The alarm goes off, piercing the peacefulness in the air. I run over to where Will is laying on the floor and quickly roll him to his side. Formula comes flowing freely from his mouth, a river of white froth. I grab the suctioning equipment and swiftly swipe his mouth.
This shouldn't be happening.
And yet it is. Over and over.
After his Nissen Fundoplication surgery, he wasn't supposed to reflux. Something is wrong.
I call the nurse and explain what's happening. As I go through the events of the day, I can hardly believe the words tumbling out of my mouth.
"He's thrown up several times and can't breathe. He's turned blue a few times and we've have to bag him to get him breathing again. Every time we sit him up, he stops breathing."
The nurse hesitates for a moment, trying to process my words. "I need to advise you to call an ambulance."
I tell her that we're not calling an ambulance, that we'll just bring him in. I think she is surprised that I'm so calm and matter-of-fact about everything. I think I'm just used to this kind of thing, sad as it is.
We arrive at the hospital and get checked in to our luxurious ER room. And we wait. And wait. And wait some more.
Finally a doctor comes in. Should I be concerned that the name on his badge says Dr Hurt? Yikes.
He looks Will over and thinks he looks fine. I explain what has been happening. When I get to the part where 'Will can't breathe when we sit him up.. he does better lying down,' the Doctor says, "Well with reflux they actually do better sitting up."
Really? I didn't know that. After 6 months of dealing with the most severe reflux possible, I've never heard of this. (This goes through my mind in a very sarcastic voice)
The words that come out instead are, "Yeah, I know it doesn't make much sense. That's why we think something is wrong."
He agrees we need to run some tests.
The nurse comes in after what seems like an eternity and tells us we're going to be admitted into our room now. It's 5 a.m.
After we settle into our extra luxurious hospital room, I feel like I'm going to pass out. The exhaustion from the last few days hits me and my eyes droop as if someone is pulling them down.
I look at Will in his enormous bed. His chest rises and falls with each fighting breath. I glance at the clock, then back at Will again. I need sleep. I make a split second decision and conclude that I need to go home, sleep, and get a few things for our hospital stay.
As I drive home from the hospital, my mind is a blank and it's all I can do to keep my eyes open. My head hits the pillow. I can't remember falling asleep. I only remember waking to the sound of my ringtone. It's a cheerful tune, one that reminds me of bbqs on lazy summer days. It seems to contradict my current mood.
I clear my throat and answer, trying to sound as if I haven't been sleeping. It's the Doctor.
"We need to do surgery asap. His Nissen wrap slipped. Half of his stomach is above the wrap and half is below. It could be cutting off blood supply to his stomach."
My mind reels as we finish our call. I feel anxiety about another surgery, especially so soon. But I also feel relief. I was so afraid we would take Will in and they would tell us that everything looks great. Then what would we do?
I quickly gather a few things, stop and get a sandwich, and arrive at the hospital in record time. I enter his room just as the nurses are coming to get him for surgery. My heart does a little flip as I watch them put my baby in the transport and wheel him down the hallway.
I can't help but think, "Is this it?" I hate that this thought enters my mind. But I can't help it.
I get to the surgery waiting room and my palms are already damp. The doctor didn't know how long surgery would take. 'It depends on how much damage has been done,' she said.
I glance around the room at the other people waiting for results. My eyes move from one somber face to another and I imagine their precious ones somewhere beyond those metal double doors. I suddenly feel a deep connection to these strangers as we wait together in this cold room. I say a quick prayer of comfort for them and their families.
I wait and wait. I picture my sweet boy in the operating room and wonder, 'What will this day bring?'
