It's no wonder I don't sleep.
I think of disturbing situations, causing my anxiety level to rise in the middle of the night.
I know. Genius, right?
Last night I heard oldest cough. (Which proves how good my ears are because we sleep with a fan on for white noise.)
Instead of thinking oh, he has a cough.
Instead of ignoring said cough.
Instead of rolling over and trying to fall asleep.
I think..
I hope he isn't getting sick.
I know. Not that abnormal of a thought.
But then I go back to January, 2004 when we brought him home from the NICU after 6 months.
We were ready for him to come home.
DH and I had months of tracheostomy care. We had binders filled with his medical history to bring with us to the hospital, in case of an emergency.
We had two ventilators (in case one malfunctioned), two oxygen tanks, two suction machines, back up trach and I think even a back up to the back up.
We took pictures of him, finally getting to wear a cute winter outfit that we got as a baby gift, put him in the car seat for the first time (at 6 months of age), and off we went. HOME.
Poor oldest was drenched in sweat by the time we arrived in the house.
The outfit was a furry kind of jacket and pants and the poor kid was on a ventilator to breathe as is working up a sweat. I was already failing.
We had set up a portable crib in our room as well as a crib in his room (which would only be utilized when we had nighttime care. Otherwise he slept in our room. The ventilator actually became our need for white noise. I slept with one eye open as I watched his saturation numbers go up and down by a number or two. While I listened to the humming of the vent I would stare at my little one, amazed he was home by our side.
And then the machine beeped.
His saturation levels (oxygen) was dropping. He must need a suction (to get out secretions from his trach). We suctioned him as we did so many times in the NICU. And we suctioned again as his numbers didn't rise.
I panicked.
He was turning blue.
Our adrenaline kicked in and DH changed his trach tube but he still wasn't pinking up.
I called 911.
And there, on our first night home, was my worry that I was not equipped to handle my son at home.
By the time the paramedics arrived (and clearly not prepared to see a baby on a vent with a trach), he was fine. They "bagged" him while I insisted we go to the ER to make sure he was fine. Our local ER was not equipped to handle kids on vents. I called Children's Hospital and begged them to take him back the next morning. Please just make sure he was okay.
In we went. I felt like I needed to have my head between my knees in embarrassment. After all, I was the one who insisted we were ready to take him home. My son would not be going to a rehab. We agreed we needed private care but that first night, no one was available.
Oldest was fine. Happy as can be (trach, vent, tubes, that child was ALWAYS smiling). DH and I went home to breathe and gather our bearings. We knew we could do this. We were a team. We loved our baby.
Two days later, oldest came home.
For good.
Sure we were back in the hospital quite a few times over the next two years for various bouts of pneumonia (one even being released the day I went into labor with youngest), but he was home.
And we did it.
But not without anxiety. And fear. And insecurities.
So yea, when I hear a cough coming from his room.
This is where my mind goes.
I'm so glad he is home.
I think of disturbing situations, causing my anxiety level to rise in the middle of the night.
I know. Genius, right?
Last night I heard oldest cough. (Which proves how good my ears are because we sleep with a fan on for white noise.)
Instead of thinking oh, he has a cough.
Instead of ignoring said cough.
Instead of rolling over and trying to fall asleep.
I think..
I hope he isn't getting sick.
I know. Not that abnormal of a thought.
But then I go back to January, 2004 when we brought him home from the NICU after 6 months.
We were ready for him to come home.
DH and I had months of tracheostomy care. We had binders filled with his medical history to bring with us to the hospital, in case of an emergency.
We had two ventilators (in case one malfunctioned), two oxygen tanks, two suction machines, back up trach and I think even a back up to the back up.
We took pictures of him, finally getting to wear a cute winter outfit that we got as a baby gift, put him in the car seat for the first time (at 6 months of age), and off we went. HOME.
Poor oldest was drenched in sweat by the time we arrived in the house.
The outfit was a furry kind of jacket and pants and the poor kid was on a ventilator to breathe as is working up a sweat. I was already failing.
We had set up a portable crib in our room as well as a crib in his room (which would only be utilized when we had nighttime care. Otherwise he slept in our room. The ventilator actually became our need for white noise. I slept with one eye open as I watched his saturation numbers go up and down by a number or two. While I listened to the humming of the vent I would stare at my little one, amazed he was home by our side.
And then the machine beeped.
His saturation levels (oxygen) was dropping. He must need a suction (to get out secretions from his trach). We suctioned him as we did so many times in the NICU. And we suctioned again as his numbers didn't rise.
I panicked.
He was turning blue.
Our adrenaline kicked in and DH changed his trach tube but he still wasn't pinking up.
I called 911.
And there, on our first night home, was my worry that I was not equipped to handle my son at home.
By the time the paramedics arrived (and clearly not prepared to see a baby on a vent with a trach), he was fine. They "bagged" him while I insisted we go to the ER to make sure he was fine. Our local ER was not equipped to handle kids on vents. I called Children's Hospital and begged them to take him back the next morning. Please just make sure he was okay.
In we went. I felt like I needed to have my head between my knees in embarrassment. After all, I was the one who insisted we were ready to take him home. My son would not be going to a rehab. We agreed we needed private care but that first night, no one was available.
Oldest was fine. Happy as can be (trach, vent, tubes, that child was ALWAYS smiling). DH and I went home to breathe and gather our bearings. We knew we could do this. We were a team. We loved our baby.
Two days later, oldest came home.
For good.
Sure we were back in the hospital quite a few times over the next two years for various bouts of pneumonia (one even being released the day I went into labor with youngest), but he was home.
And we did it.
But not without anxiety. And fear. And insecurities.
So yea, when I hear a cough coming from his room.
This is where my mind goes.
I'm so glad he is home.
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