There is no other time that Collin's inability to communicate hits home quite like when he isn't feeling well. There is no "Mama, this hurts," or "Mama, I'm hot," or even "Hold me, Mama."
And so, when something is amiss, I become Sherlock Holmes crossed with Dr. House. Crossed with an animal mother.
That's what happened yesterday. Collin was happy as could be in the morning. After his nap, he seemed uncomfortable. Then he had some digestive distress. As the afternoon progressed, I kept him close to me. I tested his ketones, monitored his temperature and heart rate. I smelled him and felt his skin and watched him, watched him, watched him. His signals were all off, his cues all wrong, but I couldn't add up the pieces into anything that made sense.
I started tweaking his food and supplements. I texted the doctor. And we both stayed by his side as his symptoms worsened, guessing and fumbling our way through.
Right before bed, Collin turned a corner. He suddenly seemed more himself. He went right to sleep and the symptoms disappeared just as mysteriously as they came. I kept him home from school today and can definitely see the effects of yesterday on his strength and stamina. But, for all of my expertise and observation, I still have next to no idea what happened. It's rare disease parenting at its most humbling and disconcerting.