Rab Rakha Febrile Convultion
Febrile Convulsion
The most scary experience in the world is watching your child having a convulsion, you can just watch in fear as her limbs move out of control, her head jerks and her eyes have a far away look, as though she is a doll performing, a move with a remote.
No soothing helps, the sound that she makes emanates from deep within, a non human sound as though the battery is stuck in the same place, ai, ai, ai, her eyes glaze and her mouth is wet with spit.
The doctors advise holding her on her side and not interfering while this is happening. A part of you is dying watching this happen, the synapses overworking, the brain working rapidly attempting to break the strong hold of the fever. She was fine all day, suddenly without warning she is so faraway, I can’t soothe her with my touch or smother her with my kisses. She is distant; she is a doll with a remote inside of her. She does not smile, she looks faraway.
I catch hold of her and take her in my arms, and run out of the room. Something is wrong with Mira, I tell my brother. He gets up and rushes to see what the matter is. He hears her primitive sound and her jerking movements. Aish he calls, she comes in running, and she takes her from my shaking arms and holds her. We all decide we don’t know what is going on. I think she is having a convulsion. I saw my young cousin have a convulsion after a dog bit her, a long time ago.
We call the doctor; she says hold her on her side, make sure her breathing is not impeded and rush to the Emergency Room of Ganga Ram Hospital. My knees are shaking, my head is foggy. I pack a bag and we are off to the hospital. My baby’s eyes are shut now, her breathing disturbed. It is 12:30 at night on a foggy Delhi night.
We reach the hospital, the casualty is well labeled, and we rush in. Inside we hear a loud howl of a baby, I look closer she is nine years old, with an oxygen mask on her mouth. A needle piercing her arm. Her mother and father pressing her legs and arms, soothing their crying child.
My baby is made to lie down on an emergency bed. I see the blood on the sheet. Perhaps an earlier patient. There are no doctors piercing or prodding my child, I hold her as she lies down. My brother holds her little finger, she clutches on tightly to him.
The doctors are busy; a male nurse attaches an instrument to read her pulse on her toe and finger. Her pulse is quite high. They take her temperature, it is 100.6. She is watching the patients coming in and out. I wonder what is registering in her young mind, is she afraid of what she is seeing. She looks at the girl who is crying in pain next to her.
A pediatrician comes to assess the young girl next to my child. I watch the young girl’s hands and feet slowly turn blue. Her mother is awash in tears; her father is pressing his little darling’s arms and feet. Give all her pain to me, I can feel him say. Let me suffer; let my little darling be pain free. The doctor says take her to ICU immediately, she has Leukemia, and is suffering. The father does not move, he is immobilized. The doctor’s words are floating. The mother’s tears are streaming silently.
A gentleman appears from beside the next patient who is coughing uncontrollably. Give me the paperwork, brother; I will get the room arranged. You be here with your daughter. The father is in a daze. The man takes the papers and disappears into the hospital. The mother’s face is wet with tears, another woman appears and holds this mother, “do not cry sister”, she says. “You cannot show tears to your child, you need to be brave for her.”
The mother wipes her tears defiantly, suddenly gaining strength to fight another day to save her daughter’s ebbing life. My daughter needs to see me brave, she seems to be saying. The gentleman reappears, he has arranged a room for the girl. “Let’s go” says the male nurse. The father picks up his precious darling in his arms. She has tubes dangling from her arms. The mother holds the medicines that are being injected into her darling’s arms.
The pediatrician then takes a look at my baby. My baby has woken and is responding now. She sits up as the nurse has her sip Crocin, to bring her fever down. The doctor checks her responses and decides to keep her under observation for the next hour and recommends a medicine if the convulsion happens again.
My knees have stopped shaking uncontrollably; I am steadier now as I hold my baby. The nebulizer’s cold steam is helping to clear my baby’s nose.
I think that the hospital experience made me realize that my fear was nothing compared to the trauma that the nine year old girl’s parents were facing. I wish them all the strength and courage to face each day, as they watch their child suffer in pain.
We head back by 2:30am, I see the bright lights of Rakab Ganj Gurdwara. I say a silent prayer of thanks for protecting my baby today and always and for the little girl that was suffering and for all parents.
Rab Rakha
For more information on this condition see
here.
The most scary experience in the world is watching your child having a convulsion, you can just watch in fear as her limbs move out of control, her head jerks and her eyes have a far away look, as though she is a doll performing, a move with a remote.
No soothing helps, the sound that she makes emanates from deep within, a non human sound as though the battery is stuck in the same place, ai, ai, ai, her eyes glaze and her mouth is wet with spit.
The doctors advise holding her on her side and not interfering while this is happening. A part of you is dying watching this happen, the synapses overworking, the brain working rapidly attempting to break the strong hold of the fever. She was fine all day, suddenly without warning she is so faraway, I can’t soothe her with my touch or smother her with my kisses. She is distant; she is a doll with a remote inside of her. She does not smile, she looks faraway.
I catch hold of her and take her in my arms, and run out of the room. Something is wrong with Mira, I tell my brother. He gets up and rushes to see what the matter is. He hears her primitive sound and her jerking movements. Aish he calls, she comes in running, and she takes her from my shaking arms and holds her. We all decide we don’t know what is going on. I think she is having a convulsion. I saw my young cousin have a convulsion after a dog bit her, a long time ago.
We call the doctor; she says hold her on her side, make sure her breathing is not impeded and rush to the Emergency Room of Ganga Ram Hospital. My knees are shaking, my head is foggy. I pack a bag and we are off to the hospital. My baby’s eyes are shut now, her breathing disturbed. It is 12:30 at night on a foggy Delhi night.
We reach the hospital, the casualty is well labeled, and we rush in. Inside we hear a loud howl of a baby, I look closer she is nine years old, with an oxygen mask on her mouth. A needle piercing her arm. Her mother and father pressing her legs and arms, soothing their crying child.
My baby is made to lie down on an emergency bed. I see the blood on the sheet. Perhaps an earlier patient. There are no doctors piercing or prodding my child, I hold her as she lies down. My brother holds her little finger, she clutches on tightly to him.
The doctors are busy; a male nurse attaches an instrument to read her pulse on her toe and finger. Her pulse is quite high. They take her temperature, it is 100.6. She is watching the patients coming in and out. I wonder what is registering in her young mind, is she afraid of what she is seeing. She looks at the girl who is crying in pain next to her.
A pediatrician comes to assess the young girl next to my child. I watch the young girl’s hands and feet slowly turn blue. Her mother is awash in tears; her father is pressing his little darling’s arms and feet. Give all her pain to me, I can feel him say. Let me suffer; let my little darling be pain free. The doctor says take her to ICU immediately, she has Leukemia, and is suffering. The father does not move, he is immobilized. The doctor’s words are floating. The mother’s tears are streaming silently.
A gentleman appears from beside the next patient who is coughing uncontrollably. Give me the paperwork, brother; I will get the room arranged. You be here with your daughter. The father is in a daze. The man takes the papers and disappears into the hospital. The mother’s face is wet with tears, another woman appears and holds this mother, “do not cry sister”, she says. “You cannot show tears to your child, you need to be brave for her.”
The mother wipes her tears defiantly, suddenly gaining strength to fight another day to save her daughter’s ebbing life. My daughter needs to see me brave, she seems to be saying. The gentleman reappears, he has arranged a room for the girl. “Let’s go” says the male nurse. The father picks up his precious darling in his arms. She has tubes dangling from her arms. The mother holds the medicines that are being injected into her darling’s arms.
The pediatrician then takes a look at my baby. My baby has woken and is responding now. She sits up as the nurse has her sip Crocin, to bring her fever down. The doctor checks her responses and decides to keep her under observation for the next hour and recommends a medicine if the convulsion happens again.
My knees have stopped shaking uncontrollably; I am steadier now as I hold my baby. The nebulizer’s cold steam is helping to clear my baby’s nose.
I think that the hospital experience made me realize that my fear was nothing compared to the trauma that the nine year old girl’s parents were facing. I wish them all the strength and courage to face each day, as they watch their child suffer in pain.
We head back by 2:30am, I see the bright lights of Rakab Ganj Gurdwara. I say a silent prayer of thanks for protecting my baby today and always and for the little girl that was suffering and for all parents.
Rab Rakha
For more information on this condition see
here.
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