Head, meet floor

It started like this...

"Mama, come see this, mama." [Because one "mama" is not enough to get my attention when I'm already walking behind him into his room.] Something distracted me for a second - darn cat scratching the couch, I think - I look back into the living room and I hear a KATHUNK! followed by a gigantic wail of pain. [Note: Hen isn't a huge cryer after falls so I know he's hurt when he does cry.] I scoop him up and start the rocking, shushing, soothing process to get him to calm down a bit while simultaneously checking for any evidence of swelling and peppering him with questions. "What happened?" (Obviously he fell so this is ridiculous on my part.) "Did you hit your head?" (Again, I already know the answer to this since one side of his face is red from the impact. Why am I not asking pertinent questions?) "Did you hit the train table on the way down, honey?" (Ding, ding ding! Now we're getting somewhere.) He tells me no. That explains why I have yet to find any big knots forming. I deduce he slammed the side of his head into the floor. Ouch.

The rocking and soothing has worked too well and Hen has cried himself to sleep. Sleeping isn't necessarily a good thing but I remember the doctor saying that as long as you continue to check your kid (i.e., wake him/her up and check the kid's responses) it isn't necessarily a bad thing. I call his pediatrician and they can get him me in to see the doctor but not for another two hours. I let him catch a few ZZZs (roughly 20 minutes) and then wake him up. He is unusually lethargic and he tells me his head still hurts. I am not surprised, it sounded like a hard hit. He wants to lie still so I go to fold the laundry. A few minutes later, he follows me into the room and collapses onto the pile of clean clothing. Poor kid.

It isn't long after this when he sits up, looking somewhat drained of color, and informs me his stomach feels weird. Methinks he's going to puke. I deposit him in front of the toilet and inform him it is now an acceptable moment to do any vomiting. (An unacceptable moment would be on the pile of freshly laundered clothes.) He retches but nothing comes up. There are a few more minutes of rest and then he actually does puke. He pukes twice in about five minutes. I also notice that he's slowly blinking and rolling his eyes. This isn't particularly scary but it also isn't entirely normal. I call Hen's pediatrician's office and inform them that since he is now puking I'm not going to wait to see the doctor there. We pack up and head to the ER, which I vaguely remember hearing is now actually called the ED (for Emergency Department - is this change absolutely necessary?).

We arrive, register, head to the children's waiting area, Hen pukes in the wastebasket. We head to the room. Hen is observed. He's fine but his head still hurts. The doctor comes in and explains, after her examination and discussion with the attending, that Hen is borderline for taking him in for the CAT scan. He's puked, but not enough. We discuss the options, one of which is to go home and have me keep a close eye on him. I'm all for an option that doesn't have me wasting away in the ER, excuse me, ED of the hospital. Getting our discharge papers takes a bit of time. When Hen sits up to get his shoes on, he needs to puke again. He vomits twice more. The nurse gets the doctor, she talks to the attending. They are now concerned that Hen is still puking since it has been nearly three hours since the fall. The docs now want a scan to rule out a brain bleed. We prep for the CAT scan. He pukes outside the CAT scan room. (For anyone keeping score, Hen has puked in three different areas of the hospital.) The CAT scan is a breeze. Hen is very brave. I now need to find out how to order a print of the scan because how awesome would it be to frame? Hey, look! There's my brain! We return to the room and Hen brightens up a bit when he sees papa.

We wait for the results. The nurse gives Hen a pill to help with the vomiting. This upsets his stomach upset and he pukes once (or twice?) more. Then he starts to recover. The grayish tint to his face is replaced by the normal pink tone of a healthy person, he's more alert, playing with Play-doh [I make an excellent frog out of this stuff], and he manages to eat one popsicle and request a second. The news is good. There is no brain bleed. He does have a concussion, though. We are told to make sure he doesn't do anything that would likely cause another fall and hit to the old noggin'. And then we were discharged. Finally.

Say it three times real fast

Esophagogastroduodenoscopy
Esophagogastroduodenoscopy
Esophagogastroduodenoscopy

Also known as an upper endoscopy, Henry's doctors will be using an instrument of thin flexible tubing with a light source on the end to look at his esophagus, stomach, and small intestine. If needed, they will take tissue samples or, if found, they will remove small growths. Henry will get a sedative, most likely via an IV in his hand. The procedure lasts an hour with an additional one to two hours for recovery.

Well baby

Henry had his twelve month checkup earlier this week. When I think about how Henry has only gained a pound plus in the last three months, it sort of freaks me out, but the other numbers are holding (for head circumference) and gaining (for height) so the news isn't bleak at all. The kid is just super skinny.

Weight: 17.13 lbs / < 3%
Height: 30.25 in / 75%
Head Circumference: 17.5% in / 25%

Our pediatrician is fantastic so if anyone is in the market for a new doctor, I highly recommend her. When we went over Henry's wonky white blood cell numbers of the past few weeks, she mentioned it might be time to push the docs at Doernbecher's to seek outside consults from neighboring states. (She did say OHSU is the best place to be in Oregon.) Darr and I plan on doing just that when we meet with the specialist next Thursday when Henry goes in for his second bone marrow test.

To date, I've been pretty impressed with the pediatric hematologist/oncologist team up at Doernbecher's. And the folks in the phlebotomy lab are fantastic. For the third draw in a row, Henry has not even cried when stuck with the needle. And I hardly had to hold him down. Darr and I surmised this is because he no longer thinks of those guys as strangers. Plus, every time he's done, they give him a new toy. The last was a Beanie Baby bear named Cubbie he chewed on the way home. Since Henry has two more draws next week, I'll try to get a video. The ladies working at the lab suggested they get one that they can show to some of the other kids that come in that make a huge fuss. Our baby is a superbaby.

The oncology ward

The Oncology ward is sterile in a way that other areas of the hospital are not. Flowers are not permitted. Hand washing stations are everywhere, including just inside the entrance doors. HEPA filtered air flows through the entire floor. It is remarkably quiet. The occasional slip of noise escapes individual rooms as you walk the corridor. The doors to these rooms are decorated with scrapbooked posters that introduce the family member who is fighting cancer within. It is clear many of the patients here have been residents for a long time. There is a family kitchen and a playroom stocked with toys for the younger kids and books for children of all ages. The rooms are comfortable. There is a computer (Apple - woot!), a television (with cable channels), and a small cd player. The nurses are caring, efficient, and respectful. Not once has someone entered our room without first knocking, even when the door was partially open. The doctors are kept abreast of the patients in the ward. Just this afternoon, while taking Henry for a bit of a walk around the facility (confined to the 10th floor), we met a doctor we hadn't seen before and she already knew Henry's name and his current issue (neutropenia).

I've met and chatted with two other moms since we arrived. One has a son who has been in the ward for just over a year. His last day is next Tuesday. A small party is being planned for tomorrow night. This mom is eager to talk about her son's condition. She openly expressed a wish to meet other moms who had children with the same soft tissue cancer her son was fighting. The other has a son who was only recently diagnosed. He is getting a bone marrow transplant next week. This mom is quiet, reserved, and has the look of someone who is still suffering from shock. Her other son is an exact match so by all rights, this transplant should go smoothly.