Snot, Stethoscopes, and Slumber

Well, Gabe is sick... again. He seems to have an uncanny ability to catch every single bug in a mile radius and to snuggle it tight for what seems like forever. There is no end to our frustration when the tell tale little hack begins. It was not like this when Miss Emma was an infant. She never got sick. To this day, and I believe in spite of the team of specialists who follow her extra chromosome, she has only had but a handful of colds and maybe 2 fevers... not even an ear infection. She is three years old and has spent more than half that time enrolled in first a toddler program, and then preschool, so this is quite the feat.

Preschool, preschool, preschool. It's a love hate relationship. How I love the socialization and education she gets there. How I love that they are willing to let her paint all over their stuff. How I love the gusto they embrace potty training with. How I love her little friends.

How I hate that her little friends sneeze all over her. How I hate that she is probably licking their cootie infested hands and sucking on their shoes. I don't know what goes on there, but she is acting as a transport device and delivering all these nasty little bugs right into the open arms of her wee baby brother. Yippee.

Just a few nights ago as we sat down to dinner, I glanced over at Miss Emma and was dismayed to see a fresh round of sleepy eye beginning to peer around her long lashes. Not a good sign. Just then I heard the sound of a tiny sneeze coming from the babe, and when I turned to inspect him (which I didn't really want to do... not at all ) sure enough I was greeted with the sight of fresh snot rolling down his face.

I couldn't be happier. Really.

Fast forward a few days and Emma seems to have a bit of a cold, but nothing to get my panties in a bunch over. Gabe, on the other hand, has started a rather disturbing breathing pattern and completely bunched my drawers up. Thankfully, he is rather unperturbed by it all and goes on with his baby play. He doesn't even notice his mother frantically setting up the humidifier and steaming up the bathroom. He does, however, notice the booger sucker and the saline that accompanies it. Poor, poor peanut.

Great, now he can't breathe because he is screaming hysterically.

We bumble through that and resume our happy ways while I try to gauge how serious the situation is. Gabe is busy chewing on anything in sight and refusing his bottle, again. But he is happy, alert, and engaged. What does all this mean?

Go forward basis...a few hours later it is way past any excuse for a bedtime. Just as we lay down for the pitiful few hours of shut-eye I can hope to steal before my workday alarm starts blaring, Gabe starts to sound his own alarm. After I spend an eternity trying to hydrate him, decongest him, and calm him down I discover that he is simply starving...poor thing can't drink at all. He gobbles down a bunch of baby food and eventually falls asleep in between Khaled and myself, as comfy as can be, just hours before daybreak.

We however, are not comfortable. Not at all. Nor have we been for months. Not since Gabe forsake first his crib, then his bassinet, and finally commandeered our bed.

We are co-sleeping, but it isn't a lifestyle choice for us. It is out of self-defense. There is only so much screaming a person can listen too. Call me cowardly if you will, but in the back of my head there is always a little voice asking if screaming it out is really the best method for a child about to undergo a second heart surgery. Tell me I am making a mistake if you must and that there is a point in which babies eventually cry themselves to sleep, and I'll tell you you haven't met Gabe yet. And I thought children with heart conditions were supposed to tire easily. Whatever. Thus, on our good nights, there are three bodies fighting for space in our bed; the two on either side holding desperately onto the one in the middle, trying to find precious slumber amongst limbs that have long ago sacrificed their own circulation. For me, it is even more fun because it turns out that Gabe is just like his daddy. Have you met Sir Snores Alot and his mini-me, Baby Snores Alot?

Try not to be jealous. Truly.

Now that I've painted the picture of the winter of my discontent, let me continue with the good times...

By now I was pretty worried. Luckily I am an avid worrier and had already set up an appointment with Gabe's cardiologist, Dr. G., because I had noticed that Gabe would breathe a bit heavier (pant if you will) occasionally, and was prone to sweating in his sleep. Both Dr. G. and I agreed this was probably nothing to be concerned about, but it would be for the best if he saw Gabe for a little checkup...best for me so I would know we weren't waiting too long for surgery, and best for Dr. G. so I would stop calling him.

Off we went to see Dr. G.

Dr. G. is young, attractive, attentive, sensitive, and in general what I would call a God's gift to mothers. He has seen me blubber endlessly and not only adapts well to it, doesn't even seem to hold it against me. I once sent him a seven page fax itemizing my confusion concerning Gabe's heart condition and treatment and requested that he call me STAT. Not only did he call me (brave, brave man) the very next day, he spent the better part of an hour going through every single bullet point I sent him and all of their subset outlines. He did all of this without making me feel like a complete ignoramus considering my complete lack of basic anatomy comprehension, or like I was eating up his coveted time (which I most certainly was). That is service.

I love Dr. G.

Did I mention how cute he is? Such a bonus...this cardiology thing is life long, ya' know. But, as my husband keeps pointing out, he is much more than eye candy. He's quality people.

Back to the visit.

After the nurse (as usual) nearly gives me a coronary while she takes his vitals and records his temperature at 104 via one of those ear torture devices (to which I doth protest and minutes later we had it at 102; at 98 she gave up), proceeds to listen to his breathing and ask me if he has a pulmonologist yet, Dr. G arrives on the scene. He has me calm in a nano -second. I'm pretty sure there is a lesson to be learned here.

Dr. G reiterates that Gabe's penchant for chest colds is not due to his heart, but rather thanks to his big sister and all of her cootyful friends. He reminds me (and I say reminds me because I seem to need to hear this over and over again ), that Gabe is not medically fragile. He listens to his heart and pulses and they are the same as before. His blood pressure is fine, for Gabe at least. He is not in danger of going into heart failure and is doing very well. It is fine to wait until May for the patch surgery.

Then, because Dr. G is wise beyond his years, he offered to give Gabe a chest x-ray so we could make sure the cold hadn't gotten into his lungs, turned into pneumonia, or anything else nasty. Amazingly enough, even with the numerous chest colds he has gotten, they never have turned into anything more; even with the notorious retracted breathing that has earned him an evening in the ER while they made extra sure nothing serious was going on, nothing has ever come of it. Even when our pediatrician scares the bejesus out of me and hooks him up to an oximeter, Gabe has always been no worse for the wear and smiled through his disturbing cough...one reminiscent of an geriatric patient with emphysema. Smiled through with an 100% o2 level. Amazing.

Indeed, like his sister, he is most definitely a WonderBabe.

Of course I jumped on the x-ray opportunity. What would take an entire afternoon at our pediatrician's office, complete with instructions to race to the hospital if whatever steroid was prescribed didn't clear up the mysterious rib retractions in the next five seconds, would take mere minutes at our Dr. G's office. And I wouldn't cry. Not one tear.

A man of action for sure, Dr. G was back with the results in five minutes.

"The chest x-ray is perfect. His lungs are fine and we could see his heart on the x-ray as well. It's not enlarged, it looks great. It's just a bug."

Then I went out on a limb and rather sheepishly told Dr. G about our forced co-sleeping situation so I could ask if it was dangerous to let Gabe cry it out. Dr. G. looked at me with such sympathy in his eyes and a laugh was at the edge of his voice when he said "No. You aren't letting him cry?"

"No...we do let him cry, it's just that he wouldn't stop when we tried to transfer him to a crib, and then after awhile he wouldn't stop in the bassinet, and now the only way he will sleep at night is with us. He doesn't tire out...he doesn't eventually cry himself to sleep. Why won't he stop?"

To which I received quite the schooling...not really unexpected though.

"Because you are giving him everything he wants. Would you stop? I know he is sick now, so maybe now isn't the best time, but come June, you have to start disciplining him...just like you did with Emma. You are going to create a monster if you don't. It won't hurt him to cry."

Poor us.

We are going to have to suck it up and deal with this after his surgery. No more passively allowing the baby to dictate our lives. The world will have to stop revolving around Gabers. It will not be pretty.

It's going to suck.

I am relieved though to have the "medical professionals" validate the tough love approach...an approach that I have thought was necessary in certain situations, but this time I have used Gabe's heart condition as an excuse to avoid. I have known all along that we would be sorry for catering so much to Gabe's wants and confusing them with his needs, but I've just been so tired. We're so tired. The assurance that his screaming fits are merely temper tantrums and not evidence of his heart imploding due to extenuating pressure caused by a cruel hearted family might, just might, give us the confidence needed to deconstruct our emerging spoilard. We'll see.

If you could have only seen like the look on Dr. G's face when I told him we were co-sleeping, not as a lifestyle choice, but out of self-defense...

Now that, that was funny. Even at my own expense, funny is funny.

So...all in all, a fabulous appointment. Calming, full of good news, some validation, a bit of schooling, and most of all, comforting.

Now if Sir Snots Alot could just learn to blow his nose...

I know, I know...always the bridesmaid, never the bride. And yes, yes, I would like some cheese with my whine, thank you very much.