"A Minor Setback"

The phone in Allison's post-partum room jolted me awake this morning at a little after 7. It has rung before and, each time, everything in my body tenses. So far, it hadn't been because there was an issue with Ayden. That was not the case this morning.

Ayden had what the head of pediatric cardiology called "a minor setback." His ductus - the little vessel that needs to stay open until his surgery - had closed. Obviously, his body did not respond well to this development. The doctors and nurses went into a flurry to get him stabilized and back to where he needs to be. They were ultimately successful, but what happened would have killed him had they not been on top of it.

They suspect that the IV line they put in his arm - which is how he was getting his medication that keeps the ductus open - stopped working. No medication = closed ductus. So, they have upped his dose and are using a new line in his other arm to get it to him. He is now breathing via a breathing tube. They have "paralyzed" him so that his body can calm down after the stress it went through this morning. They have also given him a mild sedative so that he doesn't get stressed out now because he can't move. He's had antibiotics just in case there is an infection (an infection could've produced what he went through this morning, too). He's had a transfusion because the episode dropped the level of [insert fancy medical term that I can't remember here] in his blood. He's had . . . . . a lot done to him over the past few hours.

The upshot of all of this? They just checked his ductus with an ultrasound and it is back open. His numbers are back to where they need to be. In some ways they are actually better than they were before. For instance, the oxygen level that needed to come down has, even though the breathing tube is supplying him with normal levels of oxygen. And, he's no longer camping. He's out from under his little plastic tent.

I knew something would come up at some point. I never expected this whole process to go off without at least some kind of hitch. The fact that this happened hasn't really affected me in any major way, which is to say that I don't think he is now any less likely to survive. As I sit here in his room, though, it's painfully clear to me that his current paralyzed and sedated state is going to be tough to deal with.

We spent some time with him early this morning, before everything went haywire. He was awake. His eyes were open. He was moving around, making noises, messing with his pacifier (he can't use it right now, which kills me). I got to touch him, talk to him, and interact with him, or at least as much as one can interact with a 3 day old baby with 15 wires and tubes coming out of him. Now? We can't do any of that. And that really sucks. It was important to us that he "know" we are here. That he could feel our touch. That he could hear our voices. Now he is just kind of . . . there.

I have no idea how long he will be in this state. Part of me likes it because his numbers are good. The rest of me hates it because I don't know if I'll ever get another opportunity to "play" with him once he goes into the operating room - I want to maximize that time now, while I have it (which, at the moment, I don't). More conflicting emotions.

More clouded thoughts.

More grey.