Breathing

Within a day or so after Zeben was born, we were told that our new baby was breathing faster than perhaps he "should" be. The average newborn baby takes 30-60 respirations per minute. Zeb was born breathing with a respiration rate of 60 rpm, but over the course of the next couple of days, it increased to where it was more like 80-100 rpm. We were sent home from the birth center with a suspected diagnosis of "transient tachypnea [the medical word for fast breathing] of the newborn" (TTN), something that happens to 2% of babies born by c-section (which Zeben was), a condition that generally goes away within the first few days. Zeben's breathing, however, did not seem to improve at all during our first days at home. When he was a week old, I finally broke down and called the pediatrician. I told the nurse on the phone that my newborn was breathing really fast. She poo-poohed my concern and assured me that all newborn babies breathe fast. When I told her that he was, at that moment, breathing at a rate of 88 rpm, while sleeping, she had me bring him in to the office right away. And a few hours later we were being sent to the Emergency Room at the local children's hospital for testing.

The first tests they did on him were all to rule out infection. Then they ruled out a problem with his heart. And then someone wondered if maybe it was just that he had really small nasal passages, and Zeben was subjected to all sorts of tubes and miniature cameras being stuck up his nose. We were first admitted to the hospital two nights before Thanksgiving, and it seemed that most of the senior doctors were soon gone on vacation. Which left us sitting around for hours on end, waiting for one specialist or another. Zeben was hooked up to monitors that didn't even work because he was breathing too fast for them. My baby and I spent three nights sleeping in a plastic fold-out chair next to the hospital crib/cage where I refused to put my newborn. Zeben had a roommate, a 10-month-old baby with a horrible sounding cough (bronchiolitis) and whose mother left the television on 24 hours a day. Even when she was talking on the phone. Even when she was sleeping through her baby's cries. It was awful. And I was so consumed with anxiety about my little panting baby. Sometimes I would try to breathe as quickly as he was--it's not easy to breathe that fast!--in hopes that once our breaths were synchronized I'd be able to slow his breathing down. But all that would happen is that I'd be breathing really fast too, which would only increase my level of anxiety.

On Thanksgiving, an hour or so after I'd finally fallen asleep with Zeben on my chest, I woke up to the most horrific sound I've ever heard. Screaming. The most heart-wrenching screaming you can imagine. Sobbing, pleading, banging . . . footsteps running in the halls from all directions. Someone's child had died. I lay there, silently sobbing to myself, feeling so lost and so alone.

The day after Thanksgiving, we were discharged without any answers. Zeb was still breathing too fast, but otherwise seemed fine. I brought him back to his pediatrician for a follow-up appointment and the pediatrician asked, "so what did the pulmonologist think?" And I realized that in the three days we'd spent holed up in the hospital, there had never once been mention of a pulmonary consult. For our baby with breathing issues. Our pediatrician was outraged and quickly arranged for Zeb to be seen by a pediatric pulmonologist. A few days later, we were back in the hospital under the direction of the new specialist, with a private room and a real bed to sleep in. Zeben was subjected to yet more tubes in his nose, more x-rays, more blood tests. And once again we were shocked by the extreme lack of communication between the doctors we saw. I remember one doctor coming in and saying, "So how's the baby doing?" And I replied, "well, he's great, aside from breathing too fast." The doctor looked alarmed. "He's breathing fast?!" And I said, "Um, yeah, that's WHY WE'RE HERE!" I would ask what, exactly, certain tests were looking for, and be told, "well, this test will tell us whether or not he's _______ (insert any number of possibilities: refluxing, aspirating, etc.) . . . but even if he is, that wouldn't be causing him to breathe fast." It was agonizing.

We decided to switch to Children's Hospital in Boston, 2 hours away. The difference in the quality of care was immediately evident. The pulmonologists at Children's were just as puzzled about Zeb's case (on the day we first went to Boston, Zeb was 4 weeks old and breathing at a rate of 120 rpm), but they seemed much more competent, regardless. Zeben weighed 13 lbs. at his first visit, and the doctor laughed when she saw him. Any 4-week-old baby who had already gained 3 lbs. (Zeb dropped down to 10 lbs. after birth) couldn't possibly have anything serious wrong with him. And rather than do any further testing, the doctors at Children's simply requested that we bring Zeben back every 4 weeks for a few months to make sure that he was still thriving despite his "struggles" to breathe.

In the end we learned that our newborn baby had been perfectly healthy all along. By the time he was 4 months old, he had outgrown his tachypnea habit, and no longer needed to see any pulmonologists at all. It took me much longer to quit my habit of counting his respirations and worrying incessantly about him. I felt like I suffered from a form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and it was probably not until Zeb was a year old that I truly believed he was fine.

Two nights ago, Zeben woke up with a croup cough just as I was going to bed. He was struggling to breathe and couldn't relax enough to latch on and nurse. Lukas tends to get a croup cough in the night with every cold, so we are well versed in the croup routine. But this was the first time I'd been through it with Zeb. I bundled us up in some down sleeping bags, and brought him outside into the cold night air. He was breathing so raspily and so quickly. I found myself trying my old trick of matching his respirations and then gradually slowing them down in the hopes that he would match me. And this time, it worked. He started breathing more easily and relaxed his head onto my chest. And we stood underneath the stars and I felt so thankful. For the body of my croupy, but otherwise perfectly healthy 2-year-old son snuggled heavily in my arms. I couldn't help but realize that once again it was two nights before Thanksgiving, and I was up late worrying about my baby's breathing. It was a bit of a trigger for my old anxiety, but this time I knew that everything would be okay. Eventually I tried to transition Zeb back inside, but he started coughing again and puked all over me, so we ended up going for the steamy shower method. It worked well, and before long we were back in bed, nursing and then sleeping peacefully.

Thanksgiving will always have new meaning for me after the Thanksgiving I spent with Zeb in the hospital. Eating hospital cafeteria mashed potatoes and googling potential syndromes that Zeben might have. Listening to those parents cry. Missing my big boys who I'd left at home, and missing Lena who was staying with them. Today, Thanksgiving two years later, I really did feel so grateful to just be with my family. My grumpy Lukas. My weepy Jaz. My croupy Zeben. My tired wife. I am so grateful for this life, for this love, for the gift of health. Thank you.