Holding Our Breath

Hello! This is a note from Kristin on the night before little Wolfie’s big surgery. I’m sorry to have been absent from the blog for the past several days, but my husband, in the meantime, appears to have perfected the art of blogging. I particularly liked being linked to a picture of Mr. T.

First, I wanted to share with you that every night between midnight and one in the morning, I sit down to read Jason’s posts and all of your comments. It’s hard to describe the peace that they bring me…it’s as if I’ve been holding my breath under the water of beeping alarms, doctor’s lingo, and blinking monitors all day, and your prayers, wishes, thoughts, and funny comments help me come up for air.

Sam has apparently decided, at least for the day, to come up for a little air. After watching him crash yesterday roughly every half hour, I was on the verge of melting down. My least favorite moment came while I was holding him, and his pulse dropped as he stopped breathing entirely, turned blue, and went completely slack in my arms. The nurse instantly grabbed him from my lap, patted his back vigorously, and gave him some oxygen. He came back pretty quickly, but he turned such a frightening grayish blue that the doctor was called in. Apparently, he gets “too comfortable” when being held and forgets to breathe. So we left him in his bed for the rest of the day and night, propping him up and pounding his back each time the alarm sounded.

So today, I was quite hesitant to pick him up. Instead, I tickled his hands and feet and rubbed his chest and belly. Our new nurse, Clay, saw me doing this, and asked, “Would you like to hold him?” I explained what had happened yesterday and how the other nurse had suggested just leaving him in his bed to play it safe. Clay simply replied, “Today’s a new day.”

And it was. I held him for a long time as he breathed peacefully and remained a nice rosy pink. After dinner, Jason held him, too, and as we rocked him and watched March madness, it almost felt like we were in our living room, just the three of us, instead of in a cardiac intensive care unit.

I feel quite lucky to be this little guy’s mom, and though the past few days have been challenging, they have also been the best days of my life.

To Samuel: You are a tough little lion. I wish you the best of luck tomorrow, and Mommy will be right here when you get back. Until then, I will stand here in the quiet eye of the storm, holding my breath and loving you.