Abigail Carroll
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After hearing the words come out of the doctor's mouth, stunned I looked over at my husband.
Did he just say what I think he said?
A tracheostomy?
We had been on the Cottage Hospital pediatric floor ten minutes, maybe. What did this young stud know? He looked young enough to be my little sister's college boyfriend. Was this some kind of joke?
My husband, sitting on an aluminum stool across the room elbows on knees, hands clasped, looked at the floor and then away to the door, tears filling his eyes. Red-faced and choking on emotions I looked back at the handsome, young doctor.
"But let's get Abigail into a room, so we can run some tests," he said, trying to lighten the mood.
So there we were. Admitted into the hospital. We had dropped in on our Goleta-based pediatrician earlier that day. Our 6-week-old daughter had been suffering from some type of funky respiratory thing for the past two weeks. Unannounced, and half embarrassed, we dropped in on our pediatrician for the second time in five days.
Juggling my own ego insecurities, I walked into the pediatrician's office--yet again.
"I know I'm probably just being a paranoid, annoying mother, but I just want the doctor to listen to Abby one more time. It seems like she's getting worse," I said, humiliated.
As always, the pediatrician was sweet and kind. Reassuring me that I wasn't crazy, he left the room for a long time.
"I want you to go to Cottage Hospital and see the pediatric doctor on the fourth floor," he said when he came back into the room. "I've already called the hospital, you've been admitted. You'll most likely stay the night while we monitor Abigail."
On the drive to Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara, I felt relieved. A weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I had been validated. My motherly instincts were right. I really was a mother. And something really was wrong.
For three nights, Abigail and I stayed at Cottage Hospital. My husband would sneak out each night after visiting hours were over and return each morning (never a moment too soon) with a coffee in hand for me.
Abigail's diagnosis was still undiagnosed. Her monitors continued to 'beep.' And nurses and doctors would periodically come in to check on her.
A scope down the throat in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit was unsuccessful. It seems the camera was too large to fit down her windpipe to have a proper look.
From what I gathered, Cottage Hospital did not have equipment small enough to look down my six-week-old baby's throat.
After another long night, the young pediatric doctor returned to Abigail's bedside.
A helicopter from Children's Hospital Los Angeles (CHLA) was on its way to pick up Abigail. Down there, doctors had the necessary equipment to look deeper into Abigail's trachea.
Did he just say what I think he said?
A helicopter?
That afternoon, Abigail and my husband were flown first-class, with a team of health professionals, from Santa Barbara Airport to CHLA. Following the 40-minute, $7,000 helicopter ride, the pace changed significantly. Abigail, on the same gurney, was wheeled into a room she shared with three other children for the next couple of days.
The last night at Cottage had been actually quite pleasant. Our neighbor, who happened to be the greatest pediatric nurse in Santa Barbara, made sure we had the nicest room on the floor (with a view). Had I known this would be one of the last times we'd have a room to ourselves I would have appreciated it more.
We met Abigail's CHLA otolaryngology (a word I still cannot pronounce) surgeon in the surgery prep room the morning following our arrival. She was wearing a lovely turquoise colored scarf to cover her hair. Fresh, pretty, petite and too young, I thought.
Did she just say what I think she said?
A surgeon?
She can't be, I thought. And then I recall glancing at her graceful hands touching Abigail. Compassionate, too. Immediately, my stereotypical pretense melted away. She was a perfect fit for our precious little one.
A week later, Abigail was diagnosed with a subglottic hemangioma, a growth (or tumor) of quickly growing, tightly wound blood vessels below her vocal cord.
As we waited in the special consult room outside the operating room, I tried not to think of the worst. Propping the door open with a trashcan, we waited for the official diagnosis.
When she exited the operating room, she was not alone. Another older doctor accompanied her. Both wearing operating room scrubs.
Pulling up chairs they sat close to us. The older doctor spoke first. His recommendation: a tracheostomy. The younger surgeon concurred.
We could take time to think about our options, however, the conservative thing to do would be to go for the tracheostomy now while Abigail was still under anesthesia, they suggested. This would secure her airway from being blocked by the rapid growing tumor.
Because we had been hoping for the best, a passing virus, my husband and I had not honestly considered a tracheostomy outcome.
We had about five minutes to decide. Looking into their eyes, with teeth chattering from shock, I asked the same question every other mother in my situation probably asks: "If it was your child, what would you do?"
"I'd opt for the tracheostomy. The conservative thing to do is secure the airway."
Looking briefly at each other, my husband and I threw caution into the wind. We knew almost zip about tracheostomies, let alone really seen one on a person. It had always been those "type" of people I'd avoid, if possible, in public places.
With my own fears, insecurities and prejudices pushed aside, 45 minutes later I met my trached daughter for the first time in the recovery room. Seven weeks old, tiny, and, surprisingly less bloody than I had prepared myself for, she laid on the small hospital bed. From her neck, blue humidifier tubing stretched from the trach to a noisy air compressor. She was fast asleep from the morphine. And I was in a state of semi-shock.
For the next few hours, before she was transferred to ICU, I caressed her soft head. The more I looked at her, the less I saw the trach. And the less I saw the trach, the more I saw her as I had five weeks before; As a healthy, normal baby.
I was allowed to hold her and nurse her as she groggily clung to me. Already, this little baby knew so much more than me about living a non-judgmental life.
Over the next five weeks we stayed at CHLA, allowing time for Abigail to heal and allowing us time to learn how to care for a trach baby.
On May 28, 2002, we were released from the hospital with a VW Vanagon full of medical equipment: boxes of suction catheters, an Apnea monitor, an air compressor, a suction machine and other miscellaneous sterile things. But more importantly, we had with us our precious little Abigail.
Sure she had her special needs, and it would be months before we felt comfortable and confident leaving the house, but she was finally safe.
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