When a Fever is Just a Fever

It was 3:30 a.m.

I crept into his room lit only by a nightlight. I didn't want to startle him, but the door squeaked. The box fan rippled my pajama pants. I squinted in the dark. He was awake. Still. Eyes open. Not yet able to roll over, he was waiting there for me on his back.

Maybe he heard me coming in. I made a mental note. "Got to remember to WD-40 that thing."

I picked up his light 5-month-old body and we went over to the big comfy chair where I settled in for a 45-minute nursing session. His head rested on my sleeved arm, his body on the Boppy in my lap.

Once his tummy was full, I kissed his cheek and gently set him down in his crib.

At 6, I snuck out the front door into the cold late-October morning. Going to work twice a week seems like a good idea, except at this hour.

Ten minutes after 9, my cell phone rattles across my desk. T Junior's day care provider is telling me he has a temperature of 103. My heart races as I call Mr. T to go back and pick him up -- it's only a few minutes after he dropped him off. Next, I punch in the doctor's number.

Mr. T beats me there. T Junior is on his back. His velvet-soft baby blanket is a barrier between the cold, crinkly cushioned table. My heart squeezes like a fist and I can feel the tears coming fast.

He is still. Eyes open. Hot. His cheeks are fire engine red. He doesn't care to look at us or smile or show any emotion at all. He doesn't even suck his fingers. His knees are drawn up over his belly button. His arms are at his sides. They look limp.

Mr. T tells me T Junior's had green diarrhea twice this morning.

The doctor is worried. She doesn't like how he's not responding. And, his temperature is 104 and climbing. We must go to the hospital immediately. She will call ahead and let them know we are on our way.

The hospital is in an adjacent building so, thankfully, we don't have to get in the car. I cradle my listless son as we walk through the corridors to the hospital. Me and Mr. T don't talk. We're too shocked.

I see people cooing over my baby, but I don't smile. I don't look at them. I can't even cry; I'm so scared.

Three days in the hospital -- after blood tests, stool tests, a spinal tap, IVs and antibiotics -- and the doctors finally determine T Junior has salmonella sepsis. The bacteria is in his blood stream, which, they say, is very dangerous for an infant. The doctors tell us that without antibiotics it could settle in a major organ, like the brain or heart. He probably got it from me since I was sick a few days before, when I thought I simply ate something that didn't agree with me. A couple more days go by and we finally get to go home.

That was nearly five months ago.

Now every time T Junior gets sick, especially with a fever, I go back. Back to when I missed all the signs of my very sick baby. That middle-of-the-night feeding? I didn't feel he was hot because I had long sleeves on. He was awake because he was in pain, not because of a squeaky hinge. And, then, I was at work in the morning when he needed his mommy the most. I wasn't even there.

T Junior has had a fever for a couple of days now. It is not 104 and he doesn't have diarrhea. He's tired, but not lethargic. He plays off and on, and asks for "BUH!" (books). But sometimes he cries for no reason, and that's not like him.

"He has a cold," the doctor said today. Back in the car, I cried. Embarrassed, because this isn't the first time I've done this.

Will I ever be able to get over it? I don't know.