This post is one of the reasons I've hesitated to start blogging again. In December, I got a call from the boys' school that Harrison had a fever. It was a Friday afternoon, so I packed up and headed to the school. By the time I got there, the teachers were all around him and putting cool cloths on him. His fever got to 102, and the doctor's office recommended that we go straight to the hospital.
At this point, I don't remember what I had planned for that evening. I just remember being irritated that we were headed to the hospital on a Friday night. I think I was mostly mad at daycare. How dare they expose my baby to germs.
What I learned that night is that they will do a blood test to get a better idea of what might be wrong with your baby. They'll do an IV, and they'll take a urine sample. I always thought that an IV was the worst thing in the world, but it's so much worse watching it happen to your baby. As his fever continued to rise (just shy of 104 at its highest), I had such a tough time keeping it together.
Once it had been determined that we would be there for a while, James and Cullen headed home. There was no need for us all to be exposed to hospital germs, and we didn't know just how long we would actually be there. As soon as they walked out the door, I broke down in tears.
As any parent does, I have gotten overly attached to Harrison. He is such a bright spot in our lives, and he is an amazing blessing. He is a happy baby. He is a precious baby. And I live every single day in fear that God is going to take him back. A day doesn't go by that I don't remember that he wasn't supposed to live. When they started running tests and told me they didn't know what was wrong, I couldn't keep it together.
To this day, all we know is that he had an extremely elevated white blood cell count. Every test they ran came back negative. He was a little boy with a high fever. And, for now, he's ours.