Your second patient is behind you, frightened, confused and alone.
While your attention is on the child with the cough and the panic on your face is palpable, keep in mind that every pediatric call involves at least 1 if not 2 additional patients: the parents.
They have been awake for hours trying to calm their child who has been feeling ill, coughing, not eating. Work, play, chores and errands have all ground to a halt while the little one recovers.
But for whatever reason, be it a change in condition or sheer exhaustion, you are now involved in the care of this little person.
Don’t be intimidated by your instructors when they pound into your head that “kids are NOT little adults!” they really are. They have the same body systems, you’re going to give them all the adult drugs, just in smaller doses. Sure their physiology is different than adults, that’s why we dose them differently, but don’t get stuck sweating and screaming, especially with a tired, confused and concerned parent behind you.
Your second patient needs to be reassured and calmed. Your instinct may be to get hands on with the child and do your “Paramedic thing” but what will you learn from a screaming, thrashing child you can’t learn from a shy, tired, comfortable in mother’s arms child? We learn that a child who is not afraid of us is sick and this can be your initial assessment surely, but also look around the room to find out what the last 12-36 hours have been like.
Are there piles of tissues scattered around the house? Is dad sniffling and coughing as well? Are there medication bottles around, bulb syringes, humidifiers? All of this environmental information needs to be absorbed and decoded as you walk through the house or while reaching for your bag.
All those tissues were used by a tired parent to treat a sick, unhappy child. Ever tried to wipe the nose of a 1 year old? Every 5 minutes? The parents are nodding and smiling, the folks without kids are wondering how hard it can be.
This topic became fresh in my mind when my 4 year old developed croup last December. She had had the sniffles for a few days over the Christmas holiday and on the last day of our vacation she fell asleep early. She had been lethargic, but not overly so, just tired. Around 8pm she started a coughing fit that would not end for over 3 hours. Her “barking, seal like” cough was as described in the books, but what they don’t describe is the sheer terror on her face when she can’t even stop coughing long enough to speak, drink or eat. We tried cough syrup, steam, cold air, breathing exercises, even her sister’s inhaler (metered for a smaller child) with no success. She couldn’t even cry the coughing was so bad. With no other options and the hour getting late, I chose to take her to the only medical care open that late, not just to treat her, but to let the rest of the family get some much needed rest.
At the local Pediatric ER they tried to get her to wear a mask because of her cough. Tried. We waited outside instead. When we finally got inside the respiratory techs gave her 10mg of albuterol (16kg remember) over 30 minutes with no change in symptoms, something I told them we had tried without success.
I was at the end of my rope. Tired, hungry and confused I waited for someone, anyone to treat her. It was right then that it clicked for me what parents who call for my help are going through. I called for help and no one is telling me, or my sick child, what is happening or when it will stop. She was a trooper for another 30 minutes and when they finally decided to give a steroid, I was relieved. But no one even bothered to explain things to me, and I knew what was going on because of what I do. Imagine if I had no medical training.
Had the staff explained things to me, walked me through the options ahead of time or even sat down or offered to bring me something, since there was no way I was leaving my daughter’s side, I would have been better prepared to help her recover.
That parent behind you trying to wipe the snot from Jr’s nose isn’t in your way or second guessing your treatment, they’re simply doing everything they know how to do to make their child feel better. Let them.
Explain your actions using a soothing voice. While dosages are racing through your head, mention good things you see. Focus on the positive and that parent will become a resource instead of a second patient.
When my eldest developed the cough last night I had a feeling we would be up early waiting for the meds to kick in. Not until 630 am did the codeine finally calm the cough from constant to intermittent, but by then her younger sister was awake and the sun about to rise. But my little one is being treated with adult medication in littler dosages and when she hugs me and can finally take a breath and say “thank you” the hours of hurt watching her cough melt away.
If you come to my house to help her, don’t ignore me. I can help if you just tell me how.























