Baby Bronch

"I'd like to get in there and see what's going on," the doctor stated with a tap of his pen. 

Sounds simple enough, but "there" is Addie's lungs and "getting in" requires general anesthesia, a winding catheter, and a miniature light and camera.  Bronchoscopy.  On my ten-month old little girl.  Chest Xrays and labwork return normal results, but he hears inconsistent breath sounds between her lungs and she coughs a bit.  I gritted my teeth, met his gaze, and calmly answered, "All right."

Of course, it's not all right, but I  have neither the time nor the propensity for a meltdown as I picture her limp, monitored, invaded body.  I've been here before with another (not quite so) small child, and it's got to be done.  My feeding, pulmonary percussions, cleaning, and medicating have not been enough.  Enter our wise pulmonologist who, though gruff, is deeply vested in my children's health and desires information that simpler diagnostic tests will not yield.  So in he'll go.

And I'll set my jaw, march through the doors, and hand my baby over to be "bronched" because I love her and because the doctor wants to peer through this window to her lungs to better care for her.

God help us.
God help him.
God thank you for amazing technology.
God thank you for my sweet, bright girl.
And dear Saint Therese, you with your lung problems down here, know.  Please pray with me for Adah Marie.

6 AM Friday morning, here we come,
Allison