One year ago today

One year ago today was a very important day in our family’s life. I never want to forget, so I have written about it here. I warn you, this is a very long post. You may want to just skip over it. I will no be offended at all if you do. However, this day is to important for me to not write about. I want this recorded somewhere besides my home. One day when he is old enough to understand, I will tell my son about it. One day, I want him to read this. Until then, I write it so that I will remember.

One year ago today, I was handing my precious four week old child over to an anesthesiologist who had just finished explaining to me how she would put him under general anesthesia, inserting a tube down his throat which would breath for him while the doctors skillfully cut into his tiny belly in order to repair his stomach. A year ago yesterday I had no idea what the next day held in store for me. It had only been a day more than four weeks since we decided to have me induced so that my husband could be there for the birth. It had only been four weeks since we had first greeted and held our little bundle of flesh and blood and named him. It had only been two weeks since my mom and mother-in-law had driven cross-country to re-unite our family, then left assuring me that I would make and indeed already was an excellent mother, and that I would do fine without them around to help. It had been one week since I had begun to think that something might not be quite right.

My son was never a tiny child. He weighed 9 pounds, 11 ounces at birth. When he was three weeks old, he began what I thought was spitting up. He was a big baby and he spit up in a big way. I figured that’s what babies do. He began getting fussy, but I figured it was because I was so new at this thing we call parenthood and hadn’t figured out how to sooth him properly. After a couple days of spitting up, I called the pediatrician. As mentioned above, we moved when he was two weeks old, so we hadn’t even seen this doctor yet. I sheepishly explained that I was a new mom, but that my son seemed to be spitting up much more that I would think was normal. The nurse gave me some ways to try to minimize his spitting up and said to call back if it didn’t get better in a day or two. The next day I thought he getting better. He was still spitting up, but it didn’t seem to be as much or as often. I had read that spitting-up is usually not a health issue; it’s a laundry issue. Boy were we going through laundry! Again, I thought this was a normal part of life. I was told that newborns grow quickly and you have to change them often, but we were going through 8 – 10 outfits a day. I really began to question the value of burp rags. Whole towels seemed much more adequate for the mess my little guy made. Three days after calling the doctor, I called again. I told the nurse I had thought he was getting better, but now I wasn’t sure. Could we please see the doctor? That was a Saturday morning. The nurse said we could get in to see the doctor first thing Monday. Over the weekend, he was truly inconsolable for the first time. I felt so helpless and like a horrible mommy. No matter what I did, he just screamed and screamed. Even nursing didn’t help any. We called the on-call doctor who said my baby was probably “just being a jerk.” To this day I can’t believe he said that. He authorized us to take him to the emergency room under certain conditions that were never met. Over the weekend, I was reading a book on parenting looking for anything that might help. I found an article called “A Whole Lot More Than Spit Up.” “Yes,” I thought, “that’s my baby.” The article seemed to describe just what we had been going through. It ended on an ominous note – this condition (pyloric stenosis) is corrected through surgery. I now believe that this article, while it scared the begeebers out of me, was God’s way of preparing me for what was ahead.

Monday morning we awoke so relieved to be able to get medical advice. I was horrified to discover that our son had actually dropped back significantly below his birth-weight by almost a full pound! The doctor explained to me the two options of what could be causing the symptoms I described. The first was reflux. The second was the very condition the article had described. I had already tried all the non-medicinal cures for reflux to no avail. The doctor went as far as to say that she was quite certain it was reflux and that if it wasn’t better by the next day, she would try him on prescription medication. I was almost in tears. I couldn’t imagine another day without any real changes. The doctor then said she would do a physical exam, “but in the case of excessive spit-up, they never really reveal anything.” While looking at his belly, you could see the surprise on her face. “Did you see that?” she asked hubby and I. We saw his belly, but weren’t sure what she was referring to. She then asked if we saw the lump that appeared and disappeared. I still am not sure if I ever saw it; I didn’t know what was normal looking for a four week old. I just praise God that she did. The doctor then apologetically changed her diagnosis. Instead of treating our son for reflux, she wanted to send him to the state children’s hospital for an ultra-sound of his stomach. She thought wanted to see if he had pyloric stenosis as she now suspected. I wasn’t to feed my baby until after the ultrasound. The poor thing hadn’t been fed since 6 that morning and was a trooper. It was now nearing 10. “Wow,” I thought, “here is a change of pace. I’m used to be the one having the ultrasound.” In just a couple hours we were headed to the hospital for what we thought would be a quick ultrasound to confirm our doctor’s suspicions. I was scared to death since the article had said the cure was surgery. At the same time, it was so hard to see my baby miserable, and I just wanted answers. I figured we would get answers, then schedule the surgery for some later date, and go home to wait and pray.

We got to the hospital and I must say that for being a colorful place, it was wonderfully cheery. Volunteers lead us right to the ultrasound room where they confirmed our suspicions – pyloric stenosis. Remember I told you our son was a big boy? Apparently the muscle at the base of his stomach grew faster than it should, causing it to all but seal itself shut. Only a trickle of food could get past it. The rest was being thrown up. No matter how often or how much I nursed him, this overgrown muscle was causing him to starve. A surgeon greeted us just outside the ultrasound room and explained to us what would happen next. There would be no returning home like I thought. Our son would be immediately admitted, and the doctor hoped to perform surgery that afternoon. In it he would insert a video camera through his belly-button, then through two tiny holes on either side of his belly, manipulate instruments to get to the overgrown muscle and cut it open, allowing the food to again flow freely. This was a one-time fix for life. First though our baby would have to get his fluid levels up. The lack of milk able to pass his belly had caused him to get very dehydrated. They would know when he was hydrated enough for surgery by measuring his output – weighing each and every diaper. The doctor apologized, but explained that his stomach needed to be empty for the surgery, so they would give him fluids intravenously, but he could not nurse until after the surgery was complete. By the time we were admitted and got to our room, it was near 2:00, and I had soaked through my nursing pads and my shirt. The nurse quickly showed me a room dedicated just to nursing mothers and supplied me with a pump and storage bottles. This provided me some relief, but our poor son was sucking his pacifier with a death grip! During the ultra-sound, they had given us some sugar-water to put on his it to help him hold still. In the room though, that was taken away as it might mess up his electrolyte levels. He didn’t cry much, but looked so pitiful sucking away on his now dry pacifier.

I must say that as we sat in the room praying for enough wet diapers to demonstrate adequate hydration, we felt the prayers of our parents and church family from our old home. God was so gracious to us. He allowed us to share a room with another family where the baby had the exact same condition and was in surgery as we checked in. This allowed us to see what to expect.

Our baby was hooked up to an IV to give him fluids. He had blood drawn to check his electrolyte levels. His fluid levels dropped instead of rising since he was now not nursing, and they couldn’t even get enough blood from a prick to do the tests necessary to see if he was ready for surgery. At that the day came to a close. The crib in the room was large enough that hubby and I took turns sitting or laying in it with him, holding him, rocking him, and singing to him. I never thought I would be praying to need to change a diaper, but my how much I now appreciate this previously yucky task. The very need to change a diaper is a sign of a healthy, normally functioning body. The next morning we got the good news. Our baby was hydrated and scheduled for surgery. That was one year ago today and brings us to the point where our story started. I handed him over to the anesthesiologist and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. I was more afraid of the anesthesia than I was of the surgery. Praise God our baby made it through beautifully.

We had to wait in the waiting room while the surgery was performed. When it was finished, they took him to a recovery room until he had fully regained consciousness. The surgeon had come out and told us everything had gone exactly according to the textbook. As soon as he was fully awake, we could be with him again. We then waited, and waited, and waited. The time for him to wake up came and went, but still we weren’t called back. The waiting room attendant called back to see what was going on. It turns out that most babies when they wake up are screaming mad. If the parents see the child before this happens, then the child starts screaming, it freaks the parents out, so the parents are not called back until after the child is already screaming. I suppose I understand this, although it sounds horrible. Our son was whimpering, but never did really scream. (Now he has since then and does still at times, but he didn’t that day.) The nurses couldn’t believe it and all wanted to take him home. They finally let us come back and hold him. The doctor put him on a strict feeding schedule to get his stomach gradually used to processing food again. Since I was nursing, the schedule was much easier than for the formula fed baby we had shared the room with. This is because breast milk is so much easier on the baby’s stomach. It had been about 30 hours since my baby had nursed and it felt so good to hold him and nurse him, knowing that I was again able to provide the nutrition he needed. His body continued to reject some of the milk as it adjusted to his new, improved stomach, but it processed enough. Early the next morning we were released from the hospital.

My son now has absolutely no problems eating. When we were in Puerto Rico, women would prattle over him in Spanish and the only words we could understand were “Gerber” and “oy, calindo” which means “how cute” – or so we were told. He is pleasantly plump just like the Gerber baby to whom he has often been compared. I know this post has been a long one, but today I wanted to take the time to remember the wonderful people who helped to literally save my son’s life one year ago today. I thank God that we live in an age where such major surgery can be performed with only two quarter inch scars to show for it. I thank God for the pediatrician who recognized the problem and was big enough to change her diagnosis and not wait another day. I thank God for the skilled pediatric ultra-sound technician who confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis and delivered the news. I thank God for the hospital volunteers who were there to make our scary stay a little less scary. I thank God for children’s hospitals with colorful fun gardens and play areas to make things like surgery less intimidating. Most of all, I thank God for pediatric anesthesiologists and pediatric surgeons whose hands God used to repair my son’s stomach. And I thank God who, on July 11, 2005, gave me my precious gift from him and who then, on August 9, 2005 gave him to me again.