Strep Strikes Again

My son's birthday party is this Saturday and he's got strep.  Again.  The poor kid has now had it five times in the last twelve months and the doctor said that, given that frequency, they think we should go see an ENT specialist to determine if, perhaps, the tonsils should come out.

He's a fucking champ.  Fever hitting 102 - 103 and he's cracking jokes and reminding to me to pick up a toy for him if he takes his medicine. 

As a result of his being sick, I had to pick up my daughter and bring her home.  Pain in the ass as I then had to come back to the office but no big deal. 

I walked into the apartment and I hear my son crying.  Not a normal occurrence for my son.  The only crying he ever does is the fake, tearless bullshit so hearing him whimpering was rather upsetting.

"I hurts when I breathe, I can't breathe" was what he was saying between gasping sobs.




He's suffered this once before when he had some fucked up chest cold or something and we were given an inhaler to help clear the lungs but we never ended up using it.  Now, he needed it.  I emptied three cabinets trying to locate the fucking thing and, when I did, he was lying on his bed, curled up in a ball, moaning and crying.

I told him to sit up, gave him a blast off the inhaler and asked if it helped.  He told me it tasted bad and his stomach still hurt.

Huh?  His stomach?

I asked him to point to where it hurt.  He pointed to his stomach and said "here" and then he pointed to the center of his chest, right below his neck, and said "here."

I explained to him where his lungs were and I explained that the areas he was pointing to don't hurt from breathing.  He cried, curled back up into a ball and said he couldn't breathe.

Now I'm freaking out but doing my best to remain upbeat, cheerful and calm.

The nanny was in the room with us so I asked her if he took his medicine.  She said he did but she said he was complaining about the pain before hand. 

Ok, that rules out the meds.

I asked him if he felt nauseous.  He said he tried to puke but he couldn't and he doesn't feel nauseous.

Interesting.

Then he doubles over in pain, rocking on the bed.  Big tears rolling down his face.

"Daddy, make it better" he begs.

My heart is breaking.  I'd gladly take ten times whatever he has if it meant he'd feel better.  I tell him that and he tells me that I can't do that because it isn't possible.

Thanks pal.

Now he's clutching his stomach.  Ok, it's a stomach thing.

I ask him what he ate today.

"A slurpee from 7/11 after the doctor" he tells me. 

"And a hot dog" the nanny says.

"Really?" I ask.  "Where'd you go for the hot dog?"

"7/11" the nanny tells me.

Got it.

I ask my son if the hot dog tasted good and he says it was the biggest one they had but he only ate half.

I turn to the nanny and I calmly tell her that those hot dogs are, more often than not, weeks, or even months, old and that my boy was suffering a bad case of indigestion.

I explain to my son that he's got heart burn in his chest from the bad wiener.

I then shake his hand and congratulate him on a major rite of passage for a young man.  Haven't we all eaten a convenience store meal, a dog, a burger, a taco, chili or some other wrong ass shit that, at the time, usually 4 am when we're plastered or fucked up on some drug or other, and suffered the consequences.

I tell the nanny to see if she can't find some children's pepto while I tend to the boy.

Suddenly, he sits up and opens his mouth and from deep within his little frame comes a rumbling sound that builds, grows stronger, deeper and more vicious.  The ensuing belch lasts several seconds and is followed by a round of four aftershocks.

My son smiles at me and says he feels better.

My eyes water up.  Not as a result of my emotions.  Not because I am happy that my son is feeling better and that he has suffered his first case of indigestion.  No, my eyes are watering up because the stench from within him is fucking brutal.  I can see the belch floating in the air.  I can taste that rancid dog.  I can practically feel the hot, moist hot dog burp as it surrounds me, permeates my clothes and worms it's way into my eyes, nose and mouth.

I stifle a gag.  Stifle another one, hug my son and bolt out of his room.

He's laughing now, feeling much better and not in the least bit put off by the smell of year old animal parts that fills the room.

Seeing him like that, curled up, miserable and in pain was horrific.  If I have to see him like that after the tonsillectomy, I might not make it.