She was plain and simply exhausted. She had thrashed around for so long that her tiny body had nothing left. She was limp. The room went silent. Nobody knew what to say. The doctor continued to shove the tube and guide-wire around inside her and still, she slept. Even as we taped the tube in place and moved her to the cot, she slept. After a few peaceful minutes the crying resumed though and we trudged back to the ward.

Eventually we found out that Frankie did indeed have a respiratory virus...human metapneumovirus, which had just happened to coincide with the tube kink drama. No wonder she felt like crap. Add to that her engrained medical trauma and it had been one of the roughest days for this little gal.

More tantrums ensued in the car but, once home and with some water in front of her, she was like a different kid. She could finally relax. Nobody was going to hurt her here.

By the time we were getting Frankie ready for bed I was a nervous wreck. Every cough was like a punch to the stomach. I felt sick. Every whinge had me convinced she was going to spend the next 12 hours refusing to sleep for more than 2 minutes at a time. Every beep from the pump had me flashing back to pinning Frankie down on the x-ray table, sure there was a kink in the tube inside her. I couldn't think straight. And so it will continue until life settles back into the normality of seven vomits a day and the beeping of the pump becomes just a little less terrifying. For everyone.