It would be so much easier if babies came with bespoke instruction manuals. (Bet DearDaddy thinks the same about me sometimes…) Last night, soon after Tinytoes had gone off to sleep, Microtoes, began crying. And I mean really crying. That in itself would not have given us cause for panic. I mean she’s a 6 week old baby, that’s what they do. Except that Microtoes rarely cries; usually only a gentle whimper when she wants a feed.
Maybe she’s having a growth spurt, I wonder. I proceed to feed her and feed her for several hours. She glugs down the milk, but cries incessantly between feeds.
She seldom wants winding, but maybe that’s the problem and giving her more milk is just making matters worse? We trying patting her and gently jigging her up and down but still the crying continues. DearDaddy thinks we should try Infacol, but as I squirt the pipette into her mouth, Microtoes turns a deep red and starts properly wailing and spits the medication back out.
Last week at our 6 week check-up the doctor had agreed Microtoes had a possible ‘umbilical hernia’ (where the stomach muscles don’t join completely after birth and the intestine or other tissues bulge through). Her advice had been to “go to A&E immediately if she starts to cry or the belly button looks any different.”
We notice Microtoes’ belly button is more raised than usual and slightly discoloured. But surely taking her to A&E is a little extreme? It’s 11pm. Tinytoes is finally sleeping soundly (after 3 consecutive sleepless nights of terrible teething). Do we really want to wake her up and rush the whole family to our nearest A&E – a 45 minute drive away – in the middle of the night? Besides maybe her belly button has always been slightly discoloured and we hadn’t noticed? And it does tend to distend randomly; which is apparently common with umbilical hernias. And babies do cry…
I start sobbing as I’m overcome with exhaustion and worry and simply don’t know what to do for the best. I feed her again. Guiltily, we decide that sleep is the best possible action, and that I would take her to the local surgery in the morning. We all sleep deeply until 5am.
Microtoes awakes her usual happy and gurgling self. When I call the surgery this morning I’m told appointments are fully booked. I describe the issue and a doctor calls me back immediately to say we can be seen.
“You did the right thing bringing her in,” he says, after examining her carefully. “You don’t need to push the panic button just yet, but she does have a hernia and if the umbilical area gets any darker then you’ll need to call 999 for an ambulance to bring her to A&E and be immediately operated on.” A darker colour would denote strangulation of the bowel and could cut of her blood supply within hours. Last night’s crying, however, was probably unrelated (hers, not mine). Maybe it was just a growth spurt.
As I walk back home I wonder how much darker the belly button needs to be for me to call for an ambulance. And how I’d remember the exact colour it is at the moment to be able to compare. Microtoes smiles up at me, and I focus on the fact that everything is currently ok and she’s a happy, beautiful baby. I think that’s all a parent can do really.
Calamitous Mummy 