I just don't dig on swine

Vincent: Want some bacon?

Jules: No man, I don't eat pork.

Vincent: Are you Jewish?

Jules: Nah, I ain't Jewish, I just don't dig on swine, that's all.

---"Pulp Fiction" (1994)



When I told Frederic it was time to go, and I saw the fear in his eyes, I doubted my decision. His worry stemmed from two previous experiences. Needles wrongfully inserted into his hands and arms, stabbing, pinching, throbbing pain. No one forgets that sting, least a child who’s been spurned before. It was an IV he was afraid of, it was his possible death that did me in.

The media has done a great job at quietly and assertively inserting fear into the minds of parents worldwide; me included. Swine flu, H1N1, vaccinations, precautions, shortages, waiting on line, crowded doctor’s offices, crowded urgent care and emergency rooms, fevers, chills, body aches, we’re all knowledgeable yet extremely dangerous with that wisdom; me included.

And in our home, the worst word of all: pneumonia. It’s the word associated with death; real and otherwise. It’s what my children know contributed to the death of their only unwillingly absent grandparent. It’s what my children have heard me say was the demise of my older sister, albeit used as an excuse to let children process death on their level. What child can understand the truth when the truth is something called SIDS?

We couldn’t bring the fever down. 101.2 became 101.4 became 102; my boiling point. Rushing to the Internet, the CDC informed me that it was time; time to take the precaution, time to get undressed and dressed, time to drive two miles up the road to confirm or deny what my limited medical education suspected. Time to make time, even if the time spent was wasted.

I made promises I knew I couldn’t keep. Who was I to say what the doctors would or wouldn’t do? But they were promises that got us to move. 10 minutes later, the fever was confirmed. 13 minutes later, dosages of acetaminophen and Motrin were administered and consumed, 16 minutes later we were in a room, reiterating the progression of the aggressive illness to “Julie” our very qualified and very confident nurse (more on that later), who listened to Frederic’s lungs, who detected some wet sounds, who shook her head to herself as she possibly made her own diagnosis and began offering her own treatment plan in her mind, 18 minutes later the physician’s assistant arrived and confirmed what we already knew: The Flu.

“We’re seeing a lot of it,” he said, “if someone presents with all or some of the symptoms, we’re skipping the swabs and going straight to the diagnosis.” He actually said the words, “H1N1” so quickly, and so passively, that Frederic, who was busy into “Home Alone 3” on his bedside TV, missed what was said about him; in front of him with little regard to what the actual words might do to the mind of a child. “Tylenol and Motrin, and plenty of fluids,” the PA continued. “He’s highly contagious. At least until 24 hours after the last fever.”

When asked about antibiotics, I was met with a slight smirk and roll of the eyes, which told me I was being over-protective, which told me I was being petty, which told me I didn’t really know what he knew. Which told me to let him do his job.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing more than what I’ve already said. We'll just get that fever down and you'll be good to go. I'll get him some juice. He's got to keep drinking. Drinking is good in this case."

Two cups of hospital juice offered and one consumed. We came equipped with an oversized bottle of orange Gatorade, which was met with less resistance to the PA's offering. Moments later, the doctor began a little backtracking:

"Heck, while you are here," he said, "why don't we just do a chest x-ray. Like I said," he looked away, toward the corner of the room, "you're already here. Can't hurt."

I imagined the conversation with Julie. She detected something. She cared about getting it right. She was confident that there was something else going on. She, I assumed, fought for the right of her patient, and won.

Concerned the x-ray might hurt, I walked side by side with Frederic, my arm draped around his hospital gown. "Nothing to worry about," I told him. "You've done these before. It's like taking a picture of your chest."

I had to remain outside the closed door room, but I could hear most of everything that was going on. Frederic, ever so curious, was asking questions. "Should I lay down? My dad said this won't hurt...will it? What's that machine do?"

Moments later, the PA changed his attitude. More seriously, "Well, he's got pneumonia." He was still being nonchalant with his tone, but he did seem a bit more concerned too. Frederic heard the word pneumonia and started to cry.

Julie walked in during this part. I detected, or I hoped for, a little smirk in the corner of her mouth as she walked next to the PA. She looked at Frederic and smiled. "It's a good thing you're mom and dad got you here when they did. We're gonna send you home with some medicine and get you back on your feet. You'll have guests over for Thanksgiving. You've got five whole days to get better." Frederic smiled back at her.

"Tomorrow's going to be filled with TV and doing nothing," I said. "Think of all of the perks."

That's the cool thing about kids. Show them the bright side of a bad situation, and they immediately latch on; most of the time. This time, it worked.

I was scared shitless. Still am. He's had nearly 24 hours worth of medicines, rest, fluids, and sympathy. At about four o'clock this morning, Frederic came charging into our room crying. And sweating. He was a mess. He was obviously still asleep, and he had broken his fever. My lame attempt at humor met on deaf ears. "You broke your fever," I said, "you're in a lot of trouble for that mister." Cue crickets.

We're all still on edge with how this thing's going to shake out. The fever presented itself again tonight; nothing major, but it reared it's little head. And the fear and the tears returned. He's just so worried about Thanksgiving.

I'm just so worried about my little boy.