Last time:
Clark
He looked at me for a long time. It stretched into eternity and I felt like I was being evaluated for something and being found wanting, but I wasn't entirely certain what it was.
Probably as a suitable mate for his only living child and as the father his grandchildren.
And I wasn't measuring up; even though I was doing everything I could to protect them.
To tell the truth, if I was in his position, I probably wouldn't think I measured up either.
He finally nodded slightly. "I appreciate you telling me as much as you have, though I get the feeling I still don't know the whole story."
"You're welcome," I said, ignoring the second half of his statement.
"I did have one other question, though."
I nodded at him.
"Don't think I didn't notice that you still haven't answered me. What are your plans when Christopher turns five?"
*~*113*~*
September 2005
~~~~~
Lois
~~~~~
I sighed as I showed the home health nurse out. Nate had only gained two ounces in the last week. Nearly two months old and his total weight gain was only about seven ounces. He'd lost weight the first week – not totally normal, but not very *abnormal* either. We were keeping a close eye on him and he'd been at the doctor's office once, if not twice, a week for the first six weeks. Then they started sending a home health nurse with a scale to the house.
She came in, we chatted for a few minutes about how he was doing, she weighed him, wrote it down and left.
Now, he was a grand total of seven pounds, two ounces.
He was still spitting up nearly everything he ate – or close enough anyway. We'd weighed him one day, fed him three ounces of breast milk – which, conveniently, weighed three ounces – he promptly spit up, as usual, and we reweighed him. He'd gained about an ounce and half, meaning he'd spit up an ounce and a half.
Everyone kept telling me, 'oh it always looks like more than it is when babies spit up', but I was *finally* getting people to listen to me when I said that he was losing a lot of his food. The doctor and the nurse practitioner knew I was doing everything I could and were sympathetic – as were Daddy and Martha, in particular – but in general...
I hated that I was right, though. We'd already started trying other things. I was letting him nurse as much as he wanted, then pumped, then fed that to him. We were about to try something else, I thought. Like not nursing at all for a couple days, but pumping as much as I could and giving that to him, with a bit of cereal or special formula in it for more calories and so it was a bit thicker so maybe it wouldn’t come back up. We'd talked about it two days earlier when he'd had another weight check appointment. The nurse would call in her information to Dr. Shanks' office and then they'd call me and we'd come up with a new plan.
I sighed. I loved Nate more than anything, but this was taxing. It had gotten to the point where Clark and I had discussed going to straight formula with him. The conclusion we'd come to – and the doctor and pediatric nurse practitioner had agreed – was that he spit up less breast milk than he did formula. So not only was it good for him and me, but he seemed to keep more of it down.
I also thought they were going to start him on Baby Zantac, too, hoping that would help.
Sure enough, three hours later, I got a phone call from Ronnie, the nurse practitioner. We were going to keep the same schedule as now, but add a little bit of a special formula to the bottles and start him on the Zantac.
"Hey," Clark said quietly, coming into our room and keeping his voice down when he realized that Nate was asleep on my chest. "Sorry I didn't get back to you earlier. It was one of those days."
We had a signal of sorts. If either of us had some kind of emergency and the other didn't answer, we'd call until they did. I'd only called once, which meant there was no rush for him to get back to me.
"I was going to call you from the car, but Mom called as soon as I got in."
"No problem." I filled him in on what had happened.
He sighed. "I'm so sorry. I know this is hard on you."
I shrugged. "I've got to do what I've got to do."
The feeding cycle repeated every three hours and it usually took between an hour and an hour and a half to feed him so I had, at most, two hours between feedings. The only breaks I got were classes when Jessica took care of them. The feeding schedule was such that she usually only had one feeding in the mornings and I was home for the next one. My professors had been very understanding so far when it came to missing classes for doctor's appointments and so on – though I'd done my best not to schedule them during class. We were now in our senior year and I'd had most of my professors before – and the one I hadn't, Clark had. They were sympathetic and said they'd do what was needed, within reason, to help me finish. It helped that Clark was in several classes with me – if I didn't make it, he could take notes and use my digital recorder to help me catch what I missed.
I was still doing my internship from home. The column was now filled with the struggles of a mom – and Clark's column of a dad struggling – with a baby branded 'failure to thrive'; the blogs were the same.
The support we were getting from the comments was incredible. There had been quite a few of the 'it's not as bad as it seems' comments, but just as many others were supportive and encouraging – stories of babies with similar problems who were now just fine, suggestions on things to try – most of which we already had – and things of that nature.
Things between Clark and I hadn't really changed much. The strain was getting to both of us. Most conversations revolved around work or the kids, out of necessity as much as anything else. I rarely had the energy for more than the bare minimum. I didn't know the last time I'd had more than two hours of sleep at a time.
"Listen," Clark said, startling me out of my thoughts. "Why don't you sleep tonight? I'll feed him that Gentlease stuff they gave us. He spits up more of it than when he's nursing but less than any of the other formulas. It's not ideal, but you need to get some sleep." He reached over from his chair and brushed my hair back. "Take a long, hot shower and go get a good night's sleep. I'll make sure Christopher stays in his bed and get up with Nate as needed."
I yawned as I nodded. "I know it's best for him when he nurses but..."
"A mom too exhausted to function isn't going to help him or Christopher or herself."
"I know but..."
"You have to take care of yourself, too." He sighed. "Mom offered to come back out and stay for a while. Harvest will be finished soon and there won't be as much to do on the farm. She thought you might could use the help." He reached for my hand and held it loosely. "Asking for help doesn’t mean you’re a bad mom. It means that this is overwhelming and you're doing what you need to do to take care of yourself so you can take care of Nate and Christopher, too."
How had he known the thoughts that were running through my head when he mentioned Martha? Shouldn't I be able to do this on my own? I *was* his mom after all...
But he was right. Being a good parent also meant knowing when to ask for help and I was going to need help. Jessica did what she could but she had Christopher to take care of most of the time and evenings and overnights off – though she had volunteered to help out a few times.
Finally, I nodded. "Okay. *If* she can get away without it causing any kind of problems or anything, I'd love to have her come. But make sure it's okay with your dad, too. She's already spent six weeks living with us this year."
He laughed. "I’m sure quick trips home can be arranged. Didn't you know I took her home about once a week while she was here?"
I shook my head. How had I not known? "Why didn't she tell me?"
"If I had to guess, she felt bad that she was *able* to get out and about and do things and she didn't want to rub it in."
"That sounds like her."
He chuckled lightly and squeezed my hand. "It does, doesn’t it?" He stood and carefully took Nate from me. "Go take a shower and get some sleep. I'll take care of him."
I nodded. "Thanks."
~~~~~
Clark
~~~~~
I heard the water start in the tub. I was sure a long bath would help her feel better and help her relax enough to get to sleep.
I put Nate in his bassinet, being as careful as I could so he wouldn't wake up. I breathed a sigh of relief when he stayed asleep.
I headed back into our room, pulling the door most of the way shut behind me. Christopher was in his Incredibles toddler bed and had ended up in our bed with me when Nate woke him up. It wasn't every night or every time Nate was up, but often enough. Most nights that he didn't end up with me, I found Lois and Nate in her old room. She said she went in there to keep from waking Christopher up. She talked about just staying in there for a while, but never had.
I was watching an episode of one of the new shows we'd been watching – Storm Chasers, a bunch of crazy guys with cameras and scientific equipment chasing tornadoes – when Lois came out of the bathroom.
"You didn't wait for me?" she asked.
"Sorry. I figured you'd go straight to bed and watch it tomorrow."
She sighed as she climbed into bed. "You're probably right. I'm going to go right to sleep."
I could hear the covers shifting and a soft sigh as she settled in under the covers. Most of the lights were off, just a table lamp near me and the television. I turned the sound way down so it wouldn't bother her and trained my ears on the sound of the show.
The show was nearly over and I jumped when I heard Lois say my name.
"Clark?"
I literally jumped, my heart in my throat. "You scared me," I told her.
"*I* scared you?" I could hear the amusement in her voice.
"I was tuned in to the very low volume on the TV and that made you *really* loud," I told her, twisting in the seat so I could look at her.
She was sitting up against the headboard, knees pulled up to her chest, both hands running through her hair.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I can't sleep." Her whole body jerked slightly. "I'm tense and stressed and my mind is going a million miles an hour."
I clicked the power button on the remote and was beside her on the bed a second later. I wrapped an arm around her and pulled her to me. "He's going to be fine," I reassured her, kissing the top of her head.
"I can't help but wonder what's going to happen before he gets to that point though," she told me quietly. "Is he going to end up in the hospital? Is there some other drug? Will he outgrow it? Is the Zantac not going to work because he's half-Kryptonian? Would that valve be working if I'd stayed on bed rest a while longer and he'd stayed inside a bit longer?"
She was working herself into a bit of a frenzy and I stopped her with a finger on her lips.
"There's no way to know," I reminded her. "If he'd made it to a full forty weeks, he could still have this problem. Heck, it could be *because* he's half-Krptonian. Or my son anyway. Maybe I have some kind of family history of ineffective gastroesophageal sphincters." The current belief was that the valve between Nate's esophagus and stomach wasn't functioning properly and that's why he spit up so much.
Her head rested on my shoulder. "I know, but still..."
"Don’t blame yourself," I reminded her. "You've said I can't blame myself for being Kryptonian. He probably would have come that day whether you stayed home or not."
We sat there for a long minute.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Can I ask you something else?"
"Sure."
"Would you stay with me tonight – just until I go to sleep – and hold me for a while?"
She must have sensed my hesitancy, though it was only a split second. "Sure," I said as she started to talk over me.
"It's okay. Really. Go watch something or whatever. I'll be fine."
As though to emphasize her point, she slipped out of my embrace and back under the covers, situating the body pillow just so.
I stifled a sigh at the misunderstanding and slid down until I was lying behind her. I scooted closer and wrapped on arm around her waist. "How's this?" I asked, well aware that the last time we'd slept like this was on the cruise.
"Thank you," she whispered.
I didn't know how long we lay there, but it was a while before she drifted off to sleep. As I closed my eyes to try to get some sleep myself, I heard Nate start to make some noise. I glanced at the clock and realized that the three hours were up. The next feeding would be four hours later – unless he woke up on his own before then. The one after that was three hours again. Hopefully, Lois could sleep until then and get a good seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. I knew she needed it and something told me this might get harder before it got better.
~*~*~
October 2005
~*~*~
She'd only called once, but I left the staff meeting to answer the call anyway. I'd warned Perry it was coming.
"What'd they say?" I asked without preamble.
I could hear the tears in her voice. "He only gained an ounce and a half. They want to go ahead and put him in the hospital and see if we can figure out what's wrong. Is it that valve? Is the valve the problem or the symptom? All that."
I sighed and sank into the nearest chair, my forehead resting on the palm of my hand.
We'd known this was probably coming. Last week, half the practitioners in the pediatrician's office had wanted to admit him and the other half wanted to try one more medicine and actual cereal in his bottles first. We'd seen two of them on a regular basis, but they'd all consulted on his case over the last nearly three and a half months.
An ounce and a half meant that he was still well under eight pounds – again. Or still. We'd thought – hoped, prayed – that when he hit eight pounds, he'd be strong enough to nurse better and all those other things and it would be the tipping point, so to speak. It hadn't worked that way and he stayed over the eight pound mark for only one weigh-in. He'd *lost* six ounces, despite our best efforts, the next week and only gained a tiny bit of that back.
I knew Lois had gone to the doctor's appointment prepared for a hospital stay and now it was upon us.
We'd talked it over ad nauseum. Mom had been in Metropolis for three weeks helping as much as she could, often sleeping in the boys' room. We'd talked it over with her – and Dad – and decided that there was no other choice. We'd tried everything and he simply wasn't gaining weight.
There was no other option at this point. They'd all been exhausted.
And now, my son, the half-alien, was going to the hospital to be poked and prodded and studied and who knew what else.
My dad's voice from my years growing up echoed in my head. Dissect you like a frog, dissect you like a frog. The refrain was repeating over and over.
"I don't know what else to do, Clark. We've tried *everything*." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "They won't find anything different. Will they? They'll want more blood work and urine tests... But I can't okay this without knowing you're okay with it."
We'd already had blood work done and urine tests and they'd all come back normal – no sign of alien hunters or anything wrong, for that matter.
I sighed. "Okay. Let's admit him. We have to do what we have to do."
If worse came to worse, I'd fly us all off to the North Pole.
I ran a weary hand down my face.
For now...
Kryptonian or not...
They were admitting my three-month-old son to the hospital.
*****
TBC
