A month ago tonight, I held my baby close in the bed at the local hospital here in Toronto. My husband and I had finally broken his fever with cool wet cloths (in addition to the medication given at the hospital). Jack had spent some time "fighting" with us to get rid of his oxygen sensors (rubbing his feet together at a furious rate because they were obviously irritating him. My husband, at one point, was trying to hold Jack's feet apart so he wouldn't keep rubbing them, and Jack punched my husband (repeatedly) in the face. WHACK, WHACK, WHACK. It was hilarious. It was adorable. Our little boy, at 5 days old, had a serious chip on his shoulder.
I'm haunted tonight, because I truly believe the seizure my little boy had in the early morning hours of January 7th was when we lost him. I regret putting Jack down into the bassinet to sleep that evening, the first time he hadn't slept in my arms. The morphine given to Jack to help ease his pain that evening calmed him enough to sleep, and I took advantage of that to finally get some rest.
When we finally slept that night, my husband and I rejoiced in the fact the worst (the fever) was over.
Not even close.
How I wish I could travel back in time to whisper "hold your baby" in my own ear. I wish I could travel back further and protect Jack from the infection which would take his life.
But I can't. And I'm haunted.
21 hours ago