My sweet little son has RSV, respiratory syncytial virus. Merry First Christmas, right? He caught it at school. Actually, I'm pretty sure who he caught it from. I think he caught it from The Dude. Poor little guys. RSV is highly contagious, so I fully expect that nearly every kid in his class will catch it. It's one of the well-known downsides of daycare: your kiddo is going to catch everything.
Yesterday, we took The Boy to the doctor because we had learned about the RSV outbreak, and The Boy had a cough. We wanted to get on top of it if it was, indeed, RSV. My fellow working mommy friend, whose daughter just had RSV last week, also encouraged us to get in there early to get on top of the disease. So we did.
The pediatrician, not our normal one because of the holidays, watched him breathe and determined that his breathing wasn't too bad, especially given that his blood oxygen level was 100%. She noted that his nose was quite congested, and had two nurses come in to suction his nose. It took three of us to do it: Mr. The Working Mom and I to hold The Boy down, and one of the nurses to do the actual suctioning. The Boy is an incredibly strong little creature. That same nurse also swabbed The Boy's sinuses to get a sample to test for RSV.
While all this was going on, the other nurse, who was in there for God knows what reason other than to annoy me, prattled on about the benefits of nose suctioning, even going so far as to imply that The Boy's RSV infection may have been prevented had we but regularly suctioned The Boy's nose.
Give me a break. The Boy has RSV because he, The Dude, and all the other kids in his class suck on the same toys five days a week. For Heaven's sake, they steal each other pacifiers. When one of those kids caught the virus, it was inevitable that The Boy would get it too.
So I was a frowny-faced mommy.
They offered me the bulb syringe, when it was all over. I responded, snippily, "I use a NoseFrida to suction his nose," and did not take the stupid torture device. Mr. The Working Mom, however, politely took the bulb syringe because he doesn't like that I tend to catch whatever The Boy catches by way of the NoseFrida. (Mister is, generally speaking, more polite than I am, I would say.)
And I really do feel that this nose suctioning is torture for The Boy, even with the NoseFrida, and I don't really like to do it. Here they were telling me to do it every couple of hours! (Anyway, I always understood that you shouldn't do it too often or you could give the kiddo a nosebleed. But nevermind that, 'tis not the point of my tale.)
Around 3 p.m. yesterday afternoon, I got a call that the RSV test on The Boy had come back positive and the doctor wanted us to come back today for a recheck. So I made an appointment for 1:15 p.m. today.
I took The Boy to the doctor on my own today, which may have been a mistake. (See superior politeness powers of my darling spouse.) The Boy and I arrived in the exam room and among the questions asked of me by one of the very nurses who attended to us yesterday was, "And what is the purpose of your visit today?" Really? That's not in your notes on your little computer screen there from yesterday? But I just said, "Recheck because of the RSV," flatly.
Not-Our-Regular-Pediatrician came in to check The Boy. Among the things she said was that she had heard that I had gotten mad yesterday about the nose suctioning and so she wanted to apologize that the incident was so upsetting. I wasn't planning to say anything about it, but since she brought it up, I explained to her that it was not the nose suctioning itself, but the unhelpful commentary by the, to my observation, superfluous nurse. She didn't seem to understand the distinction. For all I know Not-Our-Regular-Pediatrician also believes in the miracle cure that is nose suctioning. I sort of let it drop, though. No sense beating a dead horse. We were there to get The Boy medical attention, not belabor a trivial personality dust up. And besides, we are suctioning his nose, not every two hours, but several times a day. And it comes right back.
The Boy's oxygen level was down and he was showing signs of labored breathing, so the doctor recommended that we do breathing treatments. We did the first one in the doctor's office, me and a nurse (not the offending nurse). The nurse commented several times about how strong The Boy is and how difficult it is to control him. Yes, try to suction that nose all by yourself without two other adults to hold him down.
The doctor came back to check him again after the treatment and he was, sort of, instantly better. His oxygen level went up a little and his breathing was not as labored. She told me that she was sending us home with a nebulizer and that the nurse would give me the breathing treatment schedule.
So the same nurse who did the breathing treatment with me came back to give me the schedule. Twelve days: four treatments on the first three days, then three treatments for three days, then two treatments for three days, then one treatment for three days.
I somehow feel that it is necessary at this juncture to make crystal clear that I will do anything and everything to make The Boy well again. Anything. Everything. Name it. I'll do it.
After being given that treatment schedule I muttered (which I am want to do when stressed, I am given to understand) that the schedule might pose a bit of a logistical challenge, especially in the early days with so many treatments a day. She said, sort of surprised, "Do you work?"
!
She never would have asked a dad that question. Never.
I snapped back, "Yes, I work." I went on to say (mutter) that I barely have any leave because I was on bedrest before The Boy was born, and that this will be hard, but we will figure something out. It is not a question of whether or not to do it, but managing it.
Still, I was so angered by that remark that I really couldn't think of anything else. Do I work? Do I work? Shit, lady, do you? Look, some girls actually have fulltime jobs that are just as important as boys' jobs and stuff, golly!
I know I over-reacted. I wanted to cry. I just left the office and did not make a follow up appointment. I just could not stay and burst into tears and make a fool of myself. (And the follow up appointment that I will make when I call back tomorrow is going to be with Our-Regular-Pediatrician.) I was already stressed about the work that I am missing, deadlines that I have to meet somehow while not actually being in the office, and even more stressed about my very sick little boy. Do I work? I have two fulltime jobs, lady!
I called my aforementioned working mommy friend as I was walking out of the doctor's office. And while talking to her, I did cry. (And, she also rightly suggested that I was overreacting a bit, and very patiently listened to me and calmed me down. Yay, friend!)
But this question that nurse asked carried with it all sorts of assumptions that just would not be made of a man. To assume that I don't work, that I do not have other obligations that need juggling, just floored me. I haven't asked him, but I suspect that when my brother, just last year, was staying home with his daughter while his wife worked, no one ever asked such a question of him or made any such assumptions about him. You just wouldn't do that to man.
Who knew that I would face gender inequality at the pediatrician's office? Certainly not me.
Man. Wo-man.
