A Love-Hate Relationship

Last night little A had a heckuva coughing fit. It went a little something like this: cough, cough, gasp, cough, gasp, wheeze, "Help!" I desperately want to help him breathe, but I can't do much more than what we've been doing: Pulmicort 2x a day, Albuterol every 4 hours, timing respiratory rate (averaging 45-50 breaths per minute), checking for retractions (between 1 and 2), etc. So finally, we got Prednisolone: I love it. I hate it. I love that it can somehow open airways into my little A's lungs so he can once again breathe without retractions and wheezing (though it's taking it's own sweet time). I hate that it makes him crazy and aggressive and sad and mad and whiney. I love that we can treat him at home instead of in a hospital. I hate it when he says, "Mom, mom, mom, MOM, MOM, MOM, MOM!" with every breath, but he doesn't know what he wants. I love that he doesn't say, "Help!" every time he takes a breath. I hate that he doesn't want to be held, but screams whenever I put him down. I love that it isn't hard to give him and that it only lasts 3 days. I hate that the side effects of the steroid last for several days after he's done with the medicine. Yeah, yeah, it's all part of being a parent. I know. He just looks like he's ready to crawl right out of his own skin. Poor kid.

(If you removed the word "Love," this blog title would also be an acurate description of the feeling I have about the doctor we saw yesterday. But that is an entirely different story:)