Dasein.

Having a sick child is terrifying, even when you know that everything that can be done is being done, even when you trust that the people making medical decisions about your baby are fighting for her almost as fiercely as you are.
Imagine, then, that your two-year-old has a rare immune disease that causes her tremendous pain and keeps her from any semblance of a normal life. Now imagine that the treatment that offers the best hope, the treatment recommended by your pediatrician, is denied.
I know. You are too angry to read any further right now. I’ll give you a moment to take a few deep breaths, and when you have calmed down, please click over to read Ivy’s story. Then sign this petition.

Simone ended up in the ER today for some chokey wheezing and returned with a prescription for albuterol. Coming on the heels of a pulmonology appointment at which she was declared to be doing better than 80% of babies they her age with her level of chronic lung disease, our jaunt to the emergency department was disappointing, to say the least. Of course she didn’t wheeze once while we were at the hospital, and has been fine since, so it may be nothing. It was an alarming sound, however, and I hope she refrains from making it in the future. Not that she minded the visit herself:during the chest x-ray, her legs and arms STRAPPED INTO RESTRAINTS, she was quiet and smiling, occasionally giving the lamp above her a flirtatious coo. We had actually been at the hospital earlier in the afternoon, to visit one of her primary nurses from the NICU. If I’d known we would end up back there I’d have stuck around to save on parking.
Her primaries feel like family, and Simone was in the unit so long and met so many people that when she comes back for a visit it is a happy cluster of friends fawning over her progress, and it feels…victorious. Of course, after I had gone ON and ON about how talkative and giggly she has become, Simone didn’t so much as crack a smile the whole time we were there. She did manage to douse one of the nurses with spit-up, however. That’s my girl!

I hope she is better behaved tomorrow, when the team from Early Intervention arrives to evaluate her and begin therapy. I want to make a good impression, so we’ve been practicing various tricks she can use to impress the evaluators. Like this one, where she reads Heidegger:
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I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know how it goes.
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