Scarlett spent last night in a metal crib at A.I. duPont Hospital for Children, hooked to an I.V., a catheter, and a machine that monitored her levels of oxygen; her Momma close beside. Even though this hospital is incredible, the crib my daughter will be sleeping in for what we were told to expect can be the next few days is hard to describe as anything other than a great, big, terrifying jail cell for babies.
We joke a lot about her being such a ‘pipsqueak’ but honestly, her development has been the center of a lot of concern, concern that for me was beginning to spiral a little out of control. You might have noticed that I never put together a 9 month letter for her, part of the reason being that finding ways she had grown or developed that month from the last (or even the one before that) were becoming harder and harder to list. We landed here yesterday morning by recommendation of the family doctor. Scarlett’s team over the past few days have described the possible culprits of her symptoms as ranging from the “not-so-worrisome to the very worrisome.” Very worrisome, of course, being all I can hear ringing through my head right now. Still, I can’t help feeling comforted about where we are. All things considered, I’m thankful that we’re here and that the doctor’s have given some validation to my concern. I’m not scared for her. I just know that something is out of the ordinary, and I want to know what.
We threw around some scary words last night, but at this point the ‘very worrisome,’ doesn’t seem to be outweighing the ‘not-so.’ And the truth is, whether I worry about it at home, breastfeeding her on the couch or staring out of a 4th floor window from a cot on 3F, I’m going to worry. I feel a lot better doing it while something is being done to find an answer.
So far we know that she’s lost weight since her last check-up a couple months back and that so far, (though the testing has only just started) there seems to be some kind of abnormality on her liver. We don’t know what to make of it yet, I was told, which means there’s a chance that it’s nothing. She’s eating and sleeping as well as she can, but she’s lethargic and detached and clearly overwhelmed. The good news for her about being alone with me for 3 days in a children’s hospital is that she’s not leaving my arms for anything.
The good news for me? is that she’s not leaving my arms for anything.