Five weeks ago

I wanted to lie to you. Well, lie by omission, that is. I've been thinking about this post for weeks now. Ultimately though, I am a bad liar. I am sure that i would have accidently mentioned that Leo fractured his skull or written about other things in our life in such a disjointed way that the chronology would not match up. So yes, you read that right, Leo fractured his skull. Really Leo didn't do it at all; it was entirely not his fault (except for being lovable and small). A young boy wanted to pick Leo up and so he did. When this boy tripped Leo's head hit the wood floor first. I wasn't in the room. I did, however, hear the crash from where I was. It was loud, really loud. I actually thought a table or large chair had been knocked over by some wrestling--two rambunctious and strong boys ages 7 and 8 live in this house we were visiting.

When I entered the scene Leo was crying loudly. In fact, he wasn't even looking for me, he was just wailing in the arms of a young woman he didn't know. I should have known then that it wasn't a piece of furniture that hit so hard. But, really i couldn't conceive of that loud bang being my son's head. No way.

He stopped crying very soon after I got him in my arms. One guy mentioned that Leo wasn't faking it, that he hit his head hard. Everyone else in the room either didn't see it happen or didn't want to make it seem really bad. With their omissions I decided there was nothing more to do but comfort him and keep a closer eye on my baby.

So, I loaded Leo into the car; talking to him, checking in with him, making eye contact. He seemed a little dazed--but he had also only taken a half hour nap all day--and so we started driving. We stopped 10 minutes later for me to get a coffee. He walked around the coffee shop, acting pretty normal. Then we stopped at the dairy farm where we get our milk. He looked at the animals, talked to them, walked around. Everything seemed ok. But, when you are not looking for anything out of the ordinary, it can be hard to spot.

FYI-- at this point i should warn you that this is a long story. I rarely leave out a detail, so this story is no exception. If you don't want to keep reading, here is my short version:

It took me days to realize how bad this fall was. The following Thursday I felt a soft squishy bump on the right side of his head. Days later (after visits to the local ER, a plastic surgeon, his pediatrician and then the Children's Hospital) we confirmed how bad bad can be--a fracture to his skull. They say it will take 2-3 months to heal. He never showed signs of a concussion. He was cranky the days following the fall; he was downright traumatized when the plastic surgeon stuck a needle in his head; he has become leery of all doctors; he has maintained his frantical devotion to "cookies" and trucks, and otherwise has been happy as can be (between tantrums, that is).

Long version continued.....

He was hard to get to bed that night (not unusual for him) but then slept through the night (if i remember correctly). I mentioned to Steve the next morning that we should be careful to protect him from falling--literally just as his feet slipped from under him and down he went. At that moment I got mad, angry that I did not have control, could not protect my son better (he was falling all the time it seemed; he had only started walking autonomously a little more than a month before). But, I was not scared; I still had no idea his skull had a crack in it. We continued on as normal.

Leo's fall occurred on a Friday. By Sunday, I had basically forgotten about it.

Leo had a cranky week. On thursday afternoon I put Leo down for his nap and felt a large soft bump on the side of his head. WHOA. I wanted to feel the other side of his head, but he was asleep. When he woke I pointed it out to Steve. It was definitely just on one side of his head. I started to get scared. Was this from that fall almost a week ago? I called my friend Steph, a nurse practicioner. She referred me to another nurse friend who deals with kids' head trauma and works in the ER at Childrens Hospital in Denver. This woman convinced me to take Leo to the hospital that night.

To be honest Steve and I were still a little relunctant. Leo was acting normally and not even cranky anymore. But now we were scared. Leo was sleeping and it was 10pm. How do you wake your baby up in the middle of the night to bring him into a hospital with its bright lights, long waits, sick people, unforgiving metal objects, needles, etc? Steve mentioned they might have to sedate him to do a CT scan. Anesthesia and Radiation?!?! Leo wasn't even wincing when we pushed on the bump. It clearly was not giving him (acute) pain any longer.

But, of course, we went.

We checked in, sat down and then Leo found the large aquarium. All those fish. Oh, and a tv! And then all the space the waiting room had to run around. This was great. I guess we should have come sooner.

We were called in maybe fifteen minutes after arriving. (They don't mess around with babies and bumps on their heads, I guess).

We talked to the intake nurse, another nurse, and then a physicians assistant (PA). I told them all the same story. They all touched the bump. Leo did not make a peep when they touched it. The PA asked why we came in.

But then this PA offered some information. If we had come in the day it happened and there was a hard bump on his head they would have scanned him immediately. Since it was about a week later and Leo never vomited, convulsed, had ear or nose fluid drainage, acted strange, was lethargic; well then, Leo had been stable for a week. The fact that the bump was squishy and didn't bother Leo was strange he thought. A CT scan could tell us more. But its radiation. One treatment of radiation, he said, will not give you cancer. Over time, he continued, it builds up. Leo is so young. He mentioned his own kids then said let me talk with someone who knows more about this.

When he returned he said if you can get Leo to sleep we could do a CT scan. We'll give you a dark room and you can try to get him to sleep.

So we tried, and were unsuccessful. A nurse came in and said we should try the scan while Leo is awake. We took Leo into the radiation room and tried to place him down. At first he screamed but then he stopped. And in the most innocent way imaginable Leo tried to lay down and be still, eyes wide, but obeying his mama and dada. I wanted to die.

Leo needed to be still for 3-4 minutes for the scan to work. He was still for about 10 seconds. They sent us back to the dark room. Again we tried and after who knows how long he fell asleep. Two minutes later the PA opened the door and immediately Leo woke up. If I wasn't so tired I would have been fuming. However, the PA told us to go home. He called the bump a "liquified hematoma" and said he was giving us a referral for a Plastic surgeon, who could inspect it and decide what to do. As long as Leo's condition did not change we had nothing to worry about.

Fast forward to the following Monday. We meet with the plastic surgeon who says we can leave it alone or he can drain it of the blood. He says he would drain it. I let him. Then I want to die a second time. I am holding Leo as the plastic surgeon sticks a needle into Leo's head, not once but twice. It is pure torture and I start to believe Leo has lost all confidence in my ability to protect him.

That night I touched his now deflated bump. I feel a weird indentation- a ridge as the pediatrican later describes it. I totally lose it. Steve says he will call the pediatrician because I can't talk, only cry.

The next afternoon the pediatrician thoroughly examines Leo--for any and all signs of neurological damage. She questions me at length and then decides to call Children's and talk to an ER doc there. They offer that its strange and should be examined by CT.

And so Leo and I depart on the final leg of this journey.

We wait in a crowded waiting room. Since the pediatrician has called our scan in we don't have to wait as long as some. When we get into the CT room, the tech hands me a lead vest and a kids toy, some swirly light saber-ish thing. Next we basically straight jacket Leo down--lead vest around his chest, some bandage type thing across his forehead to hold his head down. Needless to say, Leo is very unhappy.  The tech tells me to hold that toy in front of Leo's face without moving and not to turn it on until she says so.

The only consolation: I can sing to him and rub his foot. The scanning takes about 5 minutes. Leo stopped crying at about 4 minutes and 30 seconds.

By 8:30 that night the scan is done and we are heading home. Leo falls asleep within seconds of pulling away from the parking lot.

The next day I don't hear from anyone all morning so I start calling around.  My pediatrician is the first one to tell me that Leo has a skull fracture.

A skull fracture. My baby has a crack in his soft developing skull. How is that really possible? But, I am almost unfazed at this point. It feels like all the bad that can be done to an 18 month old is done. We can now, finally, move on.