Cold Spaghetti

Will told me this on the way home from school yesterday. “My bones hurt. On the inside.” We came home to our usual evening whirlwind: the girls next door came over, we were cleaning up and getting dinner ready, the kids were playing. Scott and Andrea stopped by with Zoe, their 4-month old who we watched while they went out for dinner with Andrea’s parents. Neighborhood babysitter (and neat nursing/midwifery student) Andrea arrived to babysit next door. So our little homes were Ground Zero for excitement last night. Culminating in me bathing the kids next door while Paul walked the house with Zoe (poor little thing had some tummy pain and is refusing bottles), then everyone coming over to admire the sleeping baby and watch, of all things, Baby Beethoven.

And in all that excitement, Will mentioned it a few more times: “My bones hurt on the inside.” We chalked up to growing pains, or maybe a random bruise, or maybe just nothing at all. How could a boy, running and laughing, singing “You are my Sunshine” to baby Zoe, blowing raspberries on his sister’s belly, following the girls around like they hung the moon… certainly this child was perfectly fine, there was nothing to worry about.

WRONG.

Roughly 2:30am. Will wakes up, crying. He’s in pain. “My bones hurt. My knee hurts.” Paul investigates, his knee bends fine — full range of motion. But something is still bothering Will. He remains restless. Paul lays down with him and comforts him through the night, neither of them sleeping much.

6:00-8:30am. Morning routine is rough. Will won’t walk. He is crying a lot. He is uncooperative with taking off his pull-up, using the bathroom, and getting dressed. At first we think he’s being cranky, then difficult. We examine him closely, feel up and down both legs, look from different angles to determine if there is swelling, encourage him to stand, take a step, walk, move, bend… something that will visually confirm his reason for not walking. We don’t notice anything, although we are convinced something IS hurting him.

8:30am. Maybe it’s just a sprain. Let’s keep with the plan — bring the computers to work from the cafe, we still are subbing this afternoon so teachers can have their appreciation lunch. If we aren’t there, maybe there won’t be enough subs for everyone to go. Will is okay. Once he gets to school, he’ll want to go so badly that he’ll get past the discomfort; I bet once he’s moving the pain will work it’s way out. He probably just slept funny or pulled something yesterday.

8:31am. Will is carried to the car because he can’t walk to it.

8:40am. Will says: “Mommy, I can’t go to school until I’m fixed.”

8:41am. I’m on the phone with the pediatrician’s office. They’ll see him as soon as we can get there.

8:45am. Kate is dropped off at Abeona. We’re on our way to the medical group offices.

9:05am. Arrive in the parking lot. Will has to be carried into the building and up to the office. He cries at every transition.

9:10am. Dr. Oates sees us almost immediately. Will tells her about his bones. Paul tells her about the night. I tell her about the ears. She checks the ears: both are infected. (One mystery solved!) She begins Will’s physical exam. It’s clear very quickly that although he’s indicating pain in and around his knee, it’s his hip that is the source of his discomfort.

9:15am. Here’s the plan: X-ray first. If it’s a fracture, we’ll stop there. If not, we’ll move on to blood work.

11:15am. X-ray results are finally in. He’s 100%, bone-wise. Will has received a good education about taking pictures of bones “where it’s very dark inside.” We move on to blood work, carrying order forms with “STAT, please” written twice and circled in a big red loop. It’s a little scary. And frustrating, because the STAT means nothing to the staff in the busy waiting room.

11:55am. Will gets a time out, right in the waiting room, for continuing to put his fingers up our noses. He may hurt too much to walk, but he’s still Will.

12:30pm. We’re finally done. We’re going home, via Bud’s for a cheeseburger for our champ. Will, covered in stickers for his morning bravery, is carried out in our arms pharaoh-style, as if seated in front of us. It hurts his hips too much to put him on the side.

1:15pm. We notice Will has a temperature. We call Dr. Oates, as she’s asked us to call with signs of fever. We’re patched through immediately.

1:30pm. I lay Will down for a nap. He holds onto my hand and we fall asleep together. The last thing he says to me before sleeping is “My leg still hurts.”

3:00pm. Dr. Oates calls. Will’s lab work looks good, although we need to watch his fever and be sure he’s not getting worse. He’s got Toxic or Transient Synovitis. It could last more than a week, or clear up in a few days. We will forgo antibiotics for his ear, for now. He’ll be seen again tomorrow when we go back for Kate’s 1-year wellness.

In the end…
Diagnosis: Toxic or Transient Synovitis. A diagnosis of exclusion (meaning that the other, more scary, things were ruled out… thank goodness). It’s fairly common with young kids, boys more than girls.
Treatment: Whatever normal activity that can be tolerated. Motrin as needed.

What we learned…
Will does a really good job of telling us when things are going strangely, even if he doesn’t quite have the words to figure out exactly what is going on.
It is really scary to have a perfect kid one moment… and forms for tests that say “STAT” in the next.
Even when you are freaking out inside about your kid, there are still moments where you have to parent (i.e.: our time out in the waiting room).

The scariest part…
Driving home where we had a conversation about “what if something is really really wrong.” Not a good thing to dwell on.