Day four...
well, really month four...
virus after virus
a cough that hasn't ceased for months
a nose that hasn't stopped dripping for months
a sad little monkey, whose lungs finally got infected, fighting to breathe
gasping for breath and reaching out for relief
coughing so hard and so much that he vomits
an exhausted mama whose arms, back, and heart ache endlessly
I need this to end soon.
I need it to at least begin to abate.
I need to know that my sweet, happy little boy, who rarely cries and has slept through the night since eight weeks, will be himself again...soon.
I need my husband to be home.
I need rest and relief.
While I am grateful that my son has an amazing doctor who is working hard and trying to keep him at home so that we don't have to send our little man to the PICU, there is a part of me that wishes we could. There is a part of me that secretly wishes we could put him on that IV and put him in that horrific tent. I know that's awful, and I don't know that I could handle that inevitable feeling of failure that would come with having him admitted. Not that that would be true...Ben being in the hospital would not be failure. Most babies and toddlers that get pneumonia have to do it. And I know my heart would break seeing him in that stupid tent with an IV. But at least then I could maybe feel like it would end. Maybe I would feel like less of a failure. If I didn't have to spend 24 hours a day trying to get him to eat, to drink, to sleep...unsuccessfully. If I didn't have to spend every moment wondering if his oxygen has dipped below the line, or wondering if his fingers are blue because he's cold or because he's oxygen deprived. If I wasn't spending each minute either trying to get him to drink something or anxiously checking his diaper for pee and always finding either nothing or diarrhea instead. Maybe I would feel like less of a failure if it didn't always look and feel like I was failing. If after three days of antibiotics there was some sign of recovery. Maybe if I wasn't so damn tired and getting more than three restless hours of sleep each night punctuated every thirty minutes by coughing and crying I would be a little less melodramatic. It's just stupid pneumonia, right? I've had it. Everyone's had it. We all survive, right? It has to end eventually.
Right?
well, really month four...
virus after virus
a cough that hasn't ceased for months
a nose that hasn't stopped dripping for months
a sad little monkey, whose lungs finally got infected, fighting to breathe
gasping for breath and reaching out for relief
coughing so hard and so much that he vomits
an exhausted mama whose arms, back, and heart ache endlessly
I need this to end soon.
I need it to at least begin to abate.
I need to know that my sweet, happy little boy, who rarely cries and has slept through the night since eight weeks, will be himself again...soon.
I need my husband to be home.
I need rest and relief.
While I am grateful that my son has an amazing doctor who is working hard and trying to keep him at home so that we don't have to send our little man to the PICU, there is a part of me that wishes we could. There is a part of me that secretly wishes we could put him on that IV and put him in that horrific tent. I know that's awful, and I don't know that I could handle that inevitable feeling of failure that would come with having him admitted. Not that that would be true...Ben being in the hospital would not be failure. Most babies and toddlers that get pneumonia have to do it. And I know my heart would break seeing him in that stupid tent with an IV. But at least then I could maybe feel like it would end. Maybe I would feel like less of a failure. If I didn't have to spend 24 hours a day trying to get him to eat, to drink, to sleep...unsuccessfully. If I didn't have to spend every moment wondering if his oxygen has dipped below the line, or wondering if his fingers are blue because he's cold or because he's oxygen deprived. If I wasn't spending each minute either trying to get him to drink something or anxiously checking his diaper for pee and always finding either nothing or diarrhea instead. Maybe I would feel like less of a failure if it didn't always look and feel like I was failing. If after three days of antibiotics there was some sign of recovery. Maybe if I wasn't so damn tired and getting more than three restless hours of sleep each night punctuated every thirty minutes by coughing and crying I would be a little less melodramatic. It's just stupid pneumonia, right? I've had it. Everyone's had it. We all survive, right? It has to end eventually.
Right?
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