Thoughts From My Son’s Hospital Room

Here we sit, on a reclining bed in room 512a inside California Pacific Medical Center’s Pediatric Care unit. Wheel of Fortune is playing on TV, and a woman just guessed “Self Potato” for a puzzle whose correct answer is “Self Important.” Our first good laugh in a while.

Gus is sprawled out on his back and finally sleeping, his limbs dramatically flung in odd directions like a chalk outline at a nursery school crime scene. A soft spoken Asian nurse wearing a surgical mask is holding a small plastic hose directly in front of Gus’s nose, from which healing vapors pour out and encircle his head and then dissipate.

He’s blissfully unaware of all of this, which is nice. The treatment is aimed at helping his breathing, which has been labored for the past few days and began rattling and crackling today. Not words you like to hear in association with your infant’s lungs.

What began as a nagging cough about 10 days ago has morphed into something concerning enough that our primary care physician had Gus admitted to the hospital for overnight observation. We also just learned tonight he has an ear infection, the star on top of Gus’s Christmas tree of physical maladies. Yes, he’s also teething.

But the headliner tonight is his respiratory problem. So far the signs are encouraging – his wheezing breathing seems to be a nasty virus that isn’t life-threatening. Chest X-rays revealed moments ago that Gus doesn’t have pneumonia, so it looks like a consistent diet of antibiotics and hugs will turn things around for the little monkey.

Still, I’d by lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless today when doctors noticed his oxygen levels dropping after administering breathing treatments – clamping a mask on his face as Gus strained and wailed against the vapor treatment and the accompanying tubes and wires. Mostly I pushed the fear back and did what we had to do, but somewhere in the back of my brain lingered dark thoughts and admittedly irrational outcomes. I guess that just makes me a dad.

Bixie and I haven’t spent a night in this hospital since Gus was born. Six months later we have a plump, 16-pound cupcake-faced boy who just recently started to giggle and squeal with delight when we tickle the fat rolls under his chin. Tonight we’ll sleep together as a family back where it all started, at CPMC.

I’m looking forward to a healthy new year for Gus and for my wife. I like to think that I have a solid perspective on how lucky I am, but nights like tonight ratchet up my appreciation to the highest levels.

And that’s what I’ll be thinking about tonight as I squeeze my wife’s hand in hospital room 512a.

UPDATE: We’re home from the hospital, and Gus seems to be doing much better. Thanks, everyone, for your kind words and thoughts. We appreciate it very much!