This is a post I started but was unable to finish until now (thanks to a certain life-changing event that occurred). Better late than never, right?
It’s December 28, 2014…11:30pm. The Christmas holidays are over, and I feel like I missed the entire thing.
At home that same night, we attempted to put our new baby to sleep. Attempted…to no avail. He was crying and screaming constantly throughout the night, and no matter how many times we attempted to soothe him, how long he breastfed, and what clothing we put on him, he would not go to sleep. Throughout this process, his temperature began to fluctuate between 99 and 101 degrees. Finally, at 5:00am on Saturday, December …just 13 hours after being discharged from the hospital, we were being told by the pediatrician on-call to head to the Emergency Room with our two-day-old baby.
And we have been at the hospital since, dealing with blood/urine/spinal fluid cultures, antibiotics, antivirals, jaundice, and the ongoing battle with learning to breastfeed (while supplementing with formula because the kid needed to eat SOMETHING as his body fought the rising bilirubin levels). To top it off, I have been dealing with my own hormone-driven demons of postpartum depression. Every poke and prod by doctors and nurses would send me into tears. I could not be in the same room as they drew samples and put in IVs. I have been a complete mess.
Luckily for me, I wasn’t going through this alone. My ever faithful and amazing husband has been my rock and comfort through this entire process. He is the one who sat with our baby as the medical personnel did all the necessary procedures. He is the one who comforted a completely messed up wife and new mother. And even in his one moment of weakness, as he too broke down in tears over the plight of his firstborn son, he demonstrated that it was okay to be devastated by the state of affairs.