This post is predictable. It had to happen some time.

Lily got her first nasty virus. We're still not sure quite what it is, even though the doctor diagnosed her with Roseola on Thursday. If you don't know what that it, read here.
The problem with that diagnosis is that her fever has been broken for well over 24 hours and she has no rash. Apparently, the rash is necessary for the diagnosis. I truly wish that medicine was an exact science, not a practice of guessing games.

She started with this virus on Thursday by spiking a fever. The fever seemed innocent enough because she finally broke her eye teeth through. In the morning, her fever was about 100.1, which fit into the teething theory.
By 1pm, it spiked over 103. She had no other symptoms so I, of course, freaked the hell out. A high fever with no other symptoms could not be anything good. We ran to the doctor's with a very sick baby. She was so listless and unhappy.

Here's where I have to interject a bit of a confession: I had a gigantic panic attack on the way to the doctor's. Most will not be surprised, if you know me, but the reason why it's a confession is because I'm actually tasting my not-so-delicious words. Yes, that's right, I'm eating my words, once again, on this whole parenthood thing. Something I've done quite a bit.

My words were something along the lines of, "When my kid gets sick, I really don't think I'll freak out. What's the big deal? Kids get sick and then they get better.".

Here's the real story, I have never felt the amount of worry, anxiety, doom, sadness and helplessness than I have in the past three days. Granted, this virus was of the obscure type, with very few symptoms other than a fever, so I will give myself that, it wasn't the common cold or flu, BUT even if it was a horrible flu-type, I would have probably been just as worried.

Time stood still. It was as if nothing else in the world was happening these past couple of days. "MY BABY IS SICK AND I NEED TO FIX IT RIGHT NOW", was all that ran through my head. I immediately assumed the worst, she had meningitis, or something worse, I was convinced.

When we returned from the doctor, I stared holes through her, just waiting for some kind of change, ANY kind of change.

Thursday night came and went with little change, but uneventful all the same.

Friday, however, was a different story.
Her temperature was between 102-103.5 most of the day, although barely affecting her mood. She seemed a little low key and quiet, but not terribly ill. I was thinking perhaps we weathered the storm and the fever would break at any minute, sure to leave behind the elusive rash. Of course if got worse before it got better.

Later in the evening, I called my parents in tears, barely able to make a sentence, "Ca..ca...ca..can onnne of yyoooouuuu.... cooome.... ovvvver?? Li li li lily's fever is...almost...105". It was 104.8, to be exact. So, like the wonderful parents they are, they came to stare holes in her too until Dustin got home from work. I must have taken her temperature 15-20 times, all that read at least 104.3.

I was certain we would end up in the emergency room. I made a call to the on-call doctor, who left me an unhelpful message (when my phone went straight to voice mail for some reason). I called him back, to no avail. Screw it, my friends know better anyway. I texted friends, all of which telling me that 104 was cause for the ER.

"Ok, we're going", I said, more than once.

My dad was here to talk me off that ledge, convincing me that the hospital would not do much different than what we were able to do. Instead, we cooled her with washcloths and just fed her Tylenol.  Nothing was making a dent in that temperature. I held her, I cried some more, I prayed.

Dustin came home and the three of us laid in bed the whole night. I watched as her little chest was rising and falling so, so quickly, her breathing shallow and fast. God, what I would have given for that to be me instead of her.

I kept my hand on her to monitor the heat, as best as I could, to ensure that her fever wasn't rising any more. We'd drift off to sleep and I would jerk my eyes open, suddenly wide awake, hoping for some change.

From 4:30am-7am, we slept. At 7am, her temperature was 100.7, thank sweet baby plastic Jesus. By 10:30am, it was gone. It left behind some massively bloodshot eyes, a crank monster and a very ill looking little girl.
It's now Sunday and she's still recovering. She's definitely better but very little energy and her little eyes are still so bloodshot. Perhaps she's just milking it now :)

What an incredible wave of emotions.
I realize this is a very dramatic recreation. I am not naive to the fact that this is NOTHING in the grand scheme of things, or how bad it could have been, and we do recognize that this is just the beginning of illnesses and worrying. I just had to capture the "first time" emotions.
Scary shit, I'm not going to lie.