One Day Too Many
One lesson I've learned this week about being a mom, is that sometimes parents just have to deal with feeling hurt and helpless in regards to their kids. I guess I just didn't expect to feel that way when Sam was only two months old.
This is a photo of me and my baby boy on Sunday.
He was alert and vibrant, and full of excitement to see the world around him. He was so bright eyed and inquisitive, that for a moment I felt really sad that all he has been allowed to ever see outside of the womb is the walls of his hospital nursery. It seems unfair somehow, that while most babies his age are being taken to mommy meet up groups, the grocery store, church, and places where he can be shown off to friends and family, Sam looks around all day long and sees tubes, wires, and incubators everywhere he looks.
But anyway, I'm always able to shake those feelings off, and know that it's for the best, so that he can have a big and strong (LONG) life full of everything he could ever hope to see and experience.
So yesterday was his surgery day. He cried all morning as Frank & I took turns holding him, trying to rationalize with a 4 pound ball of hysterical confusion, trying to explain to him why we couldn't feed him even though he was so hungry. And then they wheeled him upstairs to surgery and he was still looking around, so wide-eyed and trusting. I kissed his cheeks and off he went.
Last night I saw him post-surgery, and I didn't even recognize him. The ventilator forced open his mouth in an unnatural oval shape, I touched his chest and could feel him breathe in a sort of mechanical way that made my stomach turn. His little hand was all bruised from an IV attempt, and two other IVs were stuck inside of him - one in his arm, one in his head.
They fixed the hernias, they reconnected his stomach, and between the battle scars and anesthesia, my baby lay on a little table under a heat lamp, pale and lifeless, as a machine helped him breathe. "Breathing is handy," Frank said as a joke yesterday. Yeah, it sure is. Come on baby, get better so we can take you off of these beastly machines.
I left his nursery sobbing last night, he looked so helpless. I felt so helpless. As I opened gifts at my baby shower and laughed with friends as they rubbed my belly and picked out adorable little boy outfits.....I never expected motherhood to start out like this.
I saw him again this morning, and he looked worse. His belly is distended, and we are holding our breath until the doctors figure out why. His eyes were swollen, and he barely stirred as his diaper was changed and the doctor examined him. Maybe it makes me a horrible mommy, but I could only stand to stay for half an hour. I just wanted to hold him, and cuddle him, and look into his big blue eyes and remind him again (like we always do), that he has an amazing entourage outside waiting to meet him, that he will have so many fun adventures, so much love surrounding him.
But it's super hard to hold out hope for him, when today is the first official day my hope is gone.
I don't want any more bad news. I don't want to fight through wires and nurses to snuggle Sam anymore.
I also don't want to be a total drama queen who can't talk about anything except her hospitalized baby and how it is getting more difficult every day.
Today is just one day too many.
This is a photo of me and my baby boy on Sunday.
He was alert and vibrant, and full of excitement to see the world around him. He was so bright eyed and inquisitive, that for a moment I felt really sad that all he has been allowed to ever see outside of the womb is the walls of his hospital nursery. It seems unfair somehow, that while most babies his age are being taken to mommy meet up groups, the grocery store, church, and places where he can be shown off to friends and family, Sam looks around all day long and sees tubes, wires, and incubators everywhere he looks.
But anyway, I'm always able to shake those feelings off, and know that it's for the best, so that he can have a big and strong (LONG) life full of everything he could ever hope to see and experience.
So yesterday was his surgery day. He cried all morning as Frank & I took turns holding him, trying to rationalize with a 4 pound ball of hysterical confusion, trying to explain to him why we couldn't feed him even though he was so hungry. And then they wheeled him upstairs to surgery and he was still looking around, so wide-eyed and trusting. I kissed his cheeks and off he went.
Last night I saw him post-surgery, and I didn't even recognize him. The ventilator forced open his mouth in an unnatural oval shape, I touched his chest and could feel him breathe in a sort of mechanical way that made my stomach turn. His little hand was all bruised from an IV attempt, and two other IVs were stuck inside of him - one in his arm, one in his head.
They fixed the hernias, they reconnected his stomach, and between the battle scars and anesthesia, my baby lay on a little table under a heat lamp, pale and lifeless, as a machine helped him breathe. "Breathing is handy," Frank said as a joke yesterday. Yeah, it sure is. Come on baby, get better so we can take you off of these beastly machines.
I left his nursery sobbing last night, he looked so helpless. I felt so helpless. As I opened gifts at my baby shower and laughed with friends as they rubbed my belly and picked out adorable little boy outfits.....I never expected motherhood to start out like this.
I saw him again this morning, and he looked worse. His belly is distended, and we are holding our breath until the doctors figure out why. His eyes were swollen, and he barely stirred as his diaper was changed and the doctor examined him. Maybe it makes me a horrible mommy, but I could only stand to stay for half an hour. I just wanted to hold him, and cuddle him, and look into his big blue eyes and remind him again (like we always do), that he has an amazing entourage outside waiting to meet him, that he will have so many fun adventures, so much love surrounding him.
But it's super hard to hold out hope for him, when today is the first official day my hope is gone.
I don't want any more bad news. I don't want to fight through wires and nurses to snuggle Sam anymore.
I also don't want to be a total drama queen who can't talk about anything except her hospitalized baby and how it is getting more difficult every day.
Today is just one day too many.