He's so ill. Four nights of violent sickness. One day where he didn't keep anything down, where there was blood in his vomit and he did nothing but cry. His cough is getting more violent, his lungs wheezier.
We took him back to the hospital to get drugs and he was given an inhaler. It takes both of us to hold him down and clamp his head in place while we puff the chemical into his lungs. His throat is sore with crying and cuddles don't help.
The night before his next dilatation is due to take place, his breathing is clear and it seems to be settling down. He wakes at 11.30 demanding a feed - handy as he's nil by mouth from midnight. He feeds. He chokes. His lungs are full of something - milk or vom, I don't know. And then he cries.
I lie in bed holding a writhing screaming wriggler in my arms and a wave of helplessness comes over me. I try cuddling him, then putting him down. I rock him and sing to him. He just screams louder.
Eventually at 2.30am I go downstairs with him and call up a baby stimulation video on my Youtube app. For some reason the sight of buzzing bees calms him for the first time in nearly three hours. At 3.30 he is asleep.
At the hospital they listen to his lungs and postpone the operation. He looks pale (probably because of the three hours' sleep) so they order blood tests. I hold him down for 25 minutes while two stressed nurses try and fail to find a vein in his white pudgy little foot. It's worse than the inhaler and tears are rolling down my cheeks. The nurse says nothing but hands me a paper towel, and I'm grateful.
The consultant says we now have to go dairy free. Me (because of my breast milk) and him. They have given me a new foul-smelling concoction, some kind of milk free milk, to try and get into him while banning yogurt and cheese, the two foods he actually likes. Oh great.
But we have to beat this reflux thing because if we don't this might happen. A huge irreversible operation. So the food fight goes on.
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