I slept great last night, which is such a nice change. It almost makes a person feel like shouting from the rooftops “Hey, I slept great! None of the warm bodies in my house destroyed my night! Yay!!”  I’m pretty sure a lot of people out there can identify with this sentiment. Such a great start to a work week at least.

But as I’m drinking my coffee and enjoying my alone time, I’m going through my list of stuff to do today. Out the blue, I was punched in the stomach with some very unpleasant memories. 

Stop reading now if you have triggers to illness/injury/etc.

You see, today is work (no biggie) and then I take my almost 6 year old, funny little child, thinks they are a boy but wants to be a mommy when she’s (he’s?) grown up, full of big ideas and loves to play outside and sing me love songs, my first born, to have a checkup with the ENT.

Also, no big deal. She’s fine, feels well, and has a tendency to shout. So basically, just like her mommy. But while this check up is completely safe and ordinary it takes me back to last year, which was the most horrifying experience  I’ve had in my life. 

She had her tonsils and adenoids out just after her fifth birthday. Routine, awful healing for the first few days (felt like I had a newborn for three nights) I ran the Calgary half marathon in under 2:30 with zero sleep, which I thought was awesome even though it was one of my slowest times.  Things went back to normal within a week, I kept working, she went back to school and her regular activities. 

Then June the 6th came. It was just a normal day at work (except the subpoena. Ugh.) Until my husband called and said she was vomiting blood. 

I’m not sure I’ve processed this completely yet, as I had shoved it as far down into the no-no box as I could. Too raw, too painful. It has bubbled up a few times, demanding to be dealt with but I’ve brushed it aside- I don’t have time, she’s fine, it’s all ok now.

But I’m still seeing it. 

I rushed home on autopilot, not sure what I was walking into. What I saw was every bit as bad or worse than I’d feared. She was so white, almost limp. Her Dad had rinsed her and put pjs back on to get rid of some of the blood. I picked her up, her head fell back, so tired. He called 911 as I took her to the car, pushing my youngest back from the door while he howled for me to pick him up. I couldn’t stop to give him a hug and I still feel so, so guilty about that. 

I got her in the car, debating whether or not to strap her into the car seat, deciding to for keeping her airway open. I STRAPPED HER IN FOR HER AIRWAY. What mother thinks like that? 

I drove faster than I’ve ever driven to the nearest hospital, which wasn’t childrens because I didn’t want to wait for the ambulance. When the 911 dispatch told me to pull over, I said no, I’m doing as little CPR as possible. They went quiet, and I kept driving.

The ambulance met me five minutes from the hospital, and I could finally  be with my baby. I unlatched her, carried her over to them and they placed her gently on the stretcher. They were so kind, even when trying to put the IV in. She screamed weakly, but after me hitting her legs to keep her awake in the car  I was happy to hear it. It sounded like life.

Things went fast from there. I gave an AMPLE history in the ER, robotic again.  She was so white her teeth and lips were the same colour. Staff afterwards told me that I kept them calm, but I felt like some bizarre awful person, reciting allergies, meds, past history last meal and etc when my kid was so bone white on a gurney.

They got IVs in and she perked up so fast I felt foolish for being worried, until the blood level came back and she was down to 30% of normal. 

She turned into her normal happy chatty self, blaming it on her goldfish crackers and how she wasn’t going to eat them again.

She got a blood transfusion, and repeat surgery, and we had a fun ambulance ride to children’s. She throughly enjoyed everything except puking up blood, which she still talks about sometimes. I watched her like a hawk for the next month, worried every second for it to happen again. I couldn’t let myself cry then, because it could happen again, and I had to be able to cope. And then afterwards, it seemed silly to cry. It was done and past, she’s fine. 

But now I find it hits me at random times. I look at her and the grief wells up. She has an appointment and I feel a pit in my stomach. I walk into the children’s and remember pacing while she was in surgery, having the bleeding arteries cauterized. Someone comes in with their child to clinic, wanting to have their troublesome tonsils removed, and I warn them why they don’t just routinely do it anymore. My child is why.

That was the moment I almost lost my first child. I love her in a way I didn’t think I would ever love someone, from the moment I saw her and said “hello there”, followed immediately by “look, no vernix” (I told them I was overdue and they said I wasn’t)

The grief and sadness I still experience about this event makes it easier and harder to do my work. When people have a sick child or family member I find myself on the verge of tears, relating, knowing how awful and scary it is. Feeling helpless to protect someone you love that much.

I will continue to try to process, to deal, and most of all, pray. I don’t want to ever go through anything like this again. But life is unpredictable, so I will continue to do my best not to think about the awful events that could happen, and try to focus on the moments, the beautiful, as they happen.

Carpe diem. Even if it’s a Monday.