Throughout April, she had woken up three separate nights, each about a week and a half apart, with a headache that then led to vomiting. In our sleep stupors, my husband and I initially brushed it off as allergies, which were particularly bad in April. Clearly she must have a sinus infection and drainage. We told her to drink some water and we'd assess it in the morning.
Each morning after these incidents, she would eat food, throw up again, sleep until 10 AM, and then wake up again and be completely fine for the rest of the day. No fever, no headache, nothing. A Google search indicated that it could be a virus, allergies, or migraines. It said, "In rare cases, headaches and vomiting can be symptoms of more serious conditions like brain tumors or meningitis." There was no way we were rare. A brain tumor never even entered my mind.
After her third incident, I took her to her pediatrician, sure that they would see me as an overly cautious mom. It seemed like nothing. But, the doctor took me seriously. She listened carefully as my daughter explained what had been happening. She performed some motor tests and checked her eyes. Then the doctor said, "I don't see anything obviously wrong, but something doesn't feel right. I think you should get a CT scan." She recommended we go to the ER at the children's hospital instead of waiting for a referral. It would be quicker and cheaper.
So, off to the ER we went. It was 3 pm. We should have stopped for food. We should have stopped for a change of clothes. But, I was convinced it would be nothing. We would be going home that night.
It wasn't and we didn't.
At 5:30, after being in the ER since 4, we saw the first doctor, a young resident. He was mostly concerned about meningitis, but was going to do a CT first. We waited for hours, watching cartoons and listening to music.
At 8, they wheeled her back for a CT scan, which showed a brain mass. The doctor, the attending physician this time, called me into a separate room to tell me the results. The room was small - big enough for a couch and a few chairs. A room to tell parents bad news. A room to collect yourself before going back in to see your kid. I fought back the tears and felt proud of myself for holding it together. A stupid accomplishment, really. He asked if I wanted him to tell my daughter the results. I did. She would want to know, and I wasn't sure I could do it.
At 9, we were admitted to the hospital for an MRI. They needed better pictures to know what they were dealing with.
At 12:30, she got an MRI of her brain.
My memories are of being hungry, cold, and overwhelmed. I sat with her in the MRI room wrapped in a hospital blanket, holding her foot and leg to remind her that I was still there and encouraging her to stay still. The MRI took 45 minutes. Later, back in the hospital room, she finally slept. I think I did too. I know I cried a lot as silently as possible so that she wouldn't hear me.
The next day was a parade of doctors and tests. She got another MRI of her spine. We met with oncology and neurology and neurosurgery and pediatrics and therapy. The findings were that there was a tumor on her thalamus that caused the ventricles to become enlarged. Apparently, when she was sleeping, the fluid couldn't circulate and drain properly, causing the headaches and vomiting.
I felt both like shit for brushing her off and so glad I took her to the doctor when I did. I decided to focus more on the good parent in me and less on the shit.
Surgery was scheduled for two days later.
A song from our ER playlist
Adele, "Water Under the Bridge"
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