“If he gets through today okay, he could be home in a day or two”

I look at you, my little baby, tubes protruding from all over your body, and my heart constricts. You’re only four months old, and the RSV that was harmless to your sister is threatening you. Your sats are too low, and your chest is heaving, leaving a literal pit in your stomach.

The doctors upgrade you from oxygen via nasal cannula to noninvasive ventilation, with air rushing through thick tubes that blow the house down.

It doesn’t take much to see how suffocated you feel. When you cry your hoarse cry, and Tatty grabs your hands off the tubes, I do a 180° turn.  Then the doctors decide that even tube-fed mommy-milk is too much for you, and you will need to make do with IV fluids so you can focus exclusively on breathing. You cry from hunger, and I cry with you. Big hot tears slide down my face — outside the room. I can’t be in the same room with you and tease you with my presence.