I’m sitting here in silence after my children are in bed and it hit me: it happened two years ago. Two years ago, I called the doctor and the pediatric GI because C stopped eating and drinking. He was lethargic. We were told to get him to Children’s Hospital. I rushed around, packing and making arrangements for 3-month-old Baby Jo.
I spent the entire month of August 2013 robotically going through the motions of inpatient hospital visits, learning to use a NG tube, g-tube surgery and the learning curve and insurance calls that come with it. I’m thankful that I was on Zoloft for my PPD, because looking back on it now I don’t know how I would have done it otherwise.
Two years ago, I almost lost my son.
One year ago, we experienced another inpatient hospital stay because we thought he was experiencing seizures. They discovered abnormal brain activity without epilepsy. We have medicine in the bathroom in case of an emergency, because he is at high risk for seizures.
Will I be holding my breath every August for the rest of my life?
Right now, it certainly feels that way. I’m on edge, stressed, emotional, overwhelmed and holding my breath until August is over. There’s something about August.
He was so tiny and frail, his energy gone.
We held him down as they inserted the NG tube. He screamed and fought and cried.
My tiny, sick child.
We helped him put on that tiny hospital gown, laughed with him as he got loopy from anesthesia, and watched as he disappeared with the doctor behind the doors to surgery.
I hate August.