Blip On The Radar
By Kylie Larson
@kylieslarson
Admitted to the labor and delivery floor at 33 weeks pregnant, I was contracting on and off and it seemed our child’s arrival was imminent. It was a stark contrast to my mundane tasks hours earlier: mowing the grass, planning dinner, and maneuvering my growing belly in and out of our narrow bathroom.
On my fourth bathroom trip in an hour, just as the water for our pasta started to boil in earnest, I saw blood on the toilet paper. My brain raced ten steps ahead and I began stuffing basics in a tote bag. By the time the on-call midwife confirmed I should come into the hospital, I was already in the driver's seat of my Jeep.
My husband met me in triage and understood about a quarter of the conversation with our medical team. Convinced we had weeks (months maybe!) of pregnancy left, he had not gotten around to reading the labor and delivery book chapters I earmarked for him. After a few hours in triage I settled into our antenatal room and my husband trekked home to prepare for a longer stay.
A maternal fetal medicine doctor walked me the short distance from my hospital room to an ultrasound room, my IV tower trailing behind me. In the closet-sized space the doctor helped me roll up onto the table.
The ultrasound tech introduced herself, “We have to get a couple measurements for your doctors and then we can play around a bit!"
Almost immediately after placing the gel and wand on my belly she paused. “Do you know what you’re having?” I smiled and told her, yes, I was having a son. There wasn’t going to be a surprise here today.
Once that was out of the way she started her measurements. I'd seen the tech at our 20 week ultrasound do something similar: moving the wand over my belly—around my son’s body—taking pictures and recording lengths.
Here, though, time started to slow.
The tech stopped trying to make small talk with me. I noticed that the screen was still focused on my son’s heart. How long has it been? Three minutes? Five? The doctor shifted forward from her seat on the far side of the small room, leaning into the tech’s ear, making the occasional comment in a hushed voice.
The tech moved like lightning through a series of images. She recorded sounds and took measurements. But she stayed focused on my son’s heart. The minutes melted away. No one was talking to me.
I tried to breathe quietly and move as little as possible. I wanted to pick up the scraps of the conversation in front of the screen.
Why weren’t they talking to me? I heard my son’s heart beats fill the room—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—they sounded fast and strong.
What did they see? A flush crept up my body towards my face. A sweat started dripping down from my forehead.
The room was tiny and dark and three grown women, plus a baby belly, occupied the cramped space. My sweat was rolling down faster now. I tried to stay in tune with the status of the scan: she’s still looking at his heart. What’s wrong? Would she do that if nothing is wrong? Maybe he’s in a weird position and she can’t get her measurements?
Finally, the technician wiped the gel from my swollen belly and I started to gather my gown together.
“Is everything okay?” My eyes met the doctor’s and I knew something was wrong before closing my mouth.
She waited a second. And then another. She didn’t want to do this here. In this closet.
Only bits and pieces made it through the dizzy minutes that followed.
"Hole in his heart."
"Heart defects."
“Possible lifestyle restrictions.”
"Open heart surgery."
She’s not a specialist. We have no history of heart problems. I tried to find her error.
Does this mean my son will never run? Or play sports? Will I not be a soccer mom?
Grasping for a way out, I asked, “Are you sure?”
“100 percent.”
***
Hours later my midwife rolled up alongside my hospital bed, listening to me as I alternated between sobs and questions.
“This is hard stuff,” she sympathized with me. “It’s not what you wanted and you’re not in control. Every parent learns these lessons, but you are getting a crash course right here. I promise you, though, in the future this will be a blip on the radar.”
I was saved from forming a polite response when the fetal monitor slipped and set off alarms.
***
Just after my son turns a year old I’m waking up all hours of the night, swaying with my toddler as if he’s a newborn again.
He's screamed off and on for hours.
In and out of his room I go: whispering to him, stroking his hair, turning on his sea soother. Finally, I break the cardinal rule of sleep training and lift him out of his crib and into my arms. He nuzzles against me and falls asleep. Heart to heart against one another, I feel his hot breath on my chest and his fingers curled on my shoulder.
I know I won't put him down for awhile. I'm simply thankful he’s here.
Two weeks ago my son laid on a metal table, his chest open, exposing his heart to a room full of people. For ten long minutes his heart didn’t beat at all while a machine at his side circulated the blood throughout his body.
By all accounts, surgery was a success. We walked out of the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit a week later in matching red shirts: my son’s said Zipper Club Member and mine said Heart Mom.
As he shifts his 23 pounds between my arms my back groans and I readjust to keep swaying in the dark room. The fan tickles my skin and the noise machine cuts the silence. This is the place—here in the early morning dark, arms full—where I try to imagine life after heart surgery. What comes next?
When I breathe in the scent of my son I catch whiffs of warm vanilla and peanut butter.
***
Holding hands on our walk to our local park my energetic three year-old fiddles with the delicate rose gold band on my ring finger. It graces space next to my wedding band. “Mommy’s Neil ring,” he says, emphasizing his own name in the declaration.
“That’s right, buddy.” I confirm as we move forward. This exchange is familiar, one we’ve had many times in the month since I slid the new band into place.
On the two year anniversary of my son’s surgery, startled by how small our medical journey looked in the rearview mirror, I impulsively bought this ring with small hearts winding around the entire band.
When I look at it, I recall my midwife’s prediction: blip on the radar.
The dictionary defines blip as something unexpected, minor, and as a temporary deviation from a general trend. When the midwife referred to the leaking hole in my son’s heart as unexpected and minor I wanted to wallop her. At the very least, throw my ice cup her way. But today, I see what that new, overwhelmed mom could not: a temporary deviation from a general trend.
Most of our days are simple. Do you want cereal or waffles for breakfast? Where did you put your shoes? Should we go to the zoo or the aquarium? Can you please flush the toilet?
Having a child with significant medical needs introduce me to motherhood was a bit like learning about the weather in the midst of a hurricane. With time it became clear that the typical forecast is sunshine, passing clouds, and scattered showers. Heavy days come to a close and their power drowns in a stack of ordinary days.
Neil outgrew his Zipper Club t-shirt and his sleepless nights. And my Heart Mom shirt lives in the back corner of my closet. Our medical journey is part of our story, but as I bank other memories with my son it feels less like the center of our story—shared on the front of my shirt in red block letters—and more like one that deserves a sliver of real estate on my left hand.
Neil runs out ahead of me towards the playground, and I remember the first time he asked me about the new ring and I said, “It's the circle that tells a story about mommy and Neil.”
Guest essay written by Kylie Larson. Kylie crafts words for web marketing clients during the week. In the margins, she scribbles in her own notebooks and is a hobbyist photographer. Kylie is a warm weather fan living in Chicagoland. She's married to her best friend, mom to a toddler boy, and fur mom to a rescue dog. You can find Kylie on her website and Instagram.