Asthma Can Fuck Off

I've just had one of the worst nights of my life.

Wait, let me back up. I had convinced myself that last winter was a fluke and Finn did not have asthma. I told myself that the next time he got sick, he'd be fine. He grew a lot this summer! His lungs are all better!

I got a cold on Wed, Piper got a cold on Thurs, Finn got a cold on Saturday. Last night, he went out to play and came inside wheezing. I could feel the panic bubbling under the surface. But anyone could wheeze after running around outside when they had a cold, right?

By bedtime, he was really struggling to breathe. We nebbed him and brought him into bed with us. I laid in bed and watched him take short, shallow, raspy breaths. Have you ever listened to someone struggle to breathe? Someone you would give your own life for? The neb helped, for a tiny bit, and we used it at least three times last night after he moaned about the pain.

After he was safely(?) asleep, I cried at the unfairness of it all. And how my hopes for a fairly easy winter were smashed. I cried because I felt so helpless. I cried because we are going to have to have him use Pulmicort every day and it's going to cost us $200 a month. I cried because it's not his fault and I don't want him to think he's not totally perfect. I cried because I was worrying. Worrying sucks so bad -- my shoulders are sore from it this morning. When I had cried it all out, I crawled back in bed and tried to give my baby all my healthy breaths by willing it.

Because I'm a happy-go-lucky worrier, I have tried to see the good in this. Now we know it's asthma and we can start trying to keep it under control. I can't blame myself, I didn't do anything wrong as a parent. It's not allergies, it's just bad fucking luck.