What If...

The scariest moments of my life happened earlier this year. The week of May 7th to be exact. 

I had first noticed the difference when she was 2 months old. I remember it vividly. I was just about to put her into a warm bath when she looked up at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes. And my breath caught. 

Her pupils were two entirely different sizes. Being a pediatric neuropsychologist (and thus, probably even more paranoid than most mommas that something was wrong given that I work with children with neurological problems on a daily basis), my immediate thought was that she was having a stroke. I immediately did my own informal neurological exam to assess for other possible stroke symptoms. All clear. In fact, she was as happy as could be. It was bath time after all, one of her favorite times. 

 

This is the actual picture I took that day

Still, though, I was worried. I took a picture of her eyes and showed it to my hub as soon as he returned home from his out-of-town work trip. We watched her closely over the next 24 hours, but she did not show any other symptoms; so, I tried my best to brush it off. 

Fast forward to her 4-month well check. I mentioned it to her pediatrician, who quickly conducted her own exam and promptly determined that we should see a neuro-opthalmologist "just to be safe." I agreed with this decision. I left the doctor's office, made an appointment for the following day, and promptly burst into tears. What if, what if, what if...

The next day, I took my baby girl to the neuro-opthalmologist. My hub was out of town for work, but I insisted that we keep the appointment because I had to make sure everything was okay as soon as possible. At the end of the appointment, we knew three things: (1) She had a blocked right tear duct (we already knew this. It was confirmed.). (2) She had some degree of far-sightedness (an incidental finding that requires no treatment at this point). (3) She had anisocoria.

Aniso...what? Anisocoria. The technical name for having two different pupil sizes. Hers was a moderate difference: 2 mm to be exact, both when her pupils are dilated and not. Now the scary part. What was causing it? The neuro-opthalmologist felt confident that it was a harmless congenital condition (i.e., something she was born with and will have absolutely no effect on her functioning). 

But.

We had to be safe. We had to make sure there wasn't something terrifying causing the anisocoria. In other words, we had to make sure my baby didn't have a brain tumor. A stroke. Any number of other bone-chillingly scary neurological conditions. He wanted us to see a neurologist "just to be safe." I agreed with this decision. I left the appointment, and luckily being in the field I am in, was able to pull some major strings and schedule an appointment with the best pediatric neurologist in Atlanta for the following day. He called me on my cell phone within the hour to talk to me. I burst into tears while talking with him. What if, what if, what if...

The next day. My hub's birthday. Appointment with the neurologist day. This time, my hub accompanied me to the appointment. The neurologist was amazing, as I knew he would be. He did a very thorough exam. He brought in a colleague to ensure that he agreed with his diagnostic conclusion. Which was: He felt confident that it was a harmless, congenital condition.

But. 

We had to be safe. We scheduled an MRI of her brain for the following day. This time I managed to hold it together until I went for a long run after putting the kids to bed that night. I ran as fast as I could for 3 miles through my neighborhood, trying to run as far away as I could from the fact that I was terrified. I started sobbing halfway through the run and continued to do so the entire way home (I'm sure my neighbors think I'm crazy).  What if, what if, what if...

The next day was, without a doubt, the longest of my life. Her MRI was scheduled for the afternoon. I went in to work and attempted to busy myself, to occupy my mind, to think about anything else in the world, until that time. I picked up my girl from school early, met my hub at the hospital where I work, and we waited for her name to be called. I will never forget what she was wearing, how she felt while sleeping in my arms in the waiting room, how her soft skin felt as I kissed her cheeks over and over and over. 

They called her name. We changed her into the tiniest of hospital gowns. We held her down while the nurses tried, three different times, to insert the IV into her tiny, fragile arm. She screamed. I cried. We soothed her after they finally got the IV inserted. And then we waited. 

It was time. We carried her back to the neuroimaging room and my hub held her while they put her to sleep. I lost it. Absolutely lost it. What if, what if, what if...

Finally, they brought her back to us. Slowly, she awoke from the anesthesia. She had limited motor control initially, as a result of the drugs, which was really hard to see. She couldn't remember how to nurse. Couldn't hold her head up. But I whispered to her, over and over, that momma is here. I kissed her cheeks. I snuggled her the best I could. My hub had to leave to pick up our son from school. So, I waited, I prayed, I hoped, I wished, that everything would be fine. 

And then. The results.

I cradled my sweet baby girl in my arms and walked down the long hallway, through several staff doors, and back to the room where the radiologists read the images.There it was. I saw her MRI. Her brain in all of it's 4-month-old glory. 

And then. I heard the best news of my life: 

"Lindsay, it's normal. Everything looks good. She's fine." 

Y'all. Never, ever, ever in my whole life have I felt such relief. Such joy. Such gratitude. Such hope. 

 

My girl was okay. I was okay. And, as long as we have each other, our little family, we will always be okay.