April 22nd
I stand at the foot of Will's crib and watch as the nurse and RT take turns giving him breaths. My heart is in my throat as I watch his limp body turn blue.
"Breathe. Come on buddy, breathe," I continue to say. They just switched him from the ventilator (required for his surgery) to the nasal cannula, and he's not liking it.
2 minutes go by and I feel a complete sense of helplessness.
Another minute passes and the thought crosses my mind, "I don't want to be here alone when he dies. I want Tyler with me."
As I stand on trembling legs and watch them continue to work on him, I suddenly feel an unexpected sense of peace. If he passes away here and now, everything will be OK.
"Get the doc in here," I hear someone say.
The doctor rushes in and administers a drug through Will's IV. This drug, he tells me, will reverse the effects of the morphine he received for his surgery. This will hopefully get him to breathe.
The liquid enters his veins and Will immediately lets out a cry. I keep my eyes fixed on his belly as his lungs start working. My heart starts to slow to a normal rate and I wipe my damp palms on my jeans.
He received surgery this morning at 8:30 to get his GJ feeding tube placed. This is done laparoscopically and endoscopically. After 2 1/2 hours, they declared the surgery complete, although they weren't able to get the tube down past his stomach as far as they wanted. If it doesn't travel down on it's own, they'll have to go in again in 2 weeks and try again.
12 hours later, here we are.
"Turn his settings up on the cannula," the nurse says.
I watch as they make a few final adjustments and listen to his cry. It's music to my ears.
After a few minutes, the nurse nestles him in my arms and I speak soothing words in an effort to calm him.
"It's OK Will, you're doing a good job," I whisper.
His little chin quivers and he keeps on wailing, but I don't mind.
He's breathing.
April 23rd
My eyes fly open to the sound of my phone ringing. It's the
NICU.
"Will had a really rough night. We had to bag him several times and he's in a lot of pain. He just doesn't want to do it anymore. We need to intubate him again."
I quickly get ready and drive to the hospital. As I enter his room, the tube is already in place and he is sleeping comfortably. I feel a pang of guilt. As I was sleeping peacefully during the night, my little man needed his mommy. Tears fill my eyes and my throat is tight. He needed me and I wasn't there.
I dab my eyes and take a deep breath.
April 24th
I peer down at my miracle boy and place my fingers on his soft belly. I need to be close to him. He looks so much better than yesterday. His swelling has gone down quite a bit and his coloring is better. He's on morphine and versed to help with the pain. He's been breathing over the ventilator and all his gases have been good. Time to take out the breathing tube again and see what he can do.
As I stand by his bed, I start to think about the events 2 days ago when I thought he was going to die. I'm so afraid he isn't going to breathe again.
The RT takes off his face tape and gently pulls the tube, then places the cannulas in his nose. His chest stays still and I feel my pulse start to pick up. I turn him on his side and vigorously rub his back as it begins to turn blue.
Still nothing.
The nurse grabs the bag and hastily places it over his mouth and nose. After about 30 seconds, he gets the idea and starts doing it himself.
I let the air out of my lungs as I watch Will fighting to get it in his own. I suddenly feel exhausted and all I want to do is sleep. I stay several more hours just to be sure he's OK then finally decide to go home. I feel anxious and worried about him and almost decide to stay. But my heavy eyelids win and I slowly walk out of his room, praying he'll make it another night.
