If you know us, you may have heard Melissa and I talk about our son’s “extremely rare heart condition”. Translation: Hudson has Short QT Syndrome.
Hudson’s eyes looked trustingly at me. He didn’t like medicine (who does?) but at this point he could tolerate it well enough. It wasn’t going to be a wrestling match. This time. He groaned in gentle protest, like he knew what was coming, but he wasn’t up for a fight. It had been a tiring day and we both were spent. I could hear the heart monitor gently beeping in the background. We dimmed the lights as a couple nurses came in and fussed a bit, confirming his medication and trying to make the room feel less like the hospital we were in. One of the nurses asked, “Would he take it better from you?” I replied that he would without much thinking about it. It was true, of course. I had given him medicine countless times- we had a routine. Familiarity. Consistency. I was “safe”. That’s why I was there. I am Hudson’s person. My presence helped him stay calm. He knew me. Trusted me. Safety. Familiarity. Routine. That’s the key.
I will. Yes. I’ll do it. She gave me the syringe. Clear liquid. Taken by mouth. No biggie. “You got this, little guy. Daddy’s right here.” He takes liquids well. Aspirin. Ibuprofen. Vitamins. Done it a thousand times. Routine. Consistency. Repetition. “Ready?” I showed Hudson the syringe. His eyes told me he knew what was happening and that he was ready.
He opened his mouth a bit, and without any protest, without any spills, without anything happening worth mentioning at all really, medication that could stop a man’s heart slid silently out of the syringe in my hand and down my son’s throat. Continue reading