And Counting

Day 7 of living in the hospital with Sophie. I am living in her nightmare. What should have been a speedy recovery is NOT going well, and my eighties angel is reaching critical mass as far as pain, anxiety, and fear. Sophie has had no less than 8 different IVs in 7 days. This last one is a "pick line" -- the mother of all IVs. She has small veins in her thin little arms. "Bad veins," the IV nurse muttered last night at 2:30 a.m, shaking her head as she poked the needle repeatedly into Sophie's hand, moving it around as she tried to find a vein that wouldn't explode.
I am sitting next to Sophie's bed. A moment ago she was crying out in pain. Her stomach hurts. Her IV hurts. We are waiting for an X-ray (another one) so they can move the painful IV up into her "pick line." (Further up her arm.) She has finally nodded off, and I am grateful for I am reaching critical mass, too. Stress and exhaustion are finally taking their toll on me. Earlier when Sophie asked me to sing to her, I couldn't make it through "Blue Skies" I was overcome with tears. Sophie scolded me. "Mom, you're supposed to be cheering me up!" she said plaintively.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know. But I can't help it. It's so awful to see you hurt this much," I managed to choke out.

I am losing it.
There are many more days ahead. Poor Sophie. My poor little bear cub. She has been fighting terrible infection. High fevers - she's packed in ice every few hours... Super high heart rate. And pain. As soon as the opiates wear off - terrible pain.

A couple of days ago, the nurses seemed like they were really out to lunch. They kept disappearing, forgetting to give Sophie her pain meds, so that they were being administered anywhere from an hour to three hours late.
I was beginning to think I was going to have to pull a Shirley McClain from "Terms of Endearment." You know -- when she runs out to the nurse's station looking like crap yelling, "My daughter is in pain! Where is the medicine? My daughter's in pain!" and then she basically chases down a stupid nurse until someone gives Debra Winger's character the meds.

They will send Sophie for another CAT scan tomorrow. And then she might have to go under the knife again...

I keep trying to tell myself we are lucky. Lucky to have insurance for her, lucky to be in such a wealthy country, lucky to be in such a nice, clean hospital. But as I watch my daughter scream out in pain or watch her fever spike with her shivering uncontrollably, or hear her beg for water when she can't have any - it all just feels like really bad luck.