We knew this day would come. It was inevitable. Yet somehow we hoped it would come much much later. Not now, we hoped. Not ever, we wished.
Seven got sick. Really sick.
We woke up the morning after Christmas and noticed he was having difficulty breathing. He had long, heavy breaths with some wheezing. The previous two days he had light cough that we thought would be cured by mild medication. Obviously, his condition got worse. And to make things complicated, his St. Luke's pediatrician was out of town because of the holiday break.
Fortunately we were referred to a Bulacan-based pedia and we quickly set an appointment (and fortunately, she held clinic that early morning). The verdict was handed down soon : Seven had to be hospitalized. As soon as the doc said that, Anie broke down and wept. Our seven-month-old Seven was going to be hospitalized. Too soon, I told myself. I had wished that somehow he could get as lucky as me - I haven't been hospitalized my entire life (so far). I haven't been sick enough to be confined, so I don't know how much that dextrose needle hurts (and I don't wanna know). Seven was going to find out at such an early age. We're sorry, son.
Doc said it was best to look after Seven in the hospital and be aggressive with the treatment. Not wanting to risk his health, we quickly agreed. But not without a dose of heartache.
So there it happened. Seven was admitted, he was pricked for the dextrose and skin tests. Of course he cried. Anie cried with him before she couldn't stand watching it anymore and went outside the medical ward. That was the hardest part.
Thankfully, things got better once we settled into our hospital room. Seven got to sleep comfortably and started to breathe and feel better. He got the joy in his face back. Seven made it easier for us by flashing that smile time and time again as if he wasn't sick. And if it's any consolation, we were told Seven's quite lucky because other babies with the same condition had to be supplied with oxygen for breathing. Good thing Seven's big and strong for his age.
Four days and three nights at the hospital is torture (especially for me), but it made our boy better. This is something we dread, something we hate to happen. But we always knew this first heartbreak would come.
Seven's now doing okay but his medications continue. We're happy and thankful we got through it.
To God be the glory still.
He's now home and back to his giggling ways. But as for New Year's eve, he'll have to stay indoors during the festivities. No going out for the next few weeks. As per doctor and pop's strict orders.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, everyone! =)
Father to Seven. Prefers to be called "Pop" because Daddy is too sosyal, Papa can mean boyfriend / boy-toy or a ketchup, Tatay is too un-sosyal, and Popsie is just three letters too much. I don't like the cola because it's too sweet, but I esteem coach Gregg Popovich because he gets the job done. So Pop it is.