A breathing test was done to confirm what the doctor already suspected: Thorin had asthma. He prescribed a daily maintenance inhaler, a rescue inhaler, plus the continued use of the nebulizer as needed. He also gave us a protocol explaining what symptoms indicated the need for more than a daily inhaler. He said to get rid of the cool air vaporizer, explaining wet air was about the worst thing for asthma.
“Why did our doctor and the hospital recommend it?” I asked.
“Because they aren’t pulmonologists,” he replied.
Then, the pulmonologist recommended we make an appointment to see a pediatrician he worked with regularly. She also happened to be a DO.
The new pediatrician was the complete opposite of Dr. Not-McDreamy. When she entered the exam room, she turned toward Thorin with her hand out and said, “Hello, Thorin! I’m Dr. Peggy.” After they shook hands, she turned her attention to me. The entire tone of the exam was positive toward Thorin. She mostly asked yes or no questions, starting with Thorin for an answer and then asking me for more detail. It was clear she assumed Thorin was competent and could participate. Toward the end of the exam, she asked if we could talk privately. We went to another exam room.
Holy crap, she’s going to tell me something awful.
I must have looked alarmed. She laughed and put her arm on mine.
“He’s okay. He’s great! I wanted to tell you that I know Thorin.”
It took me a second to understand.
“From before?” I asked.
“Yeah, from before. I was a resident at the hospital when he was brought in. I was part of his care team. He was so sick. He was a fighter. Everyone fell in love with him. When we found out he was going back home, we were worried. I didn’t know what happened after that. Then when I saw his name on my schedule . . . I was so happy! I was so relieved! I never stopped thinking about Thorin.”
“You’re supposed to be his doctor!”
“I know!”
Thorin’s health started improving. He still got sick frequently but not in such a debilitating way. He was in school more frequently, bouncing back more quickly. It was then I actually became a bit of a hypervigilant parent. I was so used to taking him to the ER that I started worrying I was being lax. The school called one day telling me he was sick and sobbing. When I got there, someone mentioned his breathing being ragged.
“Ragged? What’s ragged mean to you?” I demanded.
“Not quite right? I don’t know exactly,” she said nervously.
I watched her intently and said, “Do you think he may have trouble breathing?”
“I guess he could have a hard time breathing.” Her response was measured.
That was all I needed to hear. Later, I realized I frightened her. What childcare provider wants to find out a child in her care should have gone to the hospital?
I practically threw Thorin in the car and drove to the ER. He and I walked in together, which should have been a sign he did not need to be there—I wasn’t carrying him in.
“I think my son is having a problem breathing,” I said in a shaky voice at the admitting desk.
The woman looked at me askance—maybe the most askance I’ve ever been looked at. “You mean that boy?” she said pointing behind me.
I turned and saw Thorin dancing up a storm, taking full advantage of the shiny floor in the entryway.
“Gee, he looks better,” I said. “Maybe I overreacted.”
“What do you want to do, Mom?” she asked.
“I guess we’ll just go, then.”
I slunk out with Thorin twirling behind me. I was mortified. As I explained it to Ward later, he suggested this insight: “You can freak out now. You couldn’t then. It had to come out some place. And now you know if he’s dancing, he’s okay.”
When I was merely a hypothetical parent, my theoretical child behaved as I instructed him. I was convinced my deeply satisfying fantasy world as a parent was possible. As a non-parent, I would listen to my friends complain about how hard it was to get their children to go to sleep or stay in their own bed. In my mind, I would judge them for not being able to control their children through the same calm reasoning I had great success with in my imagination.
Once I became an actual parent, I quickly realized that until you have actually struggled to get a toddler to bed, you couldn’t truly understand how devious yet universally predictable toddlers are. How on earth did Thorin know to ask for water, take a sip, and then twenty minutes later say he had to go to the bathroom?
One particular night, Thorin and I were lying on our sides in bed, facing each other. “Going to sleep” had started forty minutes earlier. I had cheerfully read countless children’s books and knew I couldn’t summon the enthusiasm necessary to read about a freaking fuzzy duckling. Instead, I started reading aloud the New Yorker article on Scientology. My mom told me I loved it when my dad used to sing the sports page to me. Thorin kept saying no to the indictments against L. Ron Hubbard, which began to sound like a bleating lamb.
“How ’bout if I sing it to you?”
“No!”
It was then I stumbled upon an idea.
“Do you want to know how we met?” I asked.
My question was met
