The day my eldest child turned 16 months he began to vomit. It wasn't just your average little kid spit-up either. Rather, it was a cascading gastric fountain that randomly exploded like a little incontinent fire-hydrant. Our concern increased in proportion with the frequency of these episodes, which was several times daily. When the pediatric gastroenterologist informed us that he would need to have an upper endoscopy (and what that was like), we began to feel sick as well.
When the day arrived we were told that we should not feed him at all. This was already hard -- in almost a year and a half we had never denied him his "baba" whenever he wanted it and he was confused and upset by our withholding it. We did our best to keep him distracted when the doctors delayed the procedure by an excruciating two hours. He was finally placed on the gurney and rolled into a scary room that looked like the inside of a robot's gullet -- lights blinking, devices whirring and a lot of wires. His mouth was already quivering but the approaching masked people set off screams of horror. That's when they asked us to hold him down. That was the worst part. I tried to imagine what was going on in his tender little head: What the heck is going on? I'm so hungry. Why are the people who have always helped me now doing this to me? The one idea I desperately wished I could convey to him was, "We are helping you. I know it doesn't seem like it, but please understand that this is actually something good!"
Read Full Article »