Also, stick with me here, because this first story has a happy ending. I tell you that now because the next paragraph won't sound like it to start, but I wanted you to be prepared to make it through.
A good friend of mine from high school had her first child a few weeks ago. She was 10 days past her due date, and the baby girl was born just fine. Very shortly thereafter, the doctors discovered that the baby had a trachealesophageal fistula.Big words, I know, but it means that the esophagus was not connected to the stomach. I think you can figure out how this would be a bad thing. Barely a month old, and she's had three or four surgeries to repair things. They've had setbacks, infections, and all sorts of things, including a feeding tube that bypasses her stomach completely so that she can get nutrition until the esophagus and stomach completely heal and fuse together.
But today...
Today my friend will post a picture of that sweet, sweet baby being strapped into a carseat, secured in the backseat of their car, and taken home. This makes me smile.
I know I'm cagey about specific details of my personal life—especially when it comes to my wife and kids—but I've been sending messages of encouragement and good thoughts this new family's way because not too long ago, we were in a similar situation. Twice.
Both of my kids—just as my friend will be doing with hers—came home with an apnea monitor.
This exact one, actually. The exact mechanics are not necessary for this story, but the basic point of the machine is that it tells you if the baby's heart rate is skyrocketing or slowing down past set limits, and if they stop breathing. The little plug on the right attaches to tiny pads that stick to the child's chest and side. The speaker on the left is the devil. A necessary evil, yes, but eardrum-shatteringly loud. So, basically, you sit around, holding the child, barely moving because you can't get more than about 6 feet from an outlet. The battery doesn't last as long as they promise, but it does allow for quick trips. Not that you want to take a child who is on this monitor anywhere, but you can make it to your in-laws' house; let's say 45 minutes before it starts chirping at you that the battery is low.
It brings you peace of mind, and perhaps allows you to rest easier knowing that if something goes wrong, it will wake you up. You don't want to hear the alarm go off. Not just because it means something is potentially wrong, but because it's like a combination of microphone feedback and metal rake on sheet metal, amplified. You can't sleep through that. You don't want to, but you won't be able to.
You get past having to use the monitor, and it becomes part of your daily life. You learn to juggle the kid in a Baby Bjorn while carrying the monitor. It becomes routine, just another baby accessory, and you focus on being a family and doing all of the normal things you would do.
The monitor is not the normal, but moving beyond that, They—whoever "They" are—always say, "You'll miss those days when they're gone."
You think so? I'm not so sure...
Tune in tomorrow for Part 2.
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