Going Viral

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Published: Saturday, June 06, 2015 10:24 AM

Written by Katie Tyson

It has been more than nine weeks. Nine very long, very trying weeks: trying to get Callen recovered; trying to understand what the hell just happened; trying to get back to where we were -wherever that was!

Did we not recognize a good thing while we had it? Yes, he threw up every day. Yes, our lives were scheduled around bitter green pills and mania-inciting little white pills and nausea-inducing big white pills. Yes, we were nervous to have been given our very first 4-week hiatus from clinic (sidebar: there was no need to be nervous - about that, anyway – we didn’t even last two full weeks “on the outside”).

How could we have known that those would quickly become “the good ‘ole days” and that we’d be longing for their return?

We were barely settled in at home after the Easter weekend hospitalization when we received the call. Callen’s viral culture, drawn upon admission five days prior, had just returned positive for Parvovirus B19. They wanted us to be prepared for what would happen during the next day’s clinic visit: Callen would be placed in isolation. Contact and respiratory precautions would be in full effect. No shared physical space, no shared air space. No waiting in a waiting room. No use of the common treatment room. Gowns, gloves and masks would be required apparel for all. Terminal cleans would be ordered for any room he occupied.

This head’s up “so as not to alarm us upon arrival” was all we were given: the rest of the discussion would have to wait for the visit itself.

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Spring Broken

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Published: Tuesday, April 21, 2015 08:32 AM

Written by Katie Tyson

Callen and Olivia shared a bedroom until they were 4 and 6 year’s old, respectively. One afternoon, when they were barely 2 and 4, I put them down for their (my) much-needed afternoon nap. I listened via monitor to the precious toddler banter that was eventually replaced by quietude, save the sound of gentle even breathing. An hour or so later there were sounds of stirring. Then giggling. Faint pitter patter around their room. Then silence again – only this time it was the kind a parent intuitively recognizes as meaning that somebody is up to no good. Or, as the case may be, two somebodies.

I smelled it before I saw it. My feet were barely on the first floor landing when a faint but unmistakable odor hit: cod liver oil with a twist of menthol. My gait quickened as I ascended the staircase. So did my breathing – perhaps driven by the altitude change, the pace of my climb, or the thickening fumes. I could almost taste it by the time I pushed through their bedroom door.

There stood my diaper-clad bare-footed brood, grinning, caught Kabuki-faced and white-handed, their bedroom walls now adorned with a thick coating of freshly applied Desitin® reaching as high as their tippy toes could take them.

My “Mom look” must have spoken volumes: Olivia’s face crumpled and dissolved into tears. Without so much as a question, she quickly and fully allocuted for her crimes, ending summarily with “I wish I were you and you were me so that you wouldn’t have to be so disappointed in me.” Callen, on the other (white) hand, broke into a broad grin and began jumping up and down, gleefully exclaiming, “I did it! I did it! I did it!”

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Prequel

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Published: Friday, March 13, 2015 03:09 PM

Written by Katie Tyson

It was unlike anything I’d experienced before. Sure, there had been a few other moments of intuition in my life that had proven somewhat premonitory. During my OB/GYN training junior residents came to understand that if Tyson suddenly wanted to simulate a ruptured ectopic or shoulder dystocia, you’d best pay attention because it was likely moments before one rolled in through the ER or labor ward. My ability to “gut out” what a call night or surgery or delivery would be like became the stuff of legends. Well, not really. But more than a few times it served our training team – and thus our patients –well that I could sense trouble brewing before it presented itself.

So it was deeply disturbing to me that, on the night of Thursday March 6, 2014, it struck again. But with unparalleled intensity.

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FORECASTING

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Published: Wednesday, March 04, 2015 09:13 AM

Written by Katie Tyson

We never saw it coming. And, in hindsight, it was probably better that way. No hype. No anticipation. No expectation – and thus, no chance for disappointment. We’d certainly experienced our fair share of that recently: the “almosts”, “about tos” and “hopefully soons” have been the landscape and language of our lives for months.

Predicting and planning had long ago yielded to guesstimating, not that this entirely obviated the letdowns. But at least it kept things consistently inconsistent. Nearly everything in our lives was predicated upon caveats and clauses. “If…thens”, “I don’t knows” and “maybes” were the likely answers to just about any question, and the expression “cautiously optimistic” made our approach to life seem boldly decisive.

Callen was particularly keen on the “when” questions: When will I / can I / will my blood be strong enough to”… And our answer had so often been “maybe tomorrow” that he once quite pointedly asked, “How many tomorrows will there be?” I struggled not to read too much into that one.

So there had been a lot of “tomorrows” in the making of that day - which I suppose was, in and of itself a build up to it. Although having lived it, it sure seemed like more of a beating down.

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