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Doctor Mom

Zoe is wheezing. I want to throw up. I came back from 2 nights out of town teaching a trauma course to find Zoe with that tell-tale bronchiolitic cough. (Everyone was asleep when I got home last night. This morning I rushed into their room and Eva at first smiled then began weeping. Whether she’s happy to see me or sorry her “party with Papa” is over, I don’t know.) Anyway, I broke down and stuck my stethoscope on Zoe’s chest today, hoping, I suppose, to simply reassure myself that I’m being overly concerned. Instead I was met with the singsong whistling of trapped air trying to push past swollen little airways.

As I lay down my doctor toys, my husband asked me what the verdict was. I said, “as a pediatrician or as a mother? Because the doctor in me says she has bronchiolitis which is just a viral thing babies get and she’s wheezing but it’s no big deal because she otherwise is doing fine and she’ll get over it.” Then he said, “and on the other hand?”
“I’ve given her my asthma, she’s going to be a sickly child and our lives are ruined.”
He wasn’t terribly thrilled with my “mommy verdict” for obvious reasons. Of course the rational person inside of me is saying, well okay, this might just be bronchiolitis. Or it might be the first episode of reactive airways/asthma, but if it is, that’s okay. We’ll see the doctor, get on the right medications and deal with it. After all, I’ve got some awesome asthma and that hasn’t stopped me from racing in triathalons. (And by racing, I mean my heart, lest you think I actually exhibit any athletic talent.) But the paranoid, worried, parent part of me is scared and in denial. We’ll be going to see the pediatrician this week so that he can talk me out of my freak-attack, just like I would do for any of you if you needed it.

 
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