Jacob had a few episodes of vomiting and a mild fever last Thursday, which lead to a hospital visit on Friday. Never mind that the vomiting was probably from his maddening habit of shoving his fingers down his throat. Never mind that the “fever” was probably just overheating from snuggling his little furnace of a body in between us in bed when he wouldn’t stay down in his crib. With citrullinemia, we don’t assume “it’s nothing.”
The bloodwork came back. Ammonia and liver function both normal.
I almost didn’t write about this short hospital stay because it was “just another routine outpatient visit.” At some point, taking my child to the ER for bloodwork and an IV became as unremarkable as a visit to the pediatrician.
But today I decided to write. I write to give weight to the unpleasantness that Jacob has to endure on these visits. I write to give life to his medical records. I write to remember how my sweet baby, exhausted from the trauma of placing the IV, slept in my arms on the narrow hospital bed. How his doctor, in a blue wig and red foam nose on the day before Halloween, came to check on her tiny patient, and how his dietician kissed his sleepy head. How his grandmother sat in the plastic hospital chair in the cramped ER room for five hours to keep vigil over her beloved grandchild.
Until Jacob has the words, I will bear witness to all of his story.