LDH .BREAKING: Doctors Monitor Bentley Closely as Flu A Triggers Persistent Fever and Tachycardia .LDH
Tuesday night arrived quietly, like any other ordinary evening.
Bentley did not complain much at first.
He simply looked a little more tired than usual.
His smile came slower.
His movements were softer.
His parents noticed the change immediately, because with Bentley, even the smallest shift mattered.
By late evening, the fever arrived.
Not dramatic.
Not sudden.
Just persistent, climbing little by little, refusing to settle.
They did what they had done many times before.
Medication every four hours.
Cold cloths.
Careful monitoring.
Whispered prayers.
The first night passed without rest.
Bentley’s body burned with heat that would not break.
Morning came, and the fever stayed.
Another day began the same way the night had ended.
Medications continued.
Fluids were encouraged.
Bentley tried to be brave, even when his body clearly was not.
He drank when he could.
He rested when exhaustion overtook him.
But by the second day, it became clear that this was not something that would resolve on its own.
The fever would not let up.
His heart rate began to rise.
His parents exchanged the look they knew too well.
The look that said it was time.
They packed quickly.
Quietly.
Trying not to let fear show.
And they headed to NCH.
Hospitals are strange places for families like Bentley’s.
They are both familiar and terrifying.
They hold answers, but also bring back memories no parent wants to relive.
Bentley was tested soon after arrival.
The result came back positive for Flu A.
The words felt heavier than expected.
The flu is often dismissed as common.
Manageable.
Temporary.
But for Bentley, nothing about illness is ever simple.
The medical team caring for him moved with calm precision.
They listened.
They asked questions.
They treated Bentley not as a case, but as a child.
And that mattered.
Because Bentley’s body is different.
His heart is different.
Fluids cannot be given freely.
What helps other children can harm him.
Not everyone knows that.
Not every provider sees it immediately.
So his parents called their own team.
The cardiology team that knows Bentley’s body better than anyone.
Thankfully, his cardiologist stepped in and took over the plan.
Every decision was careful.
Measured.
Intentional.
Medication was given by mouth first.
The taste was awful.
Bentley gagged.
He tried to swallow.
He wanted to cooperate.
But the medication made him sick almost immediately.
They switched to pill form.
A small adjustment.
A necessary one.
Unfortunately, Bentley’s stomach was empty.
And not long after, he vomited again.
Still, he kept trying.
What mattered most was hydration.
And somehow, despite everything, Bentley stayed hydrated on his own.
That alone was remarkable.
Because when children feel that sick, drinking is often impossible.
But Bentley understood the importance.
He always does.
His heart rate remained elevated.
His temperature continued to rise even after arrival.
More medication was given.
And the family stayed.
Not because they wanted to.
But because safety demanded it.
They waited.
Watched monitors.
Listened to beeps.
Counted minutes.
Eventually, the numbers began to stabilize.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Twelve hours passed without fever.
Then more.
Bentley was on the mend.
The flu, they were reminded, is no joke.
At one point, the team attempted to start an IV.
Bentley lifted his head to watch.
He always wants to see.
He wants to understand.
The movement caused the vein to blow.
The attempt failed.
As they prepared to try again, a nurse walked in.
She brought unexpected news.
The labs had come back.
They were okay.
An IV was no longer necessary.
Relief washed over the room.
What many nurses and doctors do not realize at first is how involved Bentley is in his own care.
He has grown up inside medical systems.
He knows his body.
He knows his veins.
He knows what works and what does not.
Bentley was telling them where to place the IV.
He spoke with confidence.
With experience.
They suggested different spots.
Places they thought were better.
Bentley firmly disagreed.
He knew.
His nurse later commented on how wonderful and sweet he was.
How polite.
How calm.
How knowledgeable about his own health.
Compliments that came from genuine admiration.
It had been a long time since anyone in the family had been sick.
They had almost forgotten what it felt like.
This experience reminded them painfully.
It was exhausting.
Frightening.
Emotionally draining.
Something they never wanted to repeat.
And yet, there was no time to fully rest.
Bentley still had upcoming treatments.
On Christmas Eve, bright and early, he would return for albumin and iron infusions.
His albumin levels had dropped.
But given how sick he had been, that was expected.
Any illness hits Bentley harder than most.
It always has.
Every fever carries more weight.
Every infection brings added risk.
Yesterday, he gave his family a scare.
A real one.
But today, they are grateful.
Grateful for skilled doctors.
Grateful for attentive nurses.
Grateful for a little boy who faces more than most adults ever will.
Bentley is healing.
Slowly.
Bravely.
And once again, he reminds everyone around him what quiet strength looks like.
