The waiting game 

The waiting game started that evening when we got the call. Little H went into a slight cardiac arrest. His PDA was closing and his lungs and heart couldn’t manage the stress. I was quite devastated. Earlier that morning I had visited him. They had taken out his feeding tube, he was looking all happy and cheery. I played with him and watched him doze off with his pacifier. The doctor even told me that I could finally carry him the next day, once all the lines were out. 

So when that phone call came I was expressing milk. My brain just went blank for a second because I couldn’t understand. Everything looked good the past few days. Everything seemed fine. And then this. I couldn’t accept it. 

We rushed down to the hospital and the doctors and nurses were trying to get the cannula in. Little H had been struggling so much whilst they put in the ventilating tube to help his lungs. There were so many bruises and puncture wounds all over his little arms and legs that I just couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Just praying and wishing I could take away all his pain and discomfort. With the ventilating tube in, he couldn’t cry. From that night, I hadn’t heard my boy cry. I could see his face scrunch up from the discomfort but I heard nothing. It broke my heart. It was hard for my brain to register the peaceful calm baby I saw this morning with this one who had new wires coming out and new tubes. And now because of the breathing tube, they had to put a towel across his head which covered his eyes to stop him from moving so much and potentially dislodging the breathing tube. They put him on morphine to keep him calm as well. 

My precious active boy with the wriggly hands and feet had been pinned down and spent most of his time in drug-induced sleep. Sometimes he would be awake, his eyes would open, and we’d talk to him and sing to him. We’d tell him that everything was gonna be alright. That he just needs to ride it out. That we were riding this with him. I prayed for him every time. I sang and hummed to help distract him when the nurses had to change his diaper or suck the secretions our from his lungs. The husband talked to him and soothed him, telling him that we’re there and he’s there and he’d come visit any chance he could get. 

The doctors couldn’t give us a definitive date yet when surgery would take place. When we thought it would be tomorrow but then they changed their minds. Little H wasn’t big enough, he was still under 2kg. He was small and they needed him to be bigger. Eventhough his milk input was increasing, but the little guy wasn’t packing on the pounds still. 

It got easier to see him. To stroke his hair and his arm and back when we could. To warm his chest and hope that our touch would give him comfort. I had to be stronger. The husband had earned me that Little H knew if I was sad, he knew if I was crying. If mummy was crying, how could he be strong? So I had to suck it in. I had to remind myself that I needed to be strong for my little Warrior. My little Warrior who’s ten times braver and stronger than I am. 

So we visited. Everyday. And we waited. Everyday. And even when his condition had stabilized (my boy is seriously brave and strong), we waited. 

And then the waiting ended. And we had a definite date. And then we realised that the surgery was not going to be as simple. As we initially thought it would be. 


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