On Christmas morning, my little one developed a bubbly rash on her bottom and a fever, prompting my partner to take her to the doctor. A quick text from the office informed me: “She has hand, foot, and mouth disease.”
As the parent of three kids under nine, this was our first encounter with HFMD. For those fortunate enough not to have experienced it (and I truly hope you never do), HFMD is a nightmare. It can last up to two weeks, is highly contagious, and incredibly painful. The rashes morph into blisters, which can even slide under fingernails, potentially causing them to fall off. Fall off.
The very thought of all three of my children running around with rashes, blisters, and missing nails sent chills down my spine. By the time my partner returned from the doctor, I was already shampooing the carpet and washing sheets in a desperate attempt to contain the virus.
She walked in cradling our daughter, Mia, who by now had red bumps covering her tiny mouth. Her big blue eyes looked glassy, and she kept opening and closing her hands as if they were numb. I wanted to comfort her, but a flicker of fear held me back.
I had just been binge-watching a show about an alternate history where the Nazis triumphed in World War II. It featured some grisly torture methods, including removing fingernails. The very thought haunted me. The worst part of parenting is that if my partner had caught HFMD, I would have kept my distance, cared for the kids, and made her soup, but I wouldn’t have touched her. With the children, however, even if they had the bubonic plague, I still had to care for them.
Mia approached me, waddling with a painful strut due to her rash-covered feet, and tugged at my pant leg. I hesitated before picking her up. That’s the thing about caring for sick kids: when they’re messy and gross, you clean them up; but when they have hand, foot, and mouth disease, you hold them close and hope to avoid catching it yourself.
My partner handed me a list of over-the-counter remedies the doctor suggested. “What is this nonsense?” I asked. She rolled her eyes. “It’s a virus, and she’s not even two yet. There’s nothing they can prescribe.” Until they hit the age of two, parents pretty much have two options: Tylenol and Motrin, neither of which actually does much except provide a sense of action.
I spent the rest of the day running to the local pharmacy, the only one open on Christmas Day, gathering ointments, replacement toothbrushes, bath toys, and anything else Mia might have put in her mouth recently. I felt guilty for shopping on a holiday, yet I was also thankful the store was open in our tiny town.
The following nights dragged on painfully. My partner and I took turns tending to Mia. Her rashes evolved into blisters, and about three days in, while prepping her for a bath, I noticed one of the blisters on her bottom was peeling. I gently tugged at a loose piece of skin, and a patch the size of a dollar bill came off.
My partner walked in, eyes wide with confusion as she tried to comprehend what I held. “What just happened?” she asked. I shrugged, “It just came off?”
In that moment, Mia stood there, vulnerable and bewildered, her blonde hair tousled. She gave me a heart-wrenching look as though I had betrayed her by peeling away her skin. In my left hand was her beloved stuffed orange cat from her Christmas stocking. She snatched it from me, hugged it tightly, and cried all the way to the tub, her raw little bottom exposed.
That night, she lost more skin, some from her hands and feet. But the next day marked a turning point; she began to recover slowly. It wasn’t dramatic; it was more a gradual improvement.
About two weeks after the ordeal began, I was tidying up in the living room when I heard her laugh. I was exhausted from sleepless nights and had returned to work, while my partner cooked in the kitchen and our older two kids were occupied in their rooms. Somehow, we had all managed to stay healthy.
As Mia ambled through the room, she caught my eye and, with a dramatic flair, grabbed her tummy and leaned back, bursting into laughter. I hadn’t realized until then how much I missed her joy.
Seeing my kids happy brings me immense satisfaction, and when that joy fades, it feels like something vital is missing. That’s the heart-wrenching side of having a very sick child; they often lack smiles and laughter, leaving you longing to see them happy again.
I scooped Mia up and said, “Looks like you’re feeling better!” She babbled happily and laughed again, filling me with warmth. That night, she slept soundly, and while she began to lose her fingernails the next day, she didn’t seem to feel any pain. After that laugh, it appeared she was free from discomfort, and even though I hadn’t done much besides holding her and applying ointment, it felt incredibly rewarding to see her recover.
For more on parenting challenges and insights, check out our other blog posts, including this one on intracervical insemination. If you’re looking for authoritative information, Make A Mom is a great resource too, and you can also find helpful articles at Medical News Today.
In summary, navigating the trials of hand, foot, and mouth disease can be daunting for any parent. While it brings its share of fears and challenges, the moments of joy and recovery make it all worthwhile.