We think he might have meningitis.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents took my baby brother (who was one-and-a-half at the time) to a scheduled appointment to have tubes put in his ears.

Twelve hours later, after not showing up at my softball game later that afternoon, my  mom called. I was waiting at home with my aunt and uncle, who had unexpectedly come to stay with me and my other brother who was fourteen.

My aunt handed me the phone.

“Your brother has leukemia,” my mom said.

It was a discovery that was made doing pre-op stuff before the surgery, and it was a serious blow from left field.

Nineteen months later, my brother died. He was three. It was awful.

That kind of fucked me up.

Okay, that really fucked me up…

When Number 3 got really sick this past Sunday, I didn’t think too much of it. I handle the kids being sick fairly well. I don’t overreact. In fact, I think I force myself to underreact after what I went through back when I was sixteen.

But on Wednesday, when Number 3 was still very sick, and when he had been up the entire night writhing around in his bed in agony, crying, then puking, then screaming if you went near his head, well, I got a little nervous.

I took him to the pediatrician.

I usually see the physician’s assistant. I love her. She doesn’t judge, and she’s very laid back.

She asked Number 3 what hurt.

“My stomach and my head,” he told her.

She asked him to look down, and he said he couldn’t because his neck hurt too bad.

She told me she was going to run a couple tests. The nurse shoved a couple swabs up his nose, and then she and the PA left the room and said they’d be right back.

I was sitting in a chair at the end of the table that Number 3 was sitting on.

The PA brought one of the doctors back with her. She came over next to me and squatted down while the doctor talked to Number 3.

Why the hell was she squatting down next to me? What was wrong?

“We’re going to send you to the ER,” she said to me.

I swallowed.

“He might have meningitis.”

Fuck.

My pulse went through the roof.

Flashbacks to that day my mom called me when I was a sophomore in high school flooded my brain.

“But it’s the good kind of meningitis,” she told me. “Viral meningitis.”

She had already lost me at meningitis.

Every article I had ever seen on Facebook about the mother who waited a day or an hour too long before going to the doctor and whose kid was dead 24 hours later flashed in front of me.

“Um, how do they test for that?” I asked her.

“Spinal tap,” she whispered.

Fuck! 

I felt the tears coming. Big time. But Number 3 was watching. I could not panic, and I had to keep my shit together.

I wondered how on Earth my parents maintained their composure that day thirty-one years ago when they found out my brother was sick.

So I went into auto pilot.

I thought about nothing, and I went through the motions.

We got to the ER a little while later.

I checked in at the front desk.

“Why are you here?” the receptionist asked.

“My pediatrician sent us,” I told her.”They think my son could possibly have meningitis. But the good kind of meningitis,” I emphasized.

“There is no good kind of meningitis,” the receptionist told me.

There went my heart rate again. Through the roof.

A short while later, we were admitted to the ER.

The hospital we were in just underwent massive renovations. I had been to the ER of this hospital many, many times before.

But not since it was renovated.

It was actually quite beautiful. And the rooms in the ER were great. It wasn’t just an area with curtains you pulled around you anymore.

Number 3 had his own room with walls and a door and a television and everything.

The doctor came in shortly after that. She was awesome, and she gave Number 3 a full exam.

After several minutes, she looked at me and said, “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have meningitis. And we want to avoid sticking a big needle into his back. So we are going to try a treatment and see if it helps him.”

I exhaled.

Number 3 was not going to die in the next twenty four hours.

They hooked him up to an IV and gave him some potent pain medication.

Number 3 had spent the last 24 hours in his bed, in the dark, unable to watch television or use his Kindle or look at the iPad because he was in so much pain.

And within fifteen minutes of being hooked up to the IV, he was a whole different kid.

“Mom! I can watch TV!” he exclaimed.

And that was our barometer of improvement.

Number 3 could watch TV.

I never thought I’d be so happy to say that.

So we spent the next couple hours hanging out. Number 3 ate for the first time in two days. He was able to kick back in bed and watch the Disney Channel, which is a big treat since we got rid of cable last spring.

He went from being in hell to being in heaven.

And I was able to really relax.

He’s still sick, but he’s going to be fine.

This morning, my dad came up to the house.

Number 3 couldn’t wait to see him.

“Papa! Guess what! I had to go to the hospital yesterday and I had my own room and I got to watch cable and there was a lady who comes down the hallway with a big cart full of junk food and you get to have some if you want it!” he told my dad, all in one breath.

I’m glad Number 3 enjoyed his stay in the ER.

But I’m praying that it’s the last time we have to reserve a room there.

At least for 2105.

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