Wednesday, February 12, 2014

All the Little Voices

The hardest thing about staying overnight at a children's hospital is the cries of little ones whom you can't help. Our daughters roommate was young, newborn from the sound of her. She had a team of 4-10 doctors/nurses/specialties/leadership that participated in her care as often as she needed it. I couldn't see her, and her parents were not there for whatever reason (and in my experience it's a good one) but I can't help comfort her. I'm too busy comforting a little one of my own.

Ondine has always been a vigorous child.  She surprises doctors constantly at how strong she is and how well developed at less than a year.  And yet all sorts of precautions have been exercised as part of the protocol of Craniofacial patients. For example we waited two hours post surgery to even see her because it's standard protocol.

I'm not comparing, Seattle Children's is the best place to be for this.  But that doesn't make it easier.

When Ondine came to us, she was zonked out. We figured that was the drugs. But it lasted through one of the most hellish nights I've ever experienced with her.

Ondine typically sleeps through the night. We're that blessed sort of family who have a routine for her and stick to it. Her naps and awake times could set military protocol. Bit everything is off now.

When I did manage to get her down for 2.5 seconds, the Ronnie baby had a fit, wanting mommy but only having a nurse to attend her needs. She cried so Ondine did.

This quickly delved into full on fits as the pain increased in tandem with her hunger and the realization she was no longer in charge. It was a fight to get her to sleep, and eventually we just had to put up the crib bars and let her cry because there was nothing we could do.

But the hardest part was taking her home. That should be your moment of triumph. But it's not. It's terrifying. Because now it's up to you to be a good mom without any guidance other than a pre-printed pamphlet the hospital gave you.

And each time I give her meds, she zones out. But not in that high as kite funny ha-ha way. It's that stare at a wall I'm not here sort of way.

Luckily she's a tough kid and the meds ware off quickly. She resolves that the gloves aren't coming off and learns to crawl with them. She still signs for milk and mama under the messing restricting her fingers. She still wants to only fall asleep in my arms.

In a way it's like she's a new born again, only this time she's Mighty Mouse. This time she has cognitive reasoning and the strength of ten babies. But she cuddles and falls asleep in my arms, that semi-sweet slumber that says thank you mom for making this not suck so bad. Okie kid. Any time.

1 comment:

  1. You are a writer...and a good one! Love you and that ball of energy known as Ondine!