Intussussception: PCMC: Final Recovery and Homeward Bound

 Samuel's birthday is this weekend. As I reminisce back on the last year my heart bursts with gratitude that he is still here with us, which then reminds me that it is time to wrap up this saga. The last "installment" left us with Samuel having a difficult recovery and my mother coming to the rescue.

As I said, she stayed in the hospital with Samuel and I on Saturday night, and Brandon went home to be with the kids again. She held Samuel and worked with the nurse to keep him comfortable.

Brandon and William joined us that morning. The girls stayed back in Layton and went to church with a neighbor. Before the boys arrived, mom and I slipped out of the room for a bit to attend the sacrament meeting service that the local branch held.

Back to the baby, through all of the recovery we were not able to give him anything to eat. We were told over and over again that we had to wait until he had a bowel movement or we could cause more problems and put him in a lot of pain. I was desperate to see some change in him and wanted to nurse him so badly. Nursing would comfort him, I figured. Nursing always comforted him. Plus, we were giving him Tylenol orally at this point and he would start sucking that syringe like there was no tomorrow. The poor thing was hungry. Yet, we had to wait. And he continued to be fussy and irritable and didn't show any signs of being able to come off the morphine or coming out of this stupor of pain.

I was so anxious to see him smile. I was anxious to see progress. I wanted so badly to have a bit of hope.

Late Sunday morning or perhaps early afternoon, he had a small BM. One has never seen such celebrating over poo. Not even potty training holds a candle to this. We didn't hesitate to give him some pedialyte. When he took that so well and so quickly, apple juice was next on the list. He drank 8 ounces in minutes.

Rather than bouncing right back to himself he became increasingly more fussy. Soon after, mom and William needed to leave so they could pick up the girls. It was hard to have her go when things weren't going as smoothly as possible. Once she left I sat and watched him cry in his crib, then I jumped up and said, "Okay, enough is enough. It's time for a Priesthood blessing." We found a willing and worthy volunteer and he and Brandon administered to Samuel. At the beginning of the blessing Samuel was crying steadily. By the end of those few short minutes, he was asleep. The sweet volunteer looked at me and said, with faith just pouring out of him, "Well, there you go." We offered our appreciation and he left the room. I was surprised by his unfiltered faith and latched onto it. I needed the hope that I saw in that young man. It didn't disappoint, the Lord never does.

 After a short nap our little guy woke up happy, started to crawl around, and offered us the most beautiful sight I had seen in nearly three days. Our sweet, precious, wonderful, adorable baby smiled at us again.

And then he pooped. Oh did he poop. Forgive the graphic picture, but this must be documented. This puddle was after he filled his diaper and he proceeded to go even more after that. Then, in the middle of cleaning all this mess up, he peed all over his crib. Twice. It was hilarious and disgusting and wonderful all at the same time. It was the road to recovery, finally, and it made my heart leap!

 After cleaning up all that craziness I nursed him again for the first time in 72 hours. Anybody that knows me, knows that my little oxytocin pump must be dysfunctional because there is no love between me and the act of breastfeeding. This moment, however, gave me a taste of how it must feel for moms who "just love nursing" and "can't get enough of it." Ugh. Not me, until this moment. I was so grateful that I could finally do something for him and comfort him in a way that was familiar to him. Most especially, I loved that he was healed, because the last time I had tried nursing him was right after the intussesception occurred and that was one of the scariest moments of my life.

We spent the rest of the evening/night monitoring him, loving on him, cherishing his smiles, and feeling blessed beyond measure. 

The next morning we were told he was looking well enough to be discharged.

We brought him home in the early afternoon on Monday. Short of three tiny scars, he was as good as new.It is hard to believe that the whole ordeal was only three days long.

It's strange to look back at those three days and write about them. Revisiting the raw emotions of the events and reflecting on each moment causes me to ponder, I should have felt more sad, more worried, more anxious, more helpless ... yet, holding me up and shining through each of those dark emotions was the hope of Christ. I was physically and emotionally able to hold it together not because of my own doing, but because I had the Lord by my side. Prayers around the world were being said and answered on behalf of me and Samuel. My gratitude for my Savior has increased an hundred fold from this experience.

And each day, when I still get to cuddle with my baby as I get him from his crib, and watch him giggle with delight as he takes his first steps, and see him laugh and interact with his siblings, I say a prayer of gratitude. Gratitude that I live in the time that I do. Through the miracle of modern medicine, my son is still alive. Gratitude for a pediatrician that went with his intuition and knowledge, when logic and peer pressure tried to convince him otherwise. Gratitude for a husband that takes every breath for his family and gives his entire heart to our well being. Gratitude for a mother who will sacrifice anything to support her children in times of joy or crisis, and a father whose love entraps her with support. And gratitude for a loving Heavenly Father who has given me such a special spirit to raise in my home and who saw fit for that special spirit to stay with us and enrich our lives for many more years.

May I always live worthy of the wonderful blessings which I have been bestowed.

Oh bother.

Even though I sounded determined to push onward with the potty training, I was lying.

I didn't have a potty party with Anne the next day. Or for several days after that, for that matter.

It wasn't until this weekend that we gave it a go again.

Fail.

The girl gets it ... almost. She knows when she has to go and then proceeds to sit on the potty for 20 minutes while fighting the urge and not relieving herself. She will eventually go, after talking to her, reading stories to her, running water, sticking her hand in water.

And do you know, I'm game for that. I hate it, but I'm willing. She shows promise.

It's the other variable of the equation I just can't handle.

She was 3 for 4 going, you know what, in her underwear. The success was only such because she wasn't actually wearing underwear at the time.

I am a big fan of the bare-bottomed for a few days method. Anne, however, is convinced that she must wear underwear.

Wearing underwear requires the remind-them-to-go-potty-ever-20-minutes method. Hate it.

And apparently Anne hates it because every time we would ask her to try we were informed, "No, I hate potty!"

Frankly, Anne girl, I do to.

And so, we wait. And we buy another box of diapers.

Tender Mercy

This morning was a difficult one. Moment after moment, despite what seemed like valiant efforts, made me feel like I just can't seem to measure up to the task at hand .... motherhood.

On our way to church I held back the temptation to gripe to Brandon,

"For just one day," I wanted to say,"I would like to feel like I am winning this game. Just one day. I'd even take one hour at this point."

I didn't say it because it was pathetic and melodramatic and gripey. And it did not fit within my current efforts to find the good and the positive in my day. Yet, it felt true and I felt dejected.

Then came sacrament meeting which proved to be the usual circus of wiggles and whines that it always is, save William.

My sweet wonderful 7 year old boy sat and listened to the sacrament prayer. He asked why it didn't end with, "in the name of Jesus Christ." I explained that the prayer was dedicated to Christ at the beginning when they say, "in the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ."

"So, it's a special prayer?"

Then Brandon pulled out William's scriptures and opened them up to Moroni 4 where he could read the sacrament prayers.

For the rest of sacrament meeting William sat and read the Moroni 4 to himself.

William shows little interest in reading. He struggles and gets frustrated. Asking him to read is a chore for both of us.

Looking down at my son on the bench next to me as he successfully read The Book of Mormon reassured me that we are doing something right. We are winning this game. And it reminded me where the real victories lie.

William may have been dressed in pants a size too small because they were the only ones clean (even after doing a load each day this week) but today he chose to read the scriptures during sacrament meeting.

I thank my Heavenly Father for that timely reminder and for understanding my heart in a moment of need.

And I am grateful for my wonderful boy who teaches me more than I could ever hope to learn on my own.

This Is Happening-ish

We are potty training Anne. We, as in, Marie and I. Sort of.

Anne is ready. Ready, as in, if I jumped into the process wholeheartedly we'd both have it figured out by the end of the week. I think.

We started out bare this morning and she had two successes. Then she insisted on wearing underwear and that was that. Two accidents later I threw on a diaper for the rest of the day. It's that wholehearted thing. I'm not there.

I'm probably giving her mixed signals, but I'm just not in it to win it yet, even if Anne wants "no more biapers, jus unnerwear."

Alas, I know I have to bite the bullet eventually and tomorrow might as well be the day.

Get out the play dough, snacks, and drinks because we're having a potty party in the kitchen!

Yee haw?

William-ese

Me: William, how did you get so tall?
W: It's because I eat so much food.

Me: Well, then I need to stop feeding you.

W: Do you want me to starve?

Me: No, I guess not. Perhaps I need to find a food that stops you from growing.

W: Don't you want me to grow up to be a daddy?

Me: Yes, I sure do, but I'll miss my 7 year old William.

W: Oh, I'll come and visit you.