The story begins...

April 2, 2009

Well, I guess the story starts now. It’s as good a point as any.

I intended to start writing my story as it happens, the story of a mother of two beautiful children, a girl and a boy. The story of a wife to the hardest working, most loyal man I know. It’s the story of a woman trying to carve her way through the world as a fair-weather entrepreneur, student, athlete, and artist. And writer.

Indeed, that story will unfold on these scrolls.

The story for today is the story of the mother and wife.

We awoke to Marcus, our almost 1 month-old, uncomfortable in his swaddle and breathing heavily. He couldn’t seem to relax enough to sleep. I brought him into bed with me around 4 am. Alexandria, the 2 ½ year-old, woke up at 5 am complaining that she couldn’t find her pillow. Fantastic. Dave and I suddenly turned into the Pitt-Jolie family and welcomed both of our kids into our bed, creating the nightmarish and wildly dysfunctional “co-sleeping” arrangement that we vowed never to embrace. So there we were, the boy breathing heavily, the mother worried and exhausted, the girl slightly disoriented and sleepy, the husband grumpy and tired.

Marcus continued to breathe heavily and couldn’t keep food down. So, we made the call around 9 that I’d take him to the doctor’s office. Now, let me introduce myself as a non-interventionist. For the most part, I believe that sickness will pass. I don’t frequent the pediatrician’s office. I am usually right in my assessment of the situation (Dave, kids get sick. It’s their job. It’s what they do. You’re making me crazy.) (Dave, I’m not worried about her not pooping for 7 days. I’m not calling. I talked to Bree, and it happened to Sophie. Alexandria is not uncomfortable. You’re making me crazy.) So my concern was in the heavy breathing, but more so in the lack of appetite. Babies eat, and he wasn’t. So my mother-in-law (Saint Ya-Ya) picked up Alexandria, and Marcus and I trekked off to the doctor. Dr. Paul listened to Marcus’s breathing and his heart. For a long time. Like, a really long time.

Then the nurse listened to his heart for a long time.

And then the doctor again. It was scary.

Then the doctor said, “OK, we’re going to send him up to Cottage Hospital, and you’ll check into the emergency room, and he’ll be admitted into the Pediatric ICU. His heart is sort of galloping along, and I’d like the cardiologist to take a look. So, I’d like you to go up in an ambulance.”

I began to cry. It’s terribly scary to hold an 8 pound life force in your hands and picture the tubes and wires and discomfort and pain, and then think about all the awful ways it might turn out.
I insisted on driving rather than taking the ambulance, and then the moment I got in the car I began second-guessing my decision. I made phone calls. I couldn’t stand not seeing his face. I held his hand for nearly the entire 30 minute drive. I slowed at all the speed traps. It’s a drive I know well.

I arrived at the hospital composed, got admitted, and suddenly there were 10 people asking me questions while simultaneously assessing my son. My son. My boy. I touched his face and rubbed his feet. I held his hand as the nurse punctured his tiny arm once, twice, three times, trying to find a vein to administer an I.V. He began to turn blue. He breathed harder. His tiny heart beat at 220 beats per minute. Heart failure. His body was shutting down. His liver began to swell. They restarted his heart by “suffocating” him with an icepack on his face. A social worker came in to talk to me. She seemed as helpless as I felt. Neither of us knew what to say.

Within 10 minutes, a bed was ready, and off my little guy went to the Pediatric ICU. I waited. Dave arrived. We waited.

…to be continued

April 6, 2009

About an hour later, we were escorted through the double doors into the ICU, and there Marcus lay. The moment we caught sight of him, Dave squeezed my hand so tight, and we nearly started crying. He was in room 3, the high priority room, directly in front of the nurse’s station. Stripped down and warming under a heat lamp, he was attached to 6 separate tubes and wires, and it was awful. I could see where there had been 4 attempts at an IV on one arm (I would find two more on the other arm). He looked small and peaceful, but very much alive. His heart and lungs were still on overdrive, yet he was (dare I say it?) stable. We began our vigil.

The day passed and time meant nothing. Good news came when his heart gradually slowed. Better news came when we learned his heart was structurally intact. Best news came when we learned that he had a “condition,” and it was common and manageable. We learned late in the evening, or perhaps early the next morning, that his condition was triggered by the Flu virus. I slept by his side the first night.

The next day Marcus was on the mend, and we were cleared to leave the ICU and head up to general pediatrics. But there were no beds available, so we stayed. He grew stronger and stronger, and ate more and more throughout the day. By late afternoon, his eyes brightened and he looked around. Our little guy was back!

Dave slept by his side the next night. At midnight, he was taken off oxygen. By 9:30 the next morning, we were cleared for discharge.

Unbelievable! We could go home.

We spent the day at Dave’s parent’s house and began our own recovery. We arrived home late that night, and slept peacefully, except for 3 am feeding.

I awoke at 9 am, nursed Marcus, and then slept again until 12. I nursed Marcus, ate some breakfast, and then slept again until 4. The adrenaline was gone, and I was exhausted. My eyes fluttered with the strain of trying to stay open.

I putzed around the house the next day, too, still considering the “might have been” of the previous 72 hours.

Today, we’re alive! The might-have-been’s never happened. Considering them is wasteful and imagining them insults God's handy work. We’re all here again and life conquered.