Summer vacation

His refusal to eat the blue slushy, was the first sign something was really wrong.

At first I thought my 10 year old's stomach ache was the result of Midwest heat we were experiencing on vacation.

But not long after, he started throwing up.

The lists of ailments raced through my mind.
Stomach bug?
Food poisoning?

He didn't really eat much all day. That's when I first thought appendicitis. My husband was not convinced.

And yet I could not shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong.

At 4 a.m. he woke up and vomited again and told me it hurt to urinate.
The new symptom sent us racing to the ER.

At the hospital my son's eyes seemed to sink into his skull. From the bed he reached for my hand. He had pain on the right side, he told the doctors who pushed and tapped on his belly. They moved his legs, they took his temperature and his blood. They gave him an IV.

His white blood cell count came back high. The ER doctor told us there was an infection and my son's pain was pointing towards appendicitis.

But there was a disclaimer. Appendicitis is a tricky diagnosis.

No one seemed to want to say for sure.

As time ticked by, we went for an ultrasound for some perspective. It showed nothing.

An upbeat resident popped in to say that sometimes the appendix hides behind other
organs so it is not visible. He drew us a picture and told us sometimes a rectal exam helps identify appendicitis.

I thought we were on to something until two other doctors from the surgery team came in and said the whole episode might be viral, an impostor illness called mesenteric adenitis.

I wasn't buying it. My son's eyes and his actions were saying something else. He wouldn't build a Lego figurine I got him. His face was suddenly flushed.

I called the nurse.

He's getting a fever now, I said, when the upbeat resident came back.

He asked my son to jump up and down. His lanky frame doubled over.
The upbeat resident nodded his head knowingly at another appendicitis sign.
But he couldn't make the call on his own.

Like judge and jury, the rest of the surgical team weighed in. They shook their head at the resident's suggestion that the appendix was hiding.

The other doctors pressed on my son's slender belly and asked him how he felt. He said "good." It was a reflexive answer to adults by a 10-year old who was scared and wanted to get back to his vacation. Ten year olds know that telling people what they want to hear can sometimes change things. Was I the only one who knew this?

Tell them where it hurts, I say.

I tick off my own observations: It still hurts him to urinate. He has a fever now.

But the surgeon, head of trauma and all things critical care, has seen people screaming and doubled over in pain.

That's not your son, he said.

Still, the team admits him to see if his condition worsens.

Upstairs on floor ten, I pace.

My son won't look at his iPod touch. He doesn't want to talk.
He sucks in his breath through his teeth when he pees.

On rounds the same chief surgeon and resident entourage enter the room.
He explains why we are waiting again but I can't listen to it anymore.

"Are you telling me there is no possibility that his appendix is inflamed and behind another organ?"

The chief tells me I have three options: I can go with his game plan of watch and wait, or have him perform a possible unnecessary surgery, or expose my son to cat scan radiation that may give him cancer later in life.

I felt cornered, like a gun was to my head to pick an option I don't truly know will save my little boy.

My stupefied silence gives the go ahead for his plan.

My son falls asleep only to awaken screaming in pain, sliding off the side of his bed and into my arms. His eyes close.

"Finn, Finn stay with me Finn," I said tapping his face.

His fever was now 102.9.
I tell the nurse this isn't normal. This isn't a virus, I say.

Please get someone.

Three hours later a new doctor comes by to press on my son's belly. It hurts everywhere now. It's appendicitis. On rounds the next morning five other doctors confirm it, but not officially and not without a cat scan.

The scan shows pus in the abdomen - confirmation that the infection raging through my first-born's body is bacterial.

He needs surgery but the nurse tells us there are no operating rooms open. It's a scheduled operating day. We could wait 10 minutes or hours.

But he has a serious infection, I say.
He needs antibiotics now.

Surgery comes quick after the head surgeon sees the CT films.

In recovery, we are told all went well.

Did we lose 12 hours? The head doctor asks me as i cling to my husband's arm. Then he answers his own question with a: "Probably. It's hard to know. "

I have a flash of irritation but feel my shoulders drop.

He's going to be ok.

But then he wasn't.

Back upstairs a resident on the team looks at me, his face twisted in concern.

So you understand there is a high risk of abscess now?
Panic races through me like an electrical current

My son's appendix was gangrenous. I know the not-so-good meaning of the word. I remember from healthcare reporting the poor outcomes of violent infections in the body.

I am scared.

I demand his records at the nurse's station.

How can I protect my son if you are not telling me how sick he is?

I don't sleep for days.

I memorize his vital signs. I look for traces of blood in his vomit and don't brush my hair.

I trust no one. I go by my gut.

On the fifth day he eats his favorite grilled cheese.

We can finally go home. We're getting better. But we are not the same.