Oft overshadowed by the smart-mouthed monkey one and the antics of big, bruiser Boo Boo, Beckett is relegated to minor blog footnotes and photos of his smiling basketball head with a standard caption referring to his congenital cuteness. To give little B the column inches he rightly deserves, I've been planning to write a post dedicated to Beckett. This week, on the day marking his sixth month of life on our spinning, green world, Beckett earned the spotlight the hard way: he was hospitalized with RSV, a common viral respiratory infection that can be serious for babies, especially preemies with delayed lung development, like Mr. B.
Taking him to the docs office almost as an afterthought - Kelly and Rhys both had bad coughs and green ropes of mucus spurting from their noses and needed to go - Beckett was diagnosed with RSV by our pediatrician on Tuesday morning. After the doc mined through two ear wax plugs, he added double ear infection to the notes on his chart. He was rechecked on Wednesday morning. His blood oxygen level was OK, 91%, just above the 90% level when therapeutic intervention is recommended. Later on Wednesday afternoon, Catherine had a feeling Beckett wasn't right - he seemed lethargic and was belly breathing. After a quick phone consult with Dr. Prina, we took Beckett to the ER for a chest X-ray and a check of his blood oxygen level.
The ER's pulse oximeter, displaying a range of 86-90%, said B's blood oxygen percentage had dropped and his tiny lungs needed some help to perform at optimal levels. After an hour of administering O2 and nebulizer treatments, the manic, bug-eye nurse who initially checked us in, but we hadn't seen for over an hour, breezed into room #4 and blurted out that Beckett needed to be admitted to another hospital - no open beds at Rose - and that Flight for Life was on the way. At this point, she lost her train of thought and started asking if we needed anything, "Some water for you, sir?"
No. You were saying....
"Well just let me know if you need anything. Something for you mom?"
How about finishing your thought, bubble head, and telling us where Beckett is going and why "Flight for Life" is involved. Apparently, to ensure continuous care, protocol states transfers to other hospitals must be done by ambulance and in Beckett's case, a "level 1" ambulance crew with special pediatric training. Beck's transfer was being handled by a Flight for Life's regular surface ambulance, the medical equivalent of FedEx ground, I guess (see photo).
Following the national trend of taking local "Stay-cations", Beckett and Catherine checked in and camped out at the spa like St. Luke's hospital in the exclusive Uptown neighborhood, settling into their deluxe, five-star accommodations for three nights and four days of relaxing, romping fun. Dad, on the D.L. with pink-eye and a raspy cough, couldn't take part in daily activities at the pool/fitness center or enjoy the fine, fare served by the notable chef at St. L dinning room (the cook at the cafeteria had the same number of teeth as Beckett and served Catherine horrible scrambled eggs and tasteless oatmeal the morning I visited).
Catherine, a chummy lass who makes girl-friends faster than a belch at a boat race, bonded with St Luke's seasoned, competent, empathetic, hard working RN's. It's just a rumor kept alive by the tabloids trying to sell their trash, but this is what sources close to the Goodwillie's say: On a Benadril and bottled water - the harsh generic stuff - bender, Catherine exploded on a well-meaning nurse in a late night, F-bomb laced tantrum. The nurse's alleged offense: merely forgetting to administer ibuprofen to Catherine's selfish, negative attention seeking baby, "Whaaa, Whaaa, cough, cough, I have a fever of a 102. Give me medicine!" It hadn't been the first time that the nurses had not administered medication at the proper time, had not responded when Beckett's oxygen meter went haywire, or had not suctioned out his nose as needed, but, whatever. Sources also say, Jen, a St. Luke's world ambassador, had a falling out with Cat over the incident. The nurse, apparently, smitten Cath with boil-in-toil curse or cat-spitting hex: she broke out in itchy hives the next day and still endures them to this day.
The morning of Beckett's fourth day in the hospital his fever broke and seemed like his old, young, happy-baby self. He came home with a nifty oxygen rig. Kelly was so excited to have his brother back in the fold he projectile vomited four times all over the couch, himself and, further smitten, his mother. My sources overheard additional F-bombs dropped by mom in earshot of at least one of the boys, among other utterances common only in ship galleys and jail yards.
Today is Valentines Day. Catherine and I, feeling romantic, are going out dancing, of course. Not. We did both take a shower today (neither of us shaved, Cath needs to more than I), but certainly we will not slumber in the same bed. Maybe, we can cuddle and I can give her a rub down with her hydrocortisone cream. Special times.
Thanks to a few friendly cupids bringing Catherine flowers and a romantic V-day dinner for us to enjoy after the kids go down (knock, knock on my hollow, empty scull) it might not be the worst Valentine's day ever, after all.
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