Thirteen hours later here I am sitting in a tiny hospital room, my makeup smudged, listening to the tick-tock-tick of a wall clock and the dripdripdripdripdrop of IV fluids.
Apparently my Freya is “failure to thrive.”
It’s not my fault, everyone keeps reassuring me, yet her pediatrician acted like she thought I was an idiot for not taking Freya in sooner, though she had seen Freya a month before and knew her to be underweight. At that previous visit we’d also discussed Freya’s abated bowel habits. The doctor hadn’t seemed concerned at the time, so I tried to not be too concerned; I tried to not compare my Freya to my Luna (who was a fatty with adorable rolls when she was this age).
It’s not my fault, everyone keeps reassuring me, yet a socialworker came in claiming, “I’m not here to judge…” and trying to get to me to confess to the crime of neglect or apathy or PPD. Yes, I suffered PPD with Luna and, yes, I am under a lot of stress lately, but I love my babies and even at my worst with Luna I never could harm her and I could never harm Freya.
A nurse escorted us to the hospital admissions room. An orderly escorted us to Freya’s private-but-tiny room in Pediatrics. At least she’s not in the NICU. They took her for a CT Scan, then an X-ray. They drew blood through an IV on her head. They put some sort of tape-on pee sack on her a few times but it’s not working so they’re going to do a catheter later. They’ve taken her temp several times, weighed her a few times, poked and prodded her…4mos and she’s already had more medical procedures than me.
She weighs only ounces more than her birth weight–she’d gained and lost–it’s not a steady lack of growth. She feeds lots and lots of times at home, and I’d even started added other baby foodstuffs to her diet because I knew I had a scrawny little baby, but I knew she was doing all of the things she was supposed to be doing at her age.
They’re keeping her for three days for observation and more testing.
It could be that my breasts aren’t much more than fleshy pacifiers to her at this point; easy to fix–give her formula while trying to maybe build the supply back up. It could be that she’s not absorbing what she’s getting from my breast milk–not sure what the fix would be there. It could be that she’s got some sort of genetic defect that’s causing the weight issues–please don’t let it be that. Please let it be dried-up-breasts.
In the next room another worrying parent wakes up to their alarm clock and I hear the enh-enh-enh blending in an ominous onomatopoeia with the other rhythms in the room. Time. I need that to be on my side. Please, baby girl, please fatten up so much that they think we’re over-feeding. Please get better so we can go home and smile and giggle again. Please get better so your big sister will be able to play with you…
Testing For Cystic Fibrosis
I’m glad they’re being thorough in their testing, but I really hope it’s NOT Cystic Fibrosis.
Freya’s Latest Get-Up
Failure to thrive
The best means of prevention is by early detection at routine well-baby examinations and periodic follow-up with school-age and adolescent children.
Canna Cola Get My Mind Off Of All Of This?
Don’t think I’ll be dropping quarters into a vending machine for this, but, hey, I won’t knock it if you try it!