Surgery for Andi on Friday

Andi chokes. The medical term is "aspirates." She "does not protect her airway when she drinks."  Whatever you want to call it, it scared us.  She used to spit up her formula so forcefully, it would come out her nose - a sign of reflux we were told. Not only would she spit up, but then she'd flail, unable to breathe, and begin choking. One episode lasted 30 minutes, she turned grey splotchy, and we called 911. She was able to come back around on her own, but that event sent us running to our pediatrican early the next morning, wondering what was wrong with this baby.

Our pediatrician, who has twins herself, and whom I credit for getting us through the first year with twins with her rock solid steadiness, reassurance, and skill as a pediatrician, sent Andi for a swallow study. After three swallow studies over six months, watching radioactive liquid go down her throat on an x-ray machine and peaking down "the wrong tube," we got sent to a specialist pediatric ENT. Because our pediatrician said she'd trust his recommendation, we are going with what he says. And, I have to say, he was a great doctor in the 15 minutes I spent with him.

He will do diagnostic surgery on Friday morning. We will be at a good hospital, with a good doctor. But I'm agitated and irritable, hoping nothing goes wrong. He may find "nothing." I am told this is "good news," meaning Andi will eventually grow out of this problem. Or he may find a structural problem, but that is "fixable." 

Dave's mom will be in from CA watching the twincesses so that Dave and I can wait for Andi together at the hospital. It will be weird, him and I waiting, quietly, with no children to distract us. I, in a very selfish way, am looking forward to no children yelling at me, in the quiet, albeit tense atmosphere, of the surgery waiting room.  In stressful situations like these, I enjoy the quiet. It allows me to thoroughly focus on my anxiety and rumination. "Stop talking to me," I'd tell Dave during all of our medical appointments during our infertility and high risk pregnancy days, as he'd try to laugh at something in a magazine, or share some current event, "I'm trying to focus here," I'd say.

"On what? Your just sitting there."

"Dave, can't you just be quiet? You are interrupting me. I'm trying to worry here."

He'd laugh at me, and I'd laugh a little, too at the craziness of me, myself and I. 

Times like those I missed my good friend from community college, who would sit alone in the hall before a test and cry or break out in hives - which I was rather impressed by. Others wouldn't get it, but I did. It takes neurotic to know neurotic.

And so Dave and I will wait on Friday morning. Waiting quietly as we used to, for the news we always hoped for during our waits in doctor's waiting rooms.  That our baby, is doing fine.