It's been an insanely frustrating day. Very little went as planned. Some went *okay *and a small amount has been an absolute disaster.
The internet was a nightmare because two rounds of brand new equipment was faulty. I now have to wait until Wednesday to get a tech out here to look over the equipment that still isn't working. I love Spectrum's approach to broadband but I very much dislike the company.
The appointments themselves went alright for the most part. Turns out Gavin did have an appointment as well. Not a huge deal since all of us were there already.
That being said, Gavin is my main source of aggravation today. I know it's not his fault but goddammit, he can be frustrating.
I've been trying to think of a way to best explain what happened because it's of a more sensitive nature. I feel it's important to share this because it illustrates some of the challenges parents like myself are facing. It also demonstrates the struggle someone like Gavin faces as well. Again, it's not his fault and I'm not angry with him per se, but I'm very frustrated.
Before we go any further, please understand I'm going to be talking about poop and where poop comes from. If that offends you, it's best you click away now, I don't mind the hit to my bounce rate. ☺
You've been warned..
We're sitting in the doctors office. All of us are crammed into a tiny room because she sees everyone at the same time and it's easier that way. Anyway, before the doctor came in, Gavin starts squirming in his seat. He's getting agitated and making strange faces. I asked him what was wrong and he said *I don't want to talk about it. *
When Gavin says something like that, it's a safe bet we need to know what he doesn't want to talk about.
I took him out into the hallway, because he didn't want to talk in front of everyone else and I can understand that. I asked him again what was wrong and he went somewhere I wasn't expecting.
He told me his butt hurts. After going back and forth, trying to figure out what he's talking about, I finally got him to tell me that the problem was that his rectum hurt. He used the word *butthole, *but I figured I would try and make it a bit more clinical.
He explained that it's been hurting and driving him crazy. I tried to get more information but by this time, he's crying, so we go back into the room.
Soon it's Gavin's turn with the doctor and he's already worked up and on the verge of a total freak out. In the most awkward way imaginable, he told the doctor what was going on. Kudos to him for doing that, regardless of how awkwardly he did it. Those kinds of things aren't easy to talk about. Unfortunately, we weren't at the right kind of doctor for this to even get looked at.
By this time, Gavin's hysterically sobbing because he says it hurts so bad. Gavin gets hysterical about things like this and it's hard to know what's pain vs what's freaking him out.
We're trying to get an idea of what's going on and for how long it's been going on. Turns out he's been dealing with this for three days and just never said anything to us about it. For that matter, he never showed any signs that anything was wrong. It's for this reason that I suspect he was more frightened than in pain. He said he was afraid he would have to go to the hospital and get an IV.
He finally told us that it started out being really ichy and that *he tried everything he could think of *to make it stop. The way he worded that caught my attention and I asked him what he'd tried. I was concerned he'd done something that could lead to major problems.
He answered that he'd tried lots of things. I asked him what *lots of things *meant but he either couldn't or wouldn't answer.
At this point, we're talking about running him through the ER because that's the only way to know anything for sure. We let it go until we got into the car and headed home. As I'm walking to the car, I'm psyching myself up because I needed to have a difficult conversation with someone who can barely hold a conversation. I knew it was going to be frustrating and I just wanted to survive it without losing my cool.
As we're driving home, I'm trying to get as much information as possible because I want to have some idea of what's going on.
I noticed that when I asked Gavin things like *how long has this been going on for* or *how many times a day are you pooping. *Anything that required a time-frame, he simply answered by saying *three.* How long has this been going on? He replied three days. How many times are you pooping each day? He replied three times.
Do you see where this is going? He has no comprehension of time and because he doesn't know, he's making something up and he likes odd numbers. It's so incredibly frustrating because we're trying to help him and he can't provide us with anything that's helpful or accurate.
I flat out asked him, *when you were really ichy, did you use a pencil or sharp object to scratch it. *He said *no way. *I'm still not convinced that he was telling me the truth about that but at this point, I'm looking for a wall to beat my head into so we moved on.
I probably asked him ten different ways, *if there was anything else we need to know. *I told him that we will be the judge of whether or not it's important.
After another twenty minutes of digging for answers, I asked him if he was pooping okay or if it's difficult. I figured, maybe we're dealing with a fissure or something. That would explain the pain. He said *no *that everything was really easy. When I asked him to explain what that meant, he got upset because he didn't want to talk about it.
After another frustrating round of freak outs and questions, he told us that's he's had diarrhea for awhile. I asked him why he didn't tell us that because that's a problem. He said he didn't think it was a big deal.
I asked him how long he's had diarrhea for and you won't believe how long he says he's had it.... That's right, three days.
At this point, *three *has lost all meaning and now it's dead to me. Three days could be a week or two weeks. It's just a made up number and has nothing to do with anything.
Long story short, we were able to figure out the most likely cause of his problems. He has diarrhea and because he does, he's probably going to the bathroom more often and having to clean himself up more as well. He's probably cleaning himself a bit too aggressively.
When I asked how many times he was wiping, he said (and this is going to blow your mind) three times.
I mentally walked away at that point. I would have physically walked away if I hadn't been driving seventy miles an hour down the freeway. I had to check out because if I didn't, I was literally going to scream. Not even at him. Just scream.
We just needed to figure out if we were going to the fucking emergency room or not. That's all we needed to do and it didn't come easy. Thankfully, the boys had their headphones on and they were spared from all of this.
I told him that from now on, we will be the ones to decide what's important and what isn't. He needs to tell anytime something is different and we will decide if it's a concern or not. I realize that's going to be a nightmare in and of itself but I don't know any other way.
My stress level is through the roof and I need to go walking but I'm not sure I'll be able to sneak away.
This is the kind of thing that causes me to age so much faster than I'm supposed to.
