 |
| One of the last pictures I took of David before we knew anything was wrong. |
David was less than 24 hours old. Because I hated being in the hospital (little did I know what the next year would hold in that respect!), we were preparing to be discharged that night after an uncomplicated and quick delivery so that we could go home and start our life together as a family of five. We just needed to have the pediatrician stop in and check him out, have his hearing tested, and get our discharge papers, and we’d be out of there. Normal, routine, check-the-box kind of stuff. Getting checked by the pediatrician had always been basically a formality before, and I 100% expected it to be like that again.
During the exam, the pediatrician told us our son had a “pretty serious heart murmur.” She didn’t seem overly concerned and told us that lots of babies have heart murmurs at birth, and they most often resolve themselves. I wasn’t worried. I told myself, “Of course that’s all it is. It’s minor, common, nothing to worry about.” She ordered an echocardiogram to check things out, and we were told it would take about 15-20 minutes.
Almost an hour later and our baby was still gone for the test. I laughed nervously to Bryan, “Should we be worried?” I texted a nurse friend of mine and she said the same thing: fairly common, most likely nothing to worry about. She was surprised they even ordered an echo and didn’t just wait to monitor it later. So it was probably just taking so long because he was wiggly or something. Nothing to worry about.
After a while, my midwife came by to check on me one final time before I was discharged. As she opened the door and started to walk in, someone called her name, and she disappeared back out the door. I don’t know if it was the tone of their voice, or the look on my midwife’s face, or what, but that’s when I first knew. I didn’t know what, but I knew something wasn’t right. A couple very long minutes later, she came back in, this time with the pediatrician. I will always remember the looks on their faces. I don’t remember exactly what they said, who first started talking, who explained what. But they told us that our David had a heart defect called Tetralogy of Fallot, and that he would need open heart surgery. They didn’t see this much at this smaller hospital, but he would be transferred to Children’s downtown to be monitored and assessed. I nodded seriously and listened wide eyed, trying to take it all in. And then at one point I just burst into tears because it was just too much.
 |
| David in the Isolette |
I had planned on being home for dinner that night, snuggling all three of my babies, sleeping in my own bed. But instead, our new baby would be loaded into a contraption that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie, and transported to Children’s Hospital by ambulance.
It was so surreal seeing them get him all set up for the ride. There had been zero indication that anything was wrong. Even our nurses were shocked. It seemed so strange that my calm, content, pink, nursing-like-a-champ baby had to be whisked off in such serious fashion.
Bryan and I trailed the ambulance in our car, crying most of the way. I frantically Googled “Tetralogy of Fallot,” and was simultaneously reassured to read that Shaun White was born with the same heart defect (an Olympic athlete—that had to be a good sign, right?), and terrified to read about the potential prognosis and complications.
Suddenly, without warning, we had been plunged into an entire new world of parenting that we had not signed up for. Of course I knew that we would do everything we could to support our little guy and give him the best outcome possible. And instead of letting that scary moment define and discourage me, I was and am determined to make sure that he knows he is special, he is a fighter, and he has a story that God can and will use inspire others. I would never have chosen this for any child of mine, but I am so proud to be the mama of a heart warrior.
