Everyone Needs a Teddy Bear

What a morning in A&E reminded me about being human

I have just spent three hours in hospital with my son.

That sentence alone carries a weight that parents recognise instantly. Three hours that stretch and bend time. Three hours where your phone battery drains, your tea (me) and coffee (Ryan) go cold, and your nervous system decides it’s had enough of being brave.

Leo had been unwell for almost 48 hours. Normally, he bounces back. This time he didn’t. His tummy hurt. He wasn’t sleeping. Two nights in a row, he woke every twenty minutes, distressed, coughing, exhausted. He wouldn’t eat or drink ANYTHING. The fact that he wouldn’t even sip on his morning milk was pretty alarming. I’ll probably be judged for this, but he STILL LOVES to guzzle on a 320ml milk bottle once or twice a day… and yes, he’s 4.

My motherly instinct kept whispering: something’s not right… But he’s always been so strong, so we pushed through.

Yesterday should have been neat and symbolic. The first day back at nursery after the long Christmas break. Mine and Ryan’s first day back at work too. I’m sure most parents will relate, but we were secretly excited for life to resume as normal after a month-long holiday spent entertaining all the kids in our lives. I was excited for a day of admin, a quiet morning to ourselves, the simple joy of a new journal and fresh stationery, a hot drink… hey, maybe I could even tuck into my favourite ‘yoga with Adrienne’ class. That smug optimism of Jan, where you believe that you are about to become someone who wakes early, exercises, stretches, supplements correctly, reads, writes, podcasts, hydrates, eats well, and generally kills the game.

Instead, life did what it always does. It laughed and shoved the plan off the table. Helllllloooooo January my old friend. Hello unwellness.

Leo stayed home. Ryan cancelled his day to look after him, and I worked a bit. I had to onboard a new team member, so needs must, and I just about held things together. As a unit, we coped like we always do. And I felt pretty good that I’d managed to be adaptable because that’s what good parents do, right? They find workarounds when their kids need them. But by last night, Leo was worse. Seriously feverish.

I noticed a rash, so I did all the checks to rule out meningitis etc. and tried to get back to sleep. After all, every book I’ve ever read has taught me that sleep is the biggest healer. But he woke constantly. I slept beside him (a regular occurrence atm and one I don’t feel guilty about after being confronted with illness), and we were both rolling around all night - paracetamol and ibuprofen on rotation, one eye open. I feel like whenever I share a bed with anyone, I sleep with one eye open tbh. It’s a pretty exhausting habit. But then I started to panic because Leo was saying that the medication was causing him lots of tummy pain.

Then, early this morning, blood.

He asked for a tissue. I turned on the light. The pillow was soaked. He said it came from his nose. It hadn’t. He was coughing up blood.

Knowing very little about this sort of thing, my head spiralled. I assumed that he must have a stomach ulcer because the only pain he’d complained about was his tummy.

Panic is a physical thing. It moves you before thought does. We were suddenly downstairs, pyjamas abandoned, clothes half on, adrenaline steering the plan. Normally, I’m labelled ‘overdramatic,’ but Ryan was alert and attentive when he saw the mess and he drove him straight to the hospital at 5 am. It’s crazy that i’m even having to acknowledge this, but I feel like nearly all of our hospital visits have been timed around the 5am mark.

I stayed behind long enough to feed the dogs, shower, change my stoma bag (which had leaked in the middle of the night but I didn’t have the energy to change) sorry for TMI, and then followed 15 minutes behind. I also needed to make sure the dogs weren’t going to eat all of the blood-stained stuff in the house. They have a habit for doing gross things like that.

That detail matters. Because life does not pause for emergencies. Bodies do not become convenient just because someone else is in trouble. You carry your own fragility alongside your child’s, whether you like it or not. I couldn’t NOT change the stoma bag. We were lucky there were two of us so one could get ahead.

The children’s A&E was extraordinary. Calm. Efficient. Kind. Leo was triaged quickly. Eventually, after checks and careful conversations, we learned the cause was ‘likely’ to be severe tonsillitis coupled with a bad infection. His tonsils were bleeding. Apparently, (I’ve done a bit of research), they are incredibly vascular. I guess that’s why getting your tonsils removed becomes a bit of a significant operation as you grow older. Or is it because every time you get an infection the scar tissue compounds over your life. If you know the answer please do leave me a comment.

It was frightening, but nice to have a treatable diagnosis whilst we waited for the other tests to come back. I also dealt with the extra worry that because of my personal bleeding sagas, he might have some undiagnosed bleeding issues too?

Thankfully tranexamic acid is a wonder drug.

He needed blood tests. Numbing cream (IYKYK). Waiting.

But here is the thing I keep thinking about…

Teddy bears.

When I arrived, Leo was lying on the bed wrapped in coats, shivery despite his temperature. I handed him a stuffed dog to clutch. I brought a few teddies in with me when I quickly gathered a bag to join them. I have a bit of experience in knowing what to bring for those long A&E stints at this point. One ear had been chewed off by our actual dog, which felt quite hilarious… espeically when the nurse asked for its name. I embarrassingly said I didn’t know. We couldn’t possibly have a name for every one of Leo’s stuffed animals, and he rotates through them quickly vs having one solid favourite. They are usually just ‘doggy’ or ‘beary’ or ‘polley’ … any animal with a lazy Y added on.

He does actually have one called ‘grey baby’ which, when you say it out loud, sounds a bit off-key because the idea of a grey baby is not exactly indicative of rainbows and butterflies//health and happiness and all the things you want your child’s childhood to scream of, etc.

But as I watched him hold that battered, half-eared thing, something cracked open in me. An intense feeling.

Because I have held teddies in the hospital too.

So many times over the last four years. I have clutched them through pain, fear, sweat(!!!!), recovery, despair. I realised, standing there, that two of the teddies in Leo’s room are actually mine. Well, they were initially bought for Leo, but they became mine when I desperately needed them. A polar bear and an elephant. Both veterans of hospital beds. Both witnesses to versions of me I barely remember now. Both carried the stench of a long hospital recovery before being washed many many months later. They were my pillows, my lifelines.

I didn’t bring them. It felt wrong somehow. But seeing them earlier had already pulled those memories back into my body. The vulnerability. The need for something solid and soft and wordless to hold onto when everything else feels too sharp.

We pretend that teddies are for children. That adults should outgrow them. As if the need for comfort has an expiry date.

It doesn’t.

A teddy is not childish. It is primal. It is permission to be held when no one can physically hold you. It is cotton and fluff standing in for safety and continuity. It is something that doesn’t ask questions or need reassurance back. When you’re sick, sometimes you just want to be nurtured like a child. It is ok to lean into childlike behaviours. I found the teddies to be comfier pillows than the pillows I was given. I needed them to get through when I felt lonely and scared.

Watching my son clutch his, I felt overwhelming gratitude that something so simple could make something so hard even slightly easier. THANK GOODNESS FOR TEDDIES.

By late morning, I had to leave him briefly for my own scan. The timing of this whole thing was totally crazy because I was mid IVF cycle. A surreal add-on to an already absurd day. Before I went, I kissed his head, told him I’d be back, and watched him squeeze that dog a little tighter.

I knew he was going to be okay because he was in good hands and the staff were total angels… They stabilised him with IV meds…otherwise I wouldn’t have left. My guilt levels still burgeoned. Unsurprisingly, I balled at my appointment. I never would have cried in front of my son. (And yet I used to judge my parents for never crying in front of me to normalise it when I was growing up.) And I managed to miss the most uncomfortable bit. Ryan had to endure some really horrible cannulation experiences whilst pinning down our vulnerable 4 year old, which certainly toughened both of them up. He hates needles and was sheet white when I returned… I guess this is an appropriate place for me to extend a big fat thank-you to those who dedicate their working day to helping others at their most vulnerable. Working with kids AND their parents must be extra hard.

And once again, I was reminded of the only hierarchy that really matters in this life. Health. Then love. Everything else is noise. A reminder that seems to hit me EVERY.SINGLE.BLOODY.JANUARY. But in a funny kind of way, I’m grateful that it does because there is nothing more powerful than a health scare to shake you up from the inside out and force you to realign how you spend your year… especially when the notion of ‘start how you mean to go on’ is the way we all enroll onto the month of Jan like starting a new school.

3 hours turned into 24, and a blue light to another hospital.

But that is a story for another day.

We made it out the other side relatively unscathed with a whole new appreciation for a whole load more stuff.

PS. As I was writing this, I was reminded of another thing that helped us in that moment, and it has sent me on a mini mission. The staff gave us a new box of LEGO to build. The laser focus it took for me and Leo to build a box of Lego for 30 minutes was a perfect distraction from the noise around us. I am lucky enough to work with Lego Duplo and am going to see whether they will give me a bunch of boxes to donate to the local paediatric A&E to help other kids going through something tough. If you work at Lego and you’re reading this please get in touch… otherwise expect to hear from me soon.

Lots of love,
L x