Monday, December 21, 2009


I sit here staring at Noah.  He's in his bean bag chair Memaw and Pops got him.  It's like watching the timer on a bomb ticking away.  Which bomb is going to go off this time? Will it be a seizure?  Will it be yet another spit up?  Or my favorite, BOTH.  Either way I'm terrified to touch him.  I just watch in anticipation.  I don't dare move him.  If I do I will, without a doubt,  either start a seizure or cause him to throw up.  Nice, huh?  I can't even hold my own child.  

Once we got to take Noah's feeding tube out I swore I'd never complain about feeding him.  All I wanted for so long was to get rid of that f'n thing and feed my child like a normal mom.  Once again, God threw me a nice "gotcha!".  EVERY time I feed Noah he throws up.  I hate feeding him.  It's awful.  It's awful for him and for me.  I dread, with every fiber of my being, feedings.  And believe me, there are many.  I'm trying to cut back the volume in hopes he will be able to keep a smaller amount down so, in turn, I have to feed him more often (I was already feeding him 7 times a day).  So now it's 10.  All I do is feed him, wait a few minutes, clean up the feed from my bed (as he most definitely threw it all up), change his clothes, my clothes, find Hanna (she always runs and hides now), and make another feed.  

Oh, and I count seizures.  

That is my day.  

Can't I just sleep through all of this and wake up when it gets better? 

Will it EVER get better?

It's not looking very likely.

1 comment:

  1. Tricia...I am so sorry for your pain. I'm hugging you from afar.