Boy, sometimes it just feels like the movie Groundhog Day around here.
Luke is home, safe and sound, along with his breathing treatments, antibiotics, bulb syringe, humidifier and crazy tired momma. HUGE hat tip to Nana and Papa who took all four of the kids tonight so Scott, Luke and I could have a much-needed break. The house is so stinkin’ quiet. It’s kinda freaking me out.
I have so much to share that I don’t even know where to start.
This I know. Yes, Dell is a beautiful facility with awesome doctors and nurses. It is state-of-the-art. It is family-friendly. The food isn’t half bad. And the green spaces are aplenty.
But I hate that place.
Everytime I walk in, I have to will myself to walk across the threshold. For me, it just brings back so many scary, uncertain memories. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t know anybody that bounds into a hospital, all giggles and smiles, and belts out a “we’re back!” For us (read: me) it’s like reopening the wound of nearly losing Luke all over again. That’s a hard reality to face. That feeling clearly needs some counseling to process, am I right?
Then, there’s the letter that I want to hand to every clinical assistant, nurse, resident, attending and surgeon. It basically says, don’t yank my chain. I’m not a rookie hospital mom. We know the drill. Don’t come knocking at 4am to check vitals on my sleeping baby when all is clearly well. I will tell you to go away. And mean it. Don’t try to explain the difference between a viral and bacterial infection and which one needs antibiotics. I already know. I can work the scale to weigh the diapers. I know the lingo. Don’t say things like, “You might be discharged tomorrow” unless you really believe it. Oh, and please read Luke’s chart. I don’t have the energy to repeat it to you because you’re too busy to read it. I realize you need a cup of coffee to get through it all, but trust me. Read it.
Ok, now that I got that off my chest I can proceed.
I find myself all freaky when we walk into the hospital. Then there’s the moment, in the dark room, when Luke is either asleep or nursing, that I cry. Hey, all that worry has to go somewhere. And, the tears are accompanied by a, “Lord, are you freakin kidding me?” Which is then followed by a, “Give me strength, because I sure as heck can’t do this again without a life preserver.” The tears dry up, I dig out my big girl panties and we finish our stay at the hospital. Repeat this process x 4.
This 26-hour stay was markedly different than the rest in that Luke could eat…however, he wasn’t super great at it because he couldn’t breathe. Oh, yeah, and then he threw up the entire feeding last night. That nearly put me into outer orbit. Thankfully, the nurse could totally sense my teetering on the edge and explained that it’s normal. Even if it wasn’t, I’m super glad she sang that tune. That was really our only scary moment with Luke. I had to stand up to a respiratory therapist at 1am (yeah, that was fun) and chase off a clinical assistant at 4am (even more fun), but all in all, pretty uneventful.
We saw lots of familiar faces – in places where people should NOT be recognizing you…gift shop, admissions, elevator waiting area, security guards. You know, the usual. They all say the same thing, “Luke, what are you doing back?” And you know what he does? He just smiles all goofy like and makes me answer. This kid.
Raise a nebulizer to Luke’s latest stay. No matter what hardware you come home with, buddy, we love you all the way down to your toes. You’re one tough cookie.