Crashing

As I type this my son sits upright in his crib, mouth agape, desperate for air.

He sways, nearly unconscious from the morphine. His eyes are mere slits. But every time I say it's bedtime, he sits back up, tugs on his shirt and grunts a bit.

He doesn't want to lay down. But I think it's time.

You expected a post about another magical day here in Florida. So did we. But when he woke up his oxygen readings told a different story.

We increased the oxygen rate. Doubled it. Tripled it. He kept slipping. We called an ambulance.

In the ambulance he started to turn blue. We diverted to a hospital closer than the Arnold Palmer Children's to get him stabilized.

So ill-prepared to handle a complex case like Dom was the first hospital that Trish drew blood from his broviac line to be tested. She had never done it but still had way more knowledge and confidence than the staff there.

Meanwhile I called Blue Cross. So much for them not paying for his care during our wish trip. Unlike the clinic visits this was unplanned.

Arnold Palmer sent a second ambulance to get him to their ICU. We got settled and even got him feeling better.

The oncologist from Monday's clinic visit dropped by. Suddenly it was a dance party, Dom leading the way.

Ten minutes later he turned blue again. The doctor said this is it. An X-ray, he said, suggested the leukemia blasts are in his lungs and there's nothing else we can do.

Trish and I fell apart. We agreed to morphine, held him, told him how much he is loved not just by us but by so many others. How he's changed us for the better and how we are so glad he was in our lives. And we sobbed.

We've known this will happen for a long time. But you're never prepared. And this was so sudden. Just yesterday he did so well! And now our worst fears are realized, so far from home.

He didn't die tonight after all. The morohine allowed his stressed body to relax and get enough oxygen to hang on. 

But who knows what's in store for tomorrow.

After more morphine he's now in my arms as we lay back in a recliner. His oxygen requirements remain triple what they were last night.

The oncologist gave us one last hope; his lungs might be overloaded with fluids from transfusions. So he prescribed a diuretic.

It's better than no hope at all.