My little man went to hospital last week.
Nothing life-threatening or urgent, but you know how us mums worry nonetheless.
There would be anaesthetic involved – something I have an irrational fear of – and an overnight stay would be required.
I fretted, and fussed and kept myself awake for a week beforehand. So silly for something so routine, but so typically me.
Noah has suffered dreadfully with sleep apnea and night terrors for over a year now. The cause of the apnea anyway, has been his massive tonsils, and so it was decided that they had to come out.
We went for a pre-assessment appointment, toured the children’s ward, and Mr Noah told everyone he met how excited he was to be going for a ‘sleepover’ in the hospital. Aren’t children so innocent? So blissfully unaware. So much braver than us big kids – I could feel the panic rising.
Because it’s hard to let go of your little one. Hard to leave them in the hands of some doctor who is just a face, behind a name, behind a scribble on their ward chart. Hard to see them poked and prodded and told not to eat when they want to, and then encouraged to when their throat is sore and raw and inflamed.
It’s bloody hard.
The nurses were lovely, the doctors were lovely, the anaesthetist was lovely. And still I paced, and furrowed my brow, and almost ran to the recovery room when they called me.
Of course, they do this every day. Me? Not so much.
But he was absolutely, perfectly fine. Despite his quizzical little expression and that oh so tiny hand tightly gripping mine, he had sailed through it. He ate toast like he was told to, was playing DS and finding Where’s Wally in a matter of hours.
Children are resilient. Sick when they’re sick, but not one’s for wallowing.
My baby boy is that in a nutshell.
Mr M and I had raved beforehand about how amazing hospital toast tastes, and he even offered me a little of his afterwards, breaking a piece off and silently pushing it against my lips.
Even in the worst of times, my Noah, you are adorable.
A week on, and he is a little up and down still – the night terrors are still occurring, but his breathing is so much easier. He has a slump around lunchtime every day, and the nights are tough, but given how sore his throat looks, I don’t blame him in the slightest.
He is a little soldier, battling on whilst building Lego. He reserves his smiles to let me know he’s doing OK.
I’m not so sure I’d be that passable if it were me.
Noah, you are a darling. The kindest, sweetest sickling of them all.
Well done, little man, for being so brave. You faced it all with much more courage than I did.
I love you very, very much.