Josiah is going home. A team of Drs. came in this morning and gave us the thumbs up. Blood work shows a strain of something that has too many letters and syllables in it for me to pronounce. Basically, he will need antibiotics for a couple of weeks. We can certainly take care of that at home.

This morning at 5 am, a couple of nurses came in Josiah’s dark room. He and I were sound asleep. Since last night they had been keeping a close eye on the IV site. It was red and a tad been swollen. They were able to get his vital signs without disturbing him. But since his arm still looked red, the IV needed to be removed.

They flipped on the lights, held him down and removed it. He was not happy about it. They were very gentle with him. They really did a great job. I just felt bad for Josiah. He was in a peaceful, sound sleep and then suddenly he wasn’t.

Hospital stays are meant to help restore health, which you think would involve plenty of sleep, yet very little sleep happens in a hospital. Every 4 hours someone checks vital signs. Every few hours someone pops in to ask questions. Every so often someone stops by to offer some insight and share the latest relevant information.

Every so often, you get a chance to close your eyes for a bit of rest. If you are the patient that is. If you are the mom or dad staying with your child who is the patient, it’s a totally different story. Then, you are pretty much always awake.

It’s your job to change the pull-ups, wipe the nose, feed the food, change the wet gown, put the bed up, lower the bed down, answer the questions, ask the questions, comfort the sick child, buzz the nurse when the IV machine beeps, buzz the nurse when the IV machine beeps again and buzz the nurse again when that darn IV machine won’t stop beeping.

It’s your job to be strong when your child is weak.

It’s your job to keep a running mental list of every single thing your child ate and drank and expelled since the illness began so you can accurately report it to the medical professionals who ask. It’s your job to smile patiently and continue to be polite when 4 different medical professionals, ie: interns, stop by 5 minutes after one another to check on your child. Every  single day. (can’t they simply share their findings with one another)

It’s your job to hold your child down as each one checks vital signs and your child is not wanting anyone to even look at him, let alone touch him.

It’s your job to be strong so you can hold down that weak child who has strength well beyond his size. It’s your job to talk soothingly in his ear as you throw yourself up over the bed rails to literally straddle his body, so he remains still during these frequent vital signs checks. It’s your job to instantly figure out creative ways to maneuver your body to keep the Ninja that is your child from wiggling out from under you while they check his vital signs.

It’s your job to look polished and sound intelligent and knowledgeable when a team of 7, count them, 7 medical professionals show up with clipboards in hand asking specific questions in the wee hours of the morning.

It’s your job to pretend the loud alarm sounding just outside the door, signifying a fire drill has nothing to do with you or your child.  It’s your job to roll over and try to drown out the noise with a paper thin hospital pillow.

And it’s your job, when the lights are out and the child is sleeping, to curl up on the rock hard recliner that doubles as a bed to get a restful night of sleep.

For 15 minutes.