A Few Good Days and a Kinked Tube

When we were discharged from QCH we enjoyed three days of only one or two vomits a day and it sure was fun while it lasted. After that, things returned to shitty normal and a life of carrying spew cloths with you at all times resumed at full pace.

Another short-lived win was managing three whole weeks without a visit to hospital. But, after a wonderful weekend of friends and food, Frankie's pump started beeping, indicating a blockage. After scanning the tube for kinks and finding nothing, I knew immediately that this particular kink, was inside her. My heart sank as we drove towards the hospital. I knew exactly what was coming.

At emergency triage I explained that, yes, we had tried flushing the line with water. And yes, with air. And yes, with the feed through the pump. I explained that we just needed an x-ray so we could see where the kink was. After a quick chat with the doc, the triage nurse returned with "Oh, Doctor Gabby knows you from one of your other visits so she'll order the x-ray right away." Being known by the emergency department doctors is as equally depressing as it is convenient.

The x-ray confirmed a kink and the doctor's response was..."Gee...I'm not really sure what to do about that." Great. Thankfully we had some ideas. Slowly we pulled centimetre by centimetre of tube from Frankie's nose, trying delicately to release the kink but not have the tube be pulled into her stomach from her small bowel. Every centimetre we would stop and try and push water through the line to see if the kink was resolved. Eventually Chris felt the tube pop free and water rushed down the line. Relief! But relief was short lived. As we tried to reinsert the tube it threaded its way out Frankie's mouth. Game over.

We went home without a tube and, surprising us all, Frankie eagerly took a few sips from a cup and a spoonful of food. After chatting to our mate Dr Gabby it was decided that we should leave her tube-free for the night and see what happened in the morning regarding the drinking and eating.

By 1:30am though, something wasn't right. Frankie, despite being obviously exhausted, wouldn't sleep. And she cried. Boy oh boy did she cry. Or whinge. Or something in between. Whatever it was it grated my eardrums and when a 2am walk in the pram got us nowhere we loaded her into the car at 4am. 5 minutes into the drive Frankie had officially flipped her lid. We had never seen the likes of this. She thrashed and kicked, violently grabbed at her toys and screeched like a full-blown tantrum. Off to the hospital we went. Again.