Taking Health for Granted

When my daughter was born, I loved going to well-baby check-ups. I couldn't wait to find out what percentile my daughter was, as if being in the 90% for height somehow directly translated to her being the smartest, most special baby in the world. I was smug. I'd walk out of the appointment and call my other mom-friends. We'd share stats and talk possibilities. It wasn't until I had my son that I realized that I had taken it all for granted.

With my son, I realize now that health is so precious, something to be cherished. Before I knew this, I remember hopping jovially into his 4 month well-baby visit. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking but I remember it wasn't about his health. The idea that he was anything less than perfect was not even a possibility. And then a second later, it was. Instead of skipping gleefully away and calling friends, I had to call a neurologist to set up an appointment. My baby boy wasn't developing on a normal scale. 

The moment you realize this is the moment you want to delete all your friends from Facebook and Instagram and every other form of social media. You don't want to look at their perfectly happy babies; you don't want to see those beautiful cherubs achieving their milestones. It's a terrible way to be but it just is. Every "look at my baby roll over" post would send me into a spiral of negativity. It should have been me posting those happy milestones, not me posting another picture of my baby smiling...because that's all he could do. 

I try not be angry with other moms. They simply don't know any better. If the shoe were on the other foot, I know I would be tooting my son's horn, proclaiming his amazingness for all to see. Heck, I was one of those moms once long ago. I broadcast my daughter's rolling and walking and wanted the world to see how proud I was. And I should've been; she was and still is amazing! But I have learned to realize that my son is too. I don't know another baby that has been poked and prodded like he has and yet, he comes out smiling. I will be emotionally drained, balling my eyes out, and look over to see him grinning away at me. In the middle of hospital stays and after blood draws, he will laugh. His attitude and positive outlook on life make me more proud than if he were to roll over right now. With him, I've come to realize that it's not about any sort of timetable or calendar; it's about feeling blessed with what you have and not taking it all for granted. 

Now I belong to a special club. I belong to a group of parents that have had to realize that life is truly a gift, that the easiness of it all can be ripped away in an instant. I am a proud member of this group because these parents and their children inspire me every day to be the best mom I can be and to truly be thankful for all the blessings in my life.

We Almost Lost Him

I was awoken to the sound of my son's cry. Being only 3 weeks old I assumed he was hungry. But when I went to check on him, he was perfectly still and quiet. I was a little surprised that he had gone back to sleep so quickly and figured I would just get him up anyway since I was sure the quiet wouldn't last. When I lifted him out of the crib, everything fell back - his arms, his legs, his head. Something was wrong. I quickly laid his body on the changing pad and unbuttoned his sleeper, a surefire way to arouse his angry side. But there was nothing, no change. He simply lay there, peacefully unmoving. I inspected him. His color was good; when I put my ear on his chest, I could feel his chest moving. He was breathing. I took a wet wipe, another infallible trick to wake him, but still there was nothing. No movement, no change. I shook him but still nothing. I ran out to my husband, asleep with my too-early-of-a-riser daughter on the couch, and told him my concern. He, too, tried to wake up our son but, again, nothing. There was just nothing.

I'm not sure we even communicated our intentions but we both took off. We gathered up the kids, threw them in the car, and raced off to the hospital only 3 miles away. It was 5am on a Saturday so the streets were ours. We hit a pothole in the road and I heard the sweetest sound. He cried. From the back seat, he cried. It was the greatest relief I had ever felt.

As we rushed into the ER, the nurses immediately took him, placed him on a gurney, and got to work. We did an x-ray, talked with the doctor, but one nurse, in particular, discovered that he had low oxygen by pressing on his fingernails. They immediately got him some oxygen and his color soon began getting better. All the nurses took to him so I chatted, finally feeling somewhat calm, with everyone. We got the news that we were being transferred to their sister hospital because it was more equipped to handle situations if anything happened to get worse. So off we went. It was my first ambulance ride. Me, strapped onto a gurney, holding my baby in my arms while simultaneously holding a blow-by, a Styrofoam cup aiming oxygen at his little 3 week old face. My husband was following behind in our car.

When we got to the ER at the other hospital, everything went wrong. They first discovered that his body temperature was way too cold. It suddenly became chaotic as they ripped off his sleeper and brought over a warmer. Having just had a baby 3 weeks prior, my hormones were a bit out of control. I remember this doctor trying to talk to me, ask me questions. I honestly tried to focus, be the helpful mother. But as more and more people started swarming, I broke down. I just lost it. I looked over to see one of the paramedics, a young girl, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

They put us into a sort of holding area where my son was monitored as we waited for a room in the Pediatric ICU to open up. It was then that they discovered that my son's CO2 was exponentially higher than it should have been. They had to intubate.

I thought I had fallen apart by this point but the wave of emotion that hit me was like no other. Soon people were coming out of the woodwork to watch my son be intubated. Seeing as this was a teaching hospital, apparently intubating a 3 week old baby was a interesting learning experience. While the staff prepped him, I sat in the bathroom down the hall and pumped. And cried. There was nothing else I could do.

When I came out, my husband watched the procedure taking place from afar. I couldn't. I paced the hallway, sobbing uncontrollably, my postpartum emotions running away with me. People kept asking me if I was ok and I would just wave them off. What else was I supposed to do, say? It was then that a nurse grabbed me around the shoulders and paced with me. She didn't say much other than to tell me that it was going to be ok. But she paced with me, hugging me tightly. I wish I could remember her face or that I had gotten her name. Whoever this woman is, I am forever grateful for her kindness.

That night was the worst of my life. As we sat in the Pediatric ICU, we watched as my son's oxygen level dropped time and time again. Each time they had to take him of the vent and bag him. Each time, I felt like we were going to lose him. Even the ICU doctor stayed the night because my boy was so unstable. I can't even describe the terror I felt. You can only understand if you've experienced it yourself. And I pray you haven't.

Over the course of the next few days, we ran test after test, talked to various specialists but everything came back as negative. In the end, the doctors chalked the whole episode up to a viral infection, an infection that his 3 week old body wasn't strong enough to fight without help. Slowly but surely, the virus ran its course and slowly but surely, my boy became more stable.

I look back at this time and I still consider it the most awful of my life. Since then, we've lived through other diagnoses, a house flood that carried away even my car, many life changes. But that night, the night we almost lost him, can never be forgotten.

Happy? Birth

My son was born via cesarean because of poor positioning in the womb but I wasn't nervous. I had had such a difficult time recovering after the traditional birth of my daughter that I welcomed it. I checked into the hospital at 6am and then poof... my son was born 2 1/2 hours later. He was a perfect baby boy.

The only part that made me sad about a c-section was that I wasn't sure I would have the same bonding experience with my son that I had been given with my daughter. But sure enough, after he was checked out by the nurses, he was placed on my chest for me to hold. It was perfection.

But that quickly changed. In the recovery room, the nurse noticed that my son's temperature ran low. I was told that this was a sign of diabetes and his blood sugar had to be tested. I immediately lost it because my family had a history of juvenile diabetes and late-onset diabetes. When the test results came back, everything showed up as normal. The scare turned out to be just that...a scare. Unfortunately, his scare continued. For the rest of our time in the hospital, he had issues with low temperature. Even at his first well-baby visit post hospital stay and his two week check-up, the issue continued. We bought a heater for his room and thought that as he grew and as he got stronger, the issue wouldn't be an issue any more.

In between all these scares, my baby boy was so wonderful. He breastfed easily, much easier than my daughter had, and was a king of cuddling. He LOVED to be held! I couldn't wait to watch him grow, to take he and my daughter on adventures, to hear his voice. He was the most perfect little boy and I was so proud to me his mama.