Pick Your Poison…

Both Drew and Reed take Zyrtec every night before bed for allergies. They have now gotten to the point where they can administer it themselves after they brush. I have issued very dire warnings about taking more than one pill at a time using strong language like “overdose” and “die.” Well, I found out tonight they took me at my word.
Reed, wide-eyed and ashen, walks into my room and announces “I took two Zyrtec pills instead of one.” My stomach does a flop and I run to the bathroom to get the bottle. Now the logical side of me says that one extra pill isn’t going to hurt him. But the irrational part of me believes my own rhetoric and is slightly alarmed. I keep an aura of calm and dial the number for Poison Control listed on the bottle. The fact that Poison Control is even mentioned on the bottle (ironically under the warning to keep this medication out of the reach of children) also gives me pause.
Drew has wandered upstairs as all this is playing out and he begins to cry and hug Reed all the while proclaiming how much he is going to miss him when he dies in his sleep. It takes Heruclean effort to block out Drew during his time of mourning and press forward with the call which is answered on the first ring, “Poison Control.”
Here goes nothing, “Hi, my eight year old son took two Zyrtec tablets instead of one.” The operator asks questions about his weight, milligrams etc and her calm demeanor is making me feel better already. Drew, not privy to her calming affect, is still loudly grieving the imminent loss of a brother. After a brief stint on hold she returns and asks, “Is that him in the background? He sounds agitated and upset.” I am forced to confess, “No, that would be his brother who is convinced that his brother is going to die in his sleep.” She kindly volunteers to speak with him and tell him that Reed will most likely be just fine. Reed is sitting playing with a stuffed animal on the floor while Drew is now pacing above him saying his final goodbyes. I ask if he wants to speak with Poison Control and he just begins crying harder. I decide to just move into another room where it is quieter.
We determine that based on height and weight guidelines and strength of the medication he should feel little or no effects. We make a plan of action that includes me waking Reed up several times during the night as one would with a concussion patient to make sure he has not slipped into a coma. Unbeknownst to me, Reed has followed me into my room and hears the word “coma” and begins hyperventilating. I hurry off the phone with promises to wake him often and call if I see any change in his condition. Since we are veterans of the Poison Control Hotline, I know they will be checking in with me tomorrow to follow-up.
Reed is now pacing in my bedroom while Drew paces in the hallway and I am tasked with convincing them that all is well. I walk them into their bedroom and tuck them both in bed, Drew with a wad of tissues and Reed with three stuffed animals. I reiterate that no one is dying on my watch and repeat what the trained professional has told me, “Reed is going to be fine.”
I, meanwhile, do not sleep a wink. I wake Reed every two hours and marvel that despite his grief, panic and concern Drew happens to be sleeping like the dead. No matter how many times I come into that room, he never budges.
I finally drift off in the pre-dawn hours convinced that Reed has made it through the night as promised. Just when I start to REM, Drew taps me on the shoulder and proclaims, “He’s alive! He’s alive! Reed didn’t die in his sleep! He turns around to drag a groggy Reed up to the bed as Exhibit A. The sheer joy on Drew’s face makes up for the lack of sleep so I drag myself out of bed and tuck poor Reed back in. Drew is having no part of going back to sleep. Having stared death in the face and won–he is ready to start his day. After a cup of coffee, I wholeheartedly endorsed his philosophy.