If the proverbial breaking point does exist, it is staring me in the face and threatening to toss me over the edge.
Over the past couple days, I have watched Brian as he was poked and prodded, but nothing compares to the last thirty hours.
At nine a.m. yesterday morning, Brian began a thirty-six hour fast to monitor his glucose levels and hopefully determine what is causing his hypoglycemia. In the beginning, finger sticks happened every two hours, then one hour, and finally, every thirty minutes as his levels dropped. The nurses who have been treating Brian strongly felt that his levels would become critically low very quickly, so I was optimistic that this would not turn into a lengthy ordeal, and may only take a couple hours.
Sadly, this was not the case.
This morning, after twenty-five hours without food and twenty-three finger sticks (his poor fingers are raw and covered in band aids), Brian’s levels hit dangerously low, making it time to take a large blood draw for tests. Unfortunately the IV placed to draw the blood slipped out, so a doctor on the floor had to do an arterial stick to complete the test.
I pride myself on keeping up the appearance of being strong when it comes to my kids, but this was brutal. Having to pin down your child is miserable, but I cannot imagine not being with him and telling him over and over how much I love him and how sorry I am.
Now, after thirteen ounces of formula, a few bites of a fruit strip and seven more finger sticks, Brian’s glucose levels are stable and my baby is smiling again. His voice is almost gone, but hearing him whisper is super cute.
In addition to the glucose levels, Brian has had multiple instances of “zoning out.” One of the residents witnessed an episode this morning, and for the sake of being thorough, decided to have neurology take a peak and make sure Brian is not having seizures (possibly due to blood sugar levels, excessive sleep deprivation or something else). While I appreciate the attentiveness, I feel horrible when I see everything my sweet boy is going through.
Also, I am having a hard time with the compliments people are giving me. I am not super mom, and although I put up a strong front, like I mentioned at the beginning, I do struggle.
I have snuck away to the chapel in the middle of the night to shed tears of fear and guilt (they really should keep it stocked with tissues), or shut the door to our room while I take a few deep breaths and force the tears back down. I’ve also watched the tears fall on my angel boy as I help the nurses hold him down.
I know how lucky and blessed we are. Although our struggles seem difficult at times to us, I never forget that there are parents out there dealing with so much more.
I have to keep it together while I wait to hear back from the various departments invested in Brian’s care, and hope that our time in the hospital is drawing to an end.
I’m not super mom; I’m just doing the best I can and trying to focus on today.