Bloody Surprised

A PSA with a TW for a descriptive and detailed account of vomiting blood.

Kid the Second has struggled with strep throat, snoring, interrupted sleep, asthma, and allergies. She had appointments with the slew of doctors specializing in all the things that would pertain to the aforementioned nuisances, and without fail, every doctor (even an urgent care doctor who was technically treating my other kid had a peek) were astonished by the size of her tonsils. 

And if you know my kid, I feel like the awe inspiring size of her tonsils are matched by her personality. 

The surgery, tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, was on August 21st. I was nervous– obviously. I arranged all the necessary coverage and support for the other two children because their life, like a show, must go on. Fortunately, Brendan was able to zip away from work and spend the pre-op moments with us, despite his CIO making headlines. 

So many moments of worry but what I was most worried about (because I simply didn’t know what was coming) was the goodbye; the idea that Sloan would be wheeled away on a gurney to a location I couldn't be… was tough. And believe me, I emailed and called the doctor’s office, assuring them I could handle watching her go under anesthesia or even the surgery. They declined my offer but did prescribe a “drunk drug” for Sloan, to assist in that moment of goodbye. 

The drugs worked. She was drunk. She was silly. She was calm. She and I shared some laughs and cuddles. And when the nurse said it was time, Sloan recognized it was the moment of goodbye; a few tears rolled down her cheek but she succumbed to the forced and fraudulent ease coursing through her blood. 

I went to the waiting room. I cried; I recovered quickly, lulled by the solitude and ability to read uninterrupted– motherhood is a conundrum. 

A mere 30 minutes later and the surgeon found me buried in my book, startled by her presence. I hadn’t realized how much time had elapsed. I panicked thinking it had been too quick and something must be wrong. The doctor assured me, “No, no, everything is great. I’m all done. And wow, seriously some of the biggest tonsils I have ever seen. You’ll be with her soon.”

And I was. Poor kid. IV still in her arm. A seal-like cough. Groggy. 

After 30 minutes of attempted Otter Pop, apple sauce, and ice water ingestion it was time for us to leave. I had been prepared thoroughly by a friend who was at the same surgery center with the same doctor for the same thing several months back and I was prepared for our wheelchair. We weren’t offered a chair. The nurse looked at me, “You can just carry her out.” I paused, “Oh, yeah, of course.” So, I packed everything up a bit better, preparing to carry my 61 pound kid, down two stories via elevator, through a lobby, across the street to the parking structure, and locate my vehicle. I did it and barely broke a sweat– just another reason I work out. 

As far as recoveries go, it was par for the course… until it wasn’t. Sloan was in a 48 hour honeymoon phase, eating, drinking, and medicating. 

And then, it was not wanting to eat. And then, it was not wanting the drugs. And then, the dragon breath arrived with force. And then, the acute and severe ear pain said hello; often, the ear pain screamed hello in the midst of the sleeping hours, sleeping hours for everyone but Sloan and me and Brendan. 

In our house we try to divide and conquer; on Brendan’s worknights, Sloan slept with me. And yet, Brendan would stumble down the hall during some of our wakeups to see if we needed anything. I varied between princess-kindness and villainous–annoyance; it’s hard to caretake around the clock, especially because the clock is still going for everyone else. School (theirs and mine) had started. Activities resumed. Siblings were feeling less than loved and struggling with the inequity of attention. 

I was newborn-mom tired… and things were going to become more challenging. 

Seven days deep into recovery, hoping that the next day would be the turn around the corner and it wasn’t. A week of this ever-changing routine had passed. We just had to get through another night, night seven. Sloan was in pain– mostly ear. Sloan was saying her stomach hurt. I snipped back at 11:30PM, “Yeah babes, it’s because you haven’t eaten. I can get you an apple sauce? Yogurt? Pudding? Ice cream?” Sloan, “Nooooo, I don’t want any of that.” 

“Okay then. I’m not sure how to help you.” 

“I feel like I’m going to throw up.”  I pop up with her and follow her to my bathroom, grab her hair as she hovers over the toilet. Sloan has always been our kid to throw up, often from coughing fits; so, I say, “ Slo, throwing up won’t feel great on your throat. Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.” And she does. She regains control of her body. 

We go back to bed. She falls asleep and I finally nod off. And then, I hear a groan, a gurgle, a vomit, and Sloan, “I’m sorry, I threw up.” My heart breaks, she’s apologizing. I’m already sitting up, and I can see in the dark that she’s covered in very dark puke.” I quickly say, “Sloan, no reason to say sorry. I love you. You will be okay. I’m tired. That’s all you are hearing in my voice. I’m not mad. I love you.” 

At this point, Brendan is entering the room. He turns the dial up on the bedroom light. Our bed, Sloan, and what can only be described as a frightening scene is illuminated. Brendan and I look at each other, unspoken words exchanged and he immediately turns off the light. 

I strip down. I carry Sloan to our tub and gently place her in. I begin to clean her. Watching her closely. Managing my own feelings. Conversing with her. Answering questions. Asking questions, “Did you eat any blueberries today? Cherries? Red food?” Sloan reassured me that she didn’t. Me knowing that what we just saw wasn’t food but blood and scabs, an obscene amount of blood and scabs. 

Brendan called the doctor's office and started cleaning up the scene– nothing would be saved, except our mattress (apparently Amazon reviews didn’t lie and that mattress protector is legit). Sloan was fine. I shampooed her hair, washed her body, and she was fine. No fever. Nothing seemed off, with the exception of the copious amounts of blood that were expelled from her body. 

Eventually, we connected with the doctor. And much to our surprise, this was not an ER visit. This was normal, “Yeah, it doesn’t happen all that time but it does. Generally with these cases of low volume…” I cut in, “Excuse me, did you say low volume? Ummm, to be clear we are talking an easy two cups of what I would describe as menstrual looking blood coming out my kid.” The doctor continues, “Yes, I understand it can look like a lot, and perhaps, what might be more helpful is the idea of the rate of bleeding. Sputtering blood. Vomiting more than once. That kind of thing is concerning. This sounds like Sloan had a little blood vessel that has been leaking over the last few days and she has been swallowing the blood along with scabs. Eventually, her stomach had enough and pushed it all out.” 

What the actual fuck, and yet, I had told Bren the same thing while we were waiting to hear from the doctor. I thought maybe that is what was going on. We trusted our ability as seasoned parents, knowing that a big component on what action to take with your kid is how they are behaving. We did have a bag ready to go in case we were told to go to the ER but we kept a level head. I’m thankful we had each other. I’m thankful we didn’t panic. I’m thankful the Interview with the Vampire scene was normal. Now, per doctor’s orders, we observed Sloan and encouraged sips of ice water to help constrict anything in there that may be leaking– still sounds a bit crazy. 

However, we followed the directions. And Sloan finally has turned that corner. She is prepared to go back to school tomorrow after missing 8 days of school. This week she will finally meet her soccer team and return to her beloved singing class. 

Sloan asked to see the video we took in the middle of the night. She was impressed. We talked about how she felt in those moments. She asked how I felt. She said she was so happy I was there, happy that Brendan was there. And that she was happy she didn’t have to go to the hospital. We didn’t shy away or sugarcoat her experience. When she told sisters, “I threw up a lot of blood!” confirmed by the single blood-stained pillow left behind we sat and talked with them. We reassured them. Answered more questions. We all processed. 

It’s been a long journey, in fact, while I was convalescing Sloan, Brendan and I realized that those 9 nights are the longest we have slept apart in our ten year marriage. We hit a new experience in parenting. We ebbed and flowed between worry, frustration, and relief. We are anxious to see if our decisions, per doctor recommendation, will improve her quality of life. 

We went through all the things, and then, decided to add more– we adopted a puppy. Who decides what is too much? Who decides when a cup is too full? We do. I’m exhausted and happy.