Curses

It's a couple of minutes after midnight. So technically, we've started my son's fourth day in the hospital.

He's going to be fine. I mean, no one is questioning that. He's got a viral respiratory infection that hits babies hard, so he's on oxygen. He's 23 months old.

Here is the situation.

I am a socially anxious agoraphobe with a mood disorder and a side of severe panic attacks.

I thought I was taking my boy to get a bad cold checked out and I was ordered to the pediatric ER. Chest X-rays were alarming. His oxygen saturation was too low. He was working too hard to breathe. He was admitted.

No one has given me the same answer twice. No one has volunteered the same information. I found out ten minutes ago - after three fucking days - that he won't be going home until he's been off oxygen for 24 hours. Earlier today someone suggested he could go home if he did well during a nice nap. When I confronted Useless #2 about the "nice nap" bullshit, I got a shrug. "Or that."

This is my third night on this awful bed with my son curled up next to me. And I have been informed, with a sympathetic shrug, that it probably won't be my last.

I am a socially anxious agoraphobe with a mood disorder and a side of severe panic attacks. I am trapped in one small room with a bored, unhappy toddler. I am away from my home. I am away from my daughter. I am away from my dogs. I am away from my husband. I am forced to talk to dozens of strangers all day, repeating myself over and over because apparently no one is writing this shit down. And I have to remain reasonable at all times and not get too emotional, confrontational, or overtly anxious.

There are these screams in my chest and I can feel them pushing, crawling towards my throat.