Here we go again...

It's amazing how just a few words can bring it all back...a flood of anxiety, fear, and panic.

Sunday night when I was working, a nurse called from the ER. For a few seconds, I thought that maybe--just maybe--it was a call for help with an IV or a lab draw for a baby. Not my baby. But, then, there it was, "...your son is down here...". She tried to keep explaining but I interrupted with "Which room is he in?!". Knowing that the lower the room number the worse he was. Room 2. He was in room 2.

Seeing Spencer's face when I walked in was enough to tell me everything. Seeing Milo was enough to bring out a visceral groan and that mother bear side of me that had not had to protect and fight for so many months. He looked worse than he'd ever looked--with the exception of the day and night he'd spent in the pediatric I.C.U.. Pale and blue all at once, limp, flopping over, eyes rolling back in his head, minimally responsive, struggling with every single breath, and what felt like a million people around him. His chest heaved and pulled with every single breath. You could hear him struggling from outside the room. 10 liters of tight face mask O2 and they had just gotten his sats out of the 60s. I felt like I might throw up. Isabel whimpered on Spencer's lap. Sounding miles away.

Thankfully, thankfully, our pediatrician was working in the hospital that night. He knows Milo--and our family--so well. He strode after me into the ER (how he even understood my panicked phone call I don't know) and rapidly fired off orders. 25 minutes later Milo was able to shake his head yes or no. He was able to look around and actually see us. I felt like I could exhale. A little.

We spent the night in his room, tense and anxious. 2 hours after the ER, more epinephrine to open up his airway. "Double the dose" on everything they were giving him. Continous monitoring. But, ultimately, it was the "why" that kept me bouncing between blankly staring at his heart rate bleeping across the screen and trying not to cry.

It must be undone. The repair on his stomach must be undone. The Nissen is undone. We're back where we were 15 months ago. Sleeping with his door open and ours. Checking on him repeatedly during the night. Hoping that tonight isn't a night that we'll go to the ER. But, knowing that it's only a matter of time until it happens again. His voice hoarse again from repeatedly aspirating and from the burning irritation of refluxing over and over again.

Today we schedule an upper GI. We'll cross our fingers that they see what they need to see during the scope. We sit in disbelief that we have to hand our poor sweet baby over to them not one more time but two more times. That the words "it was pretty difficult to work around an unusual branch of his aorta" will be a part of our lives again very soon. I feel like the elephant is on my chest again. But, I won't cry. I can't cry. Yet. Knowing what to expect is worse than going into this blind. Knowing what to expect is better than going into this blind. I can't decide which it is. We can't decide.