You write down every movement your child has throughout the day.Except, you write it on [...]]]> You dial 9 first, before calling your mother.
Even though you’re using your home phone.
From home.

You catch your son “placing an IV” on his brother, during bathtime.
Using a medicine dropper and small plastic soda bottle.
“2 liters of Johnson’s Baby Wash, STAT!!!”

You write down every movement your child has throughout the day.
Except, you write it on your refrigerator door instead of that Oversized Eraser Board they use in the hospital.

You’re craving apple juice.
In those tiny, little 2 ounce cans.

You can’t sleep comfortably.
Unless you’re lying haphazardly in an awkward hospital recliner.
With your head cricked to one side.

You press “1616″ on the telephone for Cashew Tofu Stir Fry.
But alas, it never arrives.

You’ve turned the whole house upside down.
And you still can’t find that confounded Nurse button.

You’ve never been SO happy to be home.
Even though you’re still catching up on the laundry.

We’re back here again.

I’ve grown quite used to the signs at this point. Short, shallow breaths, coughing, wheezing, and watching what looks like his tiny heart try [...]]]> It’s dark. It’s quiet. The alarms have finally shut off and the only sound in the room is the hollow echo of my sweet boy’s painful breaths.

We’re back here again.

I’ve grown quite used to the signs at this point. Short, shallow breaths, coughing, wheezing, and watching what looks like his tiny heart try to leap out from his chest.

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, I thought it would get easier. Each time he slips his finger into the pulse oximeter, I get a tiny knot inside my throat. I pray quietly to myself, trying hard not to show signs of my fear.

But after two back to back Nebulizer treatments and a dose of oral steroids, the inevitable was at hand and here we are.

Day three.

As I hear myself say those words, I can’t help but feel exhausted. And what a selfish feeling to possess at this point.

Zachary has been fighting for his life the past four days and I have the nerve to make this about me. But sitting here in the blackness and reflecting on the days progressions and setbacks, I feel so alone.

His last attack that lead to Hospitalization was back in December. At four, he was having nothing to do with the tubing that delivers his oxygen. All night long, he would fight me and the nurses by ripping out his tubes. Which, then would lead to loud, obnoxious alarms from his drop in blood oxygen.

This time around, my little guy is a Pro. He understands fully now the importance the oxygen plays, the difference it makes in his breathing.

He has grown independent and brave. He’s been forced to. Since he was 18 months, this is what he’s known.

I don’t know awfully too many 5 year olds who can tell you what Bronchial tubes are.
Or what Pulsox is.

And through it all, he never complains. Granted, we all get the pleasure of witnessing his wild mood swings. But it’s a small price. He puts up with the helpless and scary feelings that no mother would wish upon her child.

And I think that’s what scares me the most. I don’t want him to feel “comfortable” with feeling uncomfortable.

A mother wants to know her childs fears, his hurts and she wants to make them better. Even when she knows that she can’t.

I’m not one to ask for help. I tend to sit idly by, waiting for it to arrive on it’s own.
But right now, I think I feel the most helpless that I have ever felt. I can talk and I can talk. But everyone around me has already heard it.
I feel like I’m playing tennis all by myself. I keep serving but nothing is ever returned.

I’m scared. Beyond belief.
A feeling that, as a Self-professed Anal Retentive Control Freak, does not appeal to me nor does it come naturally.

For the time being, Zach cannot leave the hospital because without his oxygen, his levels just drop too low to be safely sent home.

Just shallow breathes for now.

So, please send some healthy and thoughtful deep breathes of fresh air our way. We could certainly use them.