Why Is This Happening?
The ambulance ride to Tufts was hell. Not only did I think I could have driven him there faster myself, but I was absolutely exhausted and my head kept hitting his car seat that I draped myself over.
Zachary was doing okay, but he started to have very shallow and quick breathing. He started this around Wilmington and continued it when we arrived at the ER. As we were pulling into the ambulance bay, Zachary vomited. It was brown and looked like coffee grounds. I knew this was bad. I remember the NICU telling us about coffee grounds.
He was chocking, and I was screaming at the paramedic to get him out of the seat. “Get him out”! “Ahhhhh, well we’re here”. “Oh my God, get him out of the seat”.!! That poor paramedic…I was screaming.
The doors to the back flew open and I jumped out so they could get Zachary out. They pushed him inside the doors to the ER and we were immediately escorted to the pediatric side. Walking past the man with the bloodshot eyes who smelled like alcohol, I could see him look at Zach. I’ll never forget his face. As drunk as he was…he knew my baby was sick too.
Once we were back in an exam room, the nurse quickly hooked him up to the monitors and took his vitals. His vitals were actually stable, which I wasn’t expecting. “Ok, maybe this isn’t so bad”. But his breathing…it was so shallow. And he was so pale. So pale.
I had continued to text Chris throughout the night with updates. I told him we had arrived, and that his vitals were good, and that he had stopped pooping, so the nurse was thinking maybe he got a bug and it just hit him so fast.
But then Zach threw up dark red blood. I knew it was blood. I had somehow kept it together all night, until this point. I lost it. I started bawling. I was shaking. I had to sit down. It kept coming out of his little body. Out his mouth, out his nose. It was the worst thing I have ever seen. Why is this happening?
They paged surgery.
I can remember some of the smallest details about the worst 48 hours of my life…what I was wearing, the names of the CA and the nurse in the ER, the tattoos on the paramedic’s arms…but I can’t remember time. I remember that they paged surgery, and I remember it seemed like an eternity until they showed up.
Zach threw up blood 3 more times before surgery arrived.
The resident who arrived wasn’t someone that I knew. But now he’s someone that I’ll never forget.
He immediately started asking me where we went when we got home, who had come to visit him, was anyone sick, what had we come in contact with. They paged infectious disease to come talk to me.
Zach threw up blood 2 more times.
The resident decided to drop an NG tube down Zach’s throat to suction out his belly. The second that tube went in…the blood started to pour out.
“Just a little bit of blood can turn all vomit red”.
“So you’re telling me that’s vomit”?
“Yes, with most likely a little blood. A little can make it very dramatic”.
He exchanged a glance with the nurse.
He was lying..
I texted Chris…”he’s throwing up blood. You need to get here”.
By the time his stomach emptied, the resident estimated that he had drained around 250-300 cc’s. For a little perspective…30 cc’s is an ounce.
Chris came in right as we were getting ready to head up to the PICU. We walked behind our baby, who looked so small and fragile lying alone on that big bed.
The morning up in the PICU is a little hazy. I was completely exhausted from being up for over 24 hours now, so they pulled out the chair bed and had me lay down. I was able to doze in and out for a bit. It was almost as though I needed to escape. I needed to not be where I was. One of the most selfish feelings I have ever felt was at this time. I wanted to be there for my baby. But I needed to separate from what was happening. I just couldn’t deal. Lack of sleep was definitely not helping the situation.
I remember doctors and nurses coming in and out. I remember hearing talking. I remember Chris waking me up to tell me things, but for the life of me, I have no idea what they were now.
At one point when I looked over at my baby in the crib, hooked up to monitors, having shallow breathing, sleeping…I knew it wasn’t good. He was gray. He had absolutely no color to him.
The monitors started to go off. They had been going on and off since we arrived in the PICU, but this time, his vitals weren’t stabilizing. His blood pressure was bottoming out, his respiratory rate was dangerously low, I don’t even remember what his pulse was.
The next thing I knew, our nurse Eileen said, “I’m not okay with this. I am not comfortable with this at all. He needs to be intubated, I’m intubating him right now”.
We loved Eileen. We still love Eileen. She is a lady who gets things done. Thank God.
I remember sitting in a chair across the room and one of the residents came over to me. My head was in my hands. I couldn’t watch.
What if he died?
Why is this happening?
She started to rub my back and explained to us that it was about to get very busy in the room. This busy was okay. There would be a lot of people in and out of the room, and they would be moving very fast. But he was okay.
All I could do was nod. And sob.
I left the room. The warning alarms from the monitors were breaking me. They weren’t stopping. He wasn’t stabilizing. I couldn’t deal. I went into the bathroom across the unit. I could still hear the alarms and the commotion, but I had at least had a second to try and breathe.
A social worker was talking to Chris who was standing outside of the open bathroom door. She told him that there was a waiting room outside of the PICU if we would be more comfortable. Chris didn’t want to go. My God, that man was a rock. He was an absolute rock. I don’t know how, because I was an absolute puddle. But that man just stood tall and strong watching Zachary’s room. Watching the commotion. Keeping vigil.
Thank God he was a rock. Because I needed to run.
I asked the social worker where the waiting room was, and she walked me out of the double doors and across the corridor. We sat down, and I just crumbled. She asked me if I wanted her to stay or leave. This poor thing…I mumbled something like, “I really don’t care what you do”. So she just stated. Quiet. Ready to help me in some way.
After a little bit, she said she would go in and get an update and tell Chris where I was.
At this point a medical student came out to talk to me. She didn’t have much to tell me, but just kept saying that he was intubated, and when that happened, his breathing immediately became better, all of his stats improved, and his color came back.
I just kept asking, “why is this happening”? “We were just home. We just took him home. I don’t understand. Why is this happening”?
All she said was, “I don’t know”.
I walked back into the PICU and saw my baby. So fragile. So tiny. So many wires. And now a big tube that was breathing for him. It broke my heart. It broke me in a way that I don’t think I can ever recover from.
The nurses kept saying how much better he looked and that he was now stable. Now stable? How are we here? Why is this happening?
Zachary’s surgeon was with him, and said that he was feeling much better now that Zach had been intubated, and had the suction tube in. He said he wasn’t sure what was happening, but that we would figure it out.
It gets real fuzzy with this part again, but what I remember happening next was his monitors alarming again and all of the commotion.
At some point, we left Zachary and went into a conference room where we were signing consent forms for an exploratory laparotomy. Another surgery. I picked up the pen to sign…my hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
Anesthesia consent…more shaking.
Hospital admitting forms…more shaking.
My next memory is back with Zachary and once again his monitors started to alarm. I remember our nurse Eileen saying, “Page surgery NOW! AND TELL THEM TO RUN”!!
Oh My God.
Why is this happening?
I was then standing in his room, with so many nurses and doctors in scrubs, ready to take him away…
I walked over to Zachary to touch him, to kiss him, to tell him that I loved him.
I could touch him, but I couldn’t really kiss him…the ventilator was in my way.
But I could reach his ear.
I got as close as I could and whispered, “I love you my big brave boy. Now is the time to be amazing. Now is the time to be brave. Time to kick some ass”…
The ambulance ride to Tufts was hell. Not only did I think I could have driven him there faster myself, but I was absolutely exhausted and my head kept hitting his car seat that I draped myself over.
Zachary was doing okay, but he started to have very shallow and quick breathing. He started this around Wilmington and continued it when we arrived at the ER. As we were pulling into the ambulance bay, Zachary vomited. It was brown and looked like coffee grounds. I knew this was bad. I remember the NICU telling us about coffee grounds.
He was chocking, and I was screaming at the paramedic to get him out of the seat. “Get him out”! “Ahhhhh, well we’re here”. “Oh my God, get him out of the seat”.!! That poor paramedic…I was screaming.
The doors to the back flew open and I jumped out so they could get Zachary out. They pushed him inside the doors to the ER and we were immediately escorted to the pediatric side. Walking past the man with the bloodshot eyes who smelled like alcohol, I could see him look at Zach. I’ll never forget his face. As drunk as he was…he knew my baby was sick too.
Once we were back in an exam room, the nurse quickly hooked him up to the monitors and took his vitals. His vitals were actually stable, which I wasn’t expecting. “Ok, maybe this isn’t so bad”. But his breathing…it was so shallow. And he was so pale. So pale.
I had continued to text Chris throughout the night with updates. I told him we had arrived, and that his vitals were good, and that he had stopped pooping, so the nurse was thinking maybe he got a bug and it just hit him so fast.
But then Zach threw up dark red blood. I knew it was blood. I had somehow kept it together all night, until this point. I lost it. I started bawling. I was shaking. I had to sit down. It kept coming out of his little body. Out his mouth, out his nose. It was the worst thing I have ever seen. Why is this happening?
They paged surgery.
I can remember some of the smallest details about the worst 48 hours of my life…what I was wearing, the names of the CA and the nurse in the ER, the tattoos on the paramedic’s arms…but I can’t remember time. I remember that they paged surgery, and I remember it seemed like an eternity until they showed up.
Zach threw up blood 3 more times before surgery arrived.
The resident who arrived wasn’t someone that I knew. But now he’s someone that I’ll never forget.
He immediately started asking me where we went when we got home, who had come to visit him, was anyone sick, what had we come in contact with. They paged infectious disease to come talk to me.
Zach threw up blood 2 more times.
The resident decided to drop an NG tube down Zach’s throat to suction out his belly. The second that tube went in…the blood started to pour out.
“Just a little bit of blood can turn all vomit red”.
“So you’re telling me that’s vomit”?
“Yes, with most likely a little blood. A little can make it very dramatic”.
He exchanged a glance with the nurse.
He was lying..
I texted Chris…”he’s throwing up blood. You need to get here”.
By the time his stomach emptied, the resident estimated that he had drained around 250-300 cc’s. For a little perspective…30 cc’s is an ounce.
Chris came in right as we were getting ready to head up to the PICU. We walked behind our baby, who looked so small and fragile lying alone on that big bed.
The morning up in the PICU is a little hazy. I was completely exhausted from being up for over 24 hours now, so they pulled out the chair bed and had me lay down. I was able to doze in and out for a bit. It was almost as though I needed to escape. I needed to not be where I was. One of the most selfish feelings I have ever felt was at this time. I wanted to be there for my baby. But I needed to separate from what was happening. I just couldn’t deal. Lack of sleep was definitely not helping the situation.
I remember doctors and nurses coming in and out. I remember hearing talking. I remember Chris waking me up to tell me things, but for the life of me, I have no idea what they were now.
At one point when I looked over at my baby in the crib, hooked up to monitors, having shallow breathing, sleeping…I knew it wasn’t good. He was gray. He had absolutely no color to him.
The monitors started to go off. They had been going on and off since we arrived in the PICU, but this time, his vitals weren’t stabilizing. His blood pressure was bottoming out, his respiratory rate was dangerously low, I don’t even remember what his pulse was.
The next thing I knew, our nurse Eileen said, “I’m not okay with this. I am not comfortable with this at all. He needs to be intubated, I’m intubating him right now”.
We loved Eileen. We still love Eileen. She is a lady who gets things done. Thank God.
I remember sitting in a chair across the room and one of the residents came over to me. My head was in my hands. I couldn’t watch.
What if he died?
Why is this happening?
She started to rub my back and explained to us that it was about to get very busy in the room. This busy was okay. There would be a lot of people in and out of the room, and they would be moving very fast. But he was okay.
All I could do was nod. And sob.
I left the room. The warning alarms from the monitors were breaking me. They weren’t stopping. He wasn’t stabilizing. I couldn’t deal. I went into the bathroom across the unit. I could still hear the alarms and the commotion, but I had at least had a second to try and breathe.
A social worker was talking to Chris who was standing outside of the open bathroom door. She told him that there was a waiting room outside of the PICU if we would be more comfortable. Chris didn’t want to go. My God, that man was a rock. He was an absolute rock. I don’t know how, because I was an absolute puddle. But that man just stood tall and strong watching Zachary’s room. Watching the commotion. Keeping vigil.
Thank God he was a rock. Because I needed to run.
I asked the social worker where the waiting room was, and she walked me out of the double doors and across the corridor. We sat down, and I just crumbled. She asked me if I wanted her to stay or leave. This poor thing…I mumbled something like, “I really don’t care what you do”. So she just stated. Quiet. Ready to help me in some way.
After a little bit, she said she would go in and get an update and tell Chris where I was.
At this point a medical student came out to talk to me. She didn’t have much to tell me, but just kept saying that he was intubated, and when that happened, his breathing immediately became better, all of his stats improved, and his color came back.
I just kept asking, “why is this happening”? “We were just home. We just took him home. I don’t understand. Why is this happening”?
All she said was, “I don’t know”.
I walked back into the PICU and saw my baby. So fragile. So tiny. So many wires. And now a big tube that was breathing for him. It broke my heart. It broke me in a way that I don’t think I can ever recover from.
The nurses kept saying how much better he looked and that he was now stable. Now stable? How are we here? Why is this happening?
Zachary’s surgeon was with him, and said that he was feeling much better now that Zach had been intubated, and had the suction tube in. He said he wasn’t sure what was happening, but that we would figure it out.
It gets real fuzzy with this part again, but what I remember happening next was his monitors alarming again and all of the commotion.
At some point, we left Zachary and went into a conference room where we were signing consent forms for an exploratory laparotomy. Another surgery. I picked up the pen to sign…my hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
Anesthesia consent…more shaking.
Hospital admitting forms…more shaking.
My next memory is back with Zachary and once again his monitors started to alarm. I remember our nurse Eileen saying, “Page surgery NOW! AND TELL THEM TO RUN”!!
Oh My God.
Why is this happening?
I was then standing in his room, with so many nurses and doctors in scrubs, ready to take him away…
I walked over to Zachary to touch him, to kiss him, to tell him that I loved him.
I could touch him, but I couldn’t really kiss him…the ventilator was in my way.
But I could reach his ear.
I got as close as I could and whispered, “I love you my big brave boy. Now is the time to be amazing. Now is the time to be brave. Time to kick some ass”…