As Peter’s first birthday approached, my hormones were on high alert. My 3rd baby was turning one. As endless as the first couple months with a newborn might seem, the first year somehow flies by. With each child, the first year is faster because you are so busy you hardly have time to catch your breath.

The week before Peter’s first birthday party, the big kids caught colds. I figured it was actually good timing, they would get it out of their systems before the big party. Peter seemed fine, so I kept my fingers crossed that he remained that way. 

Monday morning, the week of the party, Peter woke up with a terrible runny nose. He had a slight cough too, but otherwise, he was pleasant. Lucy seemed to recover from her coughing fits. She didn’t have a fever and Zachary seemed pretty good too.

After our morning of play, Peter went for his usual 2-3 hour nap. When he woke up, he seemed off. When I held him close, I could feel that he wasn’t breathing right and I heard a rattling sound when he breathed. He felt like he was trying really hard to breathe.

I recognized this kind of breathing immediately because it happened to Zachary when I was pregnant with Peter. 

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When Zachary was about 1.5 (just before Peter was born), he had a bad cold and cough. With the isolation from the pandemic, Zachary had hardly been sick, if at all, at that point. It was his first big cold. I had noticed through the morning how he seemed to be heaving a little bit when he was breathing. The work of breathing continued as the day wore on. Big Zach had asthma as a child so he wasn’t unfamiliar with what was happening. By the early evening, we had called my brother (a doctor) to come over and listen to him. He could tell just by looking at him that he was working hard to breathe and he sounded like he was wheezing. He brought a nebulizer machine that he had used on his kids before. He suggested we give Zachary a 20 minute treatment. The treatment seemed to work. We were able to get him down to sleep.

In just a few short hours, he woke up in a panic. I can remember hearing him groaning, “Mommy, Mommy.” It wasn’t his usual playful groan, he sounded like he was in trouble. The short nebulizer treatment didn’t do the trick. I went in to him and he reached for me. When I held him close, I could feel his muscles working hard. 

I of course called my parents (who are also a nurse and a doctor). I have said many times that I can’t say enough what a comfort it is to know that I can call them with anything. My parents suggested steaming up the bathroom and having him sit for 20 minutes. I did that and he continued to struggle. His chest heaved in and out. I could see his ribs when he inhaled. Another tip they had was sitting in the cool air. 

I stepped outside on our patio and sat down in one of our wicker chairs. I was seven months pregnant. My little Zachary sat in my lap draped over my pregnant belly. Both my boys in my lap. We cried together in the moonlight. 

“Take a deep breath, buddy. In and out.”

“Mommy, I can’t,” he said through shallow breaths. “I can’t breathe, Mommy.” 

At just under two years old, he was able to articulate to me in perfect language that he couldn’t breathe.

I had to wake Zach so he could take him to the ER because I was too pregnant. Zach woke up confused. He’s often the calm one and I am the alarmist so he was a little hesitant to believe me, but when he saw him he knew.

“You have to take him. He isn’t right. I put him in the steamy bathroom. I took him out in the cool air. It isn’t time yet to do another nebulizer.” 

Zach got dressed right away.

I buckled Zachary into his seat. Picture me with a big pregnant belly trying to wrangle a frustrated, sick toddler.

“No,” he screamed with the little breath he had. “I want Mommy! I want Mommy!” 

It didn’t help that Zachary was a Mama’s boy. Especially since I had become more pregnant. He knew life was going to change soon, so he clung to me more than ever. 

“Daddy is going to take you. You’ll be okay.”

“He’ll be okay,” Zach said. “I’ll call you soon.” 

“I love you,” I said to both of them.

I sobbed as I watched Zach drive away. I could see Zachary through the window screaming. My baby wanted me and I couldn’t be there for him. That’s one of the hardest parts of being pregnant with other little ones around. They still need you too and they expect you to be there for them the way you have been, but you also have no choice but to literally give all of yourself to the one growing inside you. And you try to make them understand, but it’s irrational to expect them to get it. 

I went back to my bed and cried and held my phone close waiting for the call. Zachary spent about 7 hours in the ER that night. He was given a two hour nebulizer treatment and a dose of steroids and then they monitored him. He is 4 now and hasn’t been to the ER since. He has had a couple chest colds when I’ve needed to give him albuterol, but nothing like that one incident. 

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I wish I had sat down to recount this soon after it happened because at this point a lot of it is a blur. This whole last year had a few whirlwind moments that didn’t allow me to center myself enough to reflect right after. But I will try to recount most of it.

It was about 4 o’clock the week before Peter’s first birthday. He had been battling a cold for a few days and after his nap he woke up struggling. I called my brother John who is a doctor. He suggested we give him a 20 minute nebulizer treatment. We knew the routine because of little Zachary.

Big Zach held him down and I held the mask to his face. We waited another hour and Peter was not any better. I started to think an ER visit was in order.

I called my brother Brian (also a doctor) and he came over to examine him. He sat in the bathroom with him and we steamed up the room. Peter had no improvement. He continued breathing heavy from his belly. We could see his ribs each time he drew in a breath. He looked exhausted from trying so hard. 

Brian confirmed what I already knew, he needed to go to the ER. He said they would give him a longer nebulizer treatment and some steroids and he’d be good to go.

It was 6pm at this point. Zach was done work. I grabbed Peter and my handbag and we were off. 

We arrived at Children’s Hospital ER in King of Prussia. I explained Peter’s situation. They looked at him and took us right back. He was even more agitated than when we left the house. He looked alarmed as he heaved in my arms. His pulse ox was 92. We were taken to a room within a few minutes.

The specifics of the event have left my mind, but the feeling of fear and hopelessness has not. Writing this is taking my heart right back to those days and it’s hard. I think that’s why it has taken me so long to write it all down. I looked up Peter’s hospital papers to remind me of the specifics, gotta love electronic records.

I was hoping it would be a quick fix, but they admitted Peter for two days. Those two days seemed to last forever. Zach stayed home to work and the big two were with my Mom. Zach joined me in the evenings, but during the day it was just me and Peter. It’s almost like Zachary’s hospitalization was a precursor of what was to come for Peter. It happened to him while I was pregnant with Peter so I would know how to handle Peter’s distress. 

One of the first interventions was to suction his nose, which is a terrible thing to witness. They took this long narrow tube and put it in his nose to suction out the mucus. I had to hold him in my arms to hold him down. The screaming that came from him was unbearable. I cried along with him. He had a ton of mucus in there.

Despite the suctioning, he continued to have diminished breathing. They then started him on a nebulizer with steroids. Those treatments did give him relief, but he was still working hard to breath and wheezing. Due to his lack of improvement, they escalated him to BIPAP (bilevel positive airway pressure). BIPAP is a noninvasive ventilator that helps people breathe by supplying pressurized air through a mask. He did not like that mask, but because he was so exhausted already he gave into it. It was pathetic to see not much fight left in him, but I was happy he was able to get some sleep. 

The team decided to admit him to the PICU (pediatric intensive care unit). My hopes of it being a quick fix went out the window. We were brought upstairs probably around 11pm. They brought in an x-ray machine. It was actually pretty neat to see a portable x-ray machine. He was lying down in the crib and they swung it around over him and did an x-ray. The x-ray was normal. No signs of fluid or pneumonia or any kind of lung infection. So that was a good sign at least. 

He stayed on the BIPAP machine until the following afternoon. He was not allowed to eat so they were giving him fluids through an IV. Once he was off all interventions, we had to wait an additional amount of time. Looking back, he did bounce back pretty quickly considering how sick he was. I’ve heard of children being hospitalized for over a week with RSV, so a two day stint sounds like nothing. But, when you’re stuck in a small hospital room with a sick baby and feel completely helpless, any amount of time feels like eternity. 

Peter’s final diagnosis was bronchiolitis, which is an infection of the small air passages of the lung. And at 11 months old, those passages are REAL small. They couldn’t make any other diagnosis, such as asthma, because he was so young. We began to assume though that he may have it because of big Zach having it as a child. 

A few days after he was discharged, we had his 1st birthday party. Going through that harrowing ordeal just days before his party made us celebrate even more. After we held the party, I just collapsed in exhaustion. 

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Peter went on to be hospitalized 3 more times in 2023 and once in 2024. July, September, December, and then March 2024. He stayed over night in September and December. He was diagnosed with bronchiolitis each time. And to think we were so worried about RSV or COVID and he tested negative for those each time. 

In December, they prescribed him an inhaled steroid to be taken once a day, fluticasone. I started that and he seemed good for a couple months. I fell off of giving it regularly because I thought he would be fine. He caught a cold in March and, sure enough, around day 3 of the cold he began struggling to breath. I completely blame myself for the 6 hour ER visit he did in March. The fluticasone was working. Why did I go off course?! I guess I hoped he didn’t need it anymore, but we learned the hard way that he does. I still carry great guilt for that. I carry guilt for a lot of it. You try so hard to do everything you can to care for them and keep them safe, but stuff is going to happen when you have to get outside help. I guess the important thing is that each time we got him where he needed to be and he came out better pretty quickly. 

After the visit in March, the doctor finally put in a referral to see pulmonary. Pulmonary has diagnosed him with mild persistent asthma. They prescribed him the fluticasone again, but told me he needs two puffs in the AM and two puffs in the PM EVERY day to keep him covered. He’s had two colds since and he has done fine with them, so the inhaler is doing its job. It’s really just a waiting game now to see how he grows and if this will be something he grows out of or something that he will need to manage forever. For me, it’s an easy thing to stay on top of now. He is so good about doing the inhaler every day. Sometimes he cries, but mostly he knows the drill and is compliant. Whatever course he takes, we’ll be on top of it. I’m just glad we know what to do to keep him out of the hospital. 

To say the year was jarring is an understatement. We are blessed to have so much family around who took care of our big two, who offered words of support, and made us dinners etc. We would never have made it through those scary times without family. 

I am grateful he has been okay since his last stint in March. We’ve had a great summer and it’s wonderful to see him coming into his own and being active and enjoying his siblings.

I personally am still calming down from it all. I look back and I’m like, what the hell, Peter! Number 3 keeping us on our toes. But, that’s what you sign up for when you become a parent. Going above and beyond every day and staying on your toes if anything takes a turn for the worse. Zach and I are stronger than we were the year before and I know our strength will continue to grow. I somehow still believe we are faced with things in life to prepare us for the next level.

We learned early on with Lucy’s ordeal with seizures that this life path is not for the feint of heart. There will be great hurdles, but somehow you overcome. The love you have for your tiny people is greater than any struggle. Love will carry you through every time.

Seeing a child in such distress is so completely unbearable. No matter how many times it happens, it’s terrifying each time. You don’t “get used” to that feeling. You get better at approaching the situation and carrying out what needs to be done, but you never “get used” to it. And God is it tiring. The mental, physical, emotional fatigue is real. And the first time he went in, my hormones were already insane. I was just under a year postpartum, I was still nursing him a little bit. I was on the cusp of becoming yet another new version of myself. I was completely punch drunk at his party. He was discharged June 21st and we had his party June 24th! Talk about two extremes. Going from absolute dread and sadness to a huge celebration with 50 people 3 days later. How the hell did we do it? I don’t know. But we did.

I don’t know how parents do it who have children who are critically ill on a constant basis. I feel guilty saying how scary our situations have been because I know people are forced to deal with a whole lot worse on a daily basis. I feel like any time I write about a crazy situation we have I back it up with I know people have it worse. I don’t know why I do that. I guess I fee like I have to explain myself. I can’t just let myself live in the fact that this was a huge deal for us. This was really scary for us. I feel guilty (what a surprise) that I sound like I am complaining.

But because of some of the things we’ve encountered, I am very aware how bad some people have it. The first few days of Lucy’s life, we saw the other babies in her hallway and how terribly sick they were. I had to take Lucy to neurology for her whole first year and the children I saw there, so sad. And taking her to urology and seeing kids on dialysis. And now taking Peter to pulmonary. It’s like God is like, okay I know this is hard for you, but look at what these people are dealing with. Constant perspective shifts and reminders to focus on all that we do have to avoid plummeting into pity in the hardest times.

I know now that Peter will be okay moving forward and I know what to do to keep him safe. What he has is manageable. I am so grateful for that. I am grateful for the care he received each time at Children’s Hospital, although we are NOT grateful for the bills that came in over the year. Insurance sure is a big joke. But, again, it could be worse.

But, here I am again, able to write about our ordeals with a happy ending. I am leaving another situation feeling grateful and stronger than ever. We are happy and healthy, enjoying each other and able to catch our breath.