06/09/2026
A Morning in the Life of a Medical Mama
Yesterday (6/9/26) morning started with my son Teaks blue.
Not sky blue.
Not fresh‑newborn‑blanket blue.
The kind of blue that makes you lean in, put a little extra light in your eyes, and assess the exact shade because it matters. Medical moms know that difference. It’s not panic-not the wild kind-but that deep internal jolt that wakes your soul before your body is even fully upright.
I had just sat up, still half in sleep, but the second I saw him, my mind snapped into full alert. That’s what this life trains into you. Focus arrives faster than fear.
His lips were blue, his body quiet, his energy gone, and breath present. I picked him up with steady hands. His brother was beside him, warm and pink and breathing easily. Two children, two different needs, and one mama who GETS to show up for both. I don’t say “have to.” I’m grateful I GET to do this. God knew I could, and I’m thankful-even when I’m pulling my lethargic, blue-lipped baby close. He’s mine.
I laid a blanket on the living room floor and set him down. He lay staring then closing his eyes not himself. Didn’t smile like him being so happy as he is. His breathing had that j***y, effortful sound that tells me something is off before any machine does.
I knew I needed the pulse ox, but the bedroom felt too far away. Medical moms understand that distance-how ten steps can feel like a risk. Before I moved, I put my hand on his chest. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was pushing against my palm. I already knew the bpm would be too high once I got the pulse ox onto his small, chunky toe.
I love feeling his heartbeat and breath-not in the dangerous way, but because he’s mine. Gratitude and urgency CAN exist in the same moment.
Still, I had to move.
So I prayed.
And I ran.
The monitor came on: sats in the 70s.
Heart rate racing.
Breathing labored.
Body hot.
My phone was dead from the night before as I was too tired to plug it in, and when I finally plugged it in this morning, it still wouldn’t send anything. In moments like this, you want the phone to just work-not because it’s ambulance‑level emergency at the time, but because it’s still urgent and you need to reach your people. I even tapped the screen harder than necessary, like that would magically push a call through. It’s silly maybe, but it’s also what happens when you’re trying to figure out: Is this a cold? Is this something more? Am I missing something?
My mom eventually got the call once the lines flickered back, and she relayed everything. My dad just so happened to already be in the area, so he arrived first. My mom-now a medical Gee Gee-rushed over right behind him. We moved like families do when emergencies aren’t new: efficient, focused, without wasting steps. I got Olen ready for school. I monitored Teaks. I packed a Walmart sack pretty quick in case we ended up admitted. This is our version of “morning routine.”
And while all of this is happening, my counseling brain is still in there-remembering my clients, holding their stories, keeping track of the work I love. My job doesn’t disappear just because my morning is on fire. My household tasks don’t disappear either. And here’s the truth:
I do know I’m taking care of it.
I know I’m trying.
I know my best right and the extra I am able to pour in-is actually enough.
I am pretty proud of me.
I can cry and drown and still be proud.
I can fall apart and still be strong.
I can remember myself-not in a selfish way, but in a HUMAN way-because I’m still in here.
And lately, I have been dancing silly in front of my boys again.
A little reminder to myself: Come on, girl. Get your you back a little bit.
And I am.
I’m still reaching for my dreams.
I’m still building a life.
I’m still a kick‑ass working, medical, typical, and a bit tired mama-and I can be proud of that.
When I dropped Olen off, he cried and clung to me. And here’s the part people don’t see: I told him I’d be back, and I meant it. It’s a promise I hope is guaranteed for the day, but I also know I don’t control how the day unfolds. My heart falls when he holds onto me like that, because I don’t want to let go either.
I want him to laugh with his friends.
I want him to feel safe.
And I want him to know I miss him more than anything.
It’s hard for both of us.
He remembers more than people think. He was a baby too (and will always be my Bebe) when I lived in the CVICU for 60 days-my feet barely touching pavement toward home. He remembers the separation, the longing, the way our hugs in the lobby were never enough. And some days, it still feels like that for both of us.
And now, even at his age, he looks at medical pictures-hospital rooms, monitors, sick babies-and every single one is “Teaks.” That’s how he identifies it. That’s how deeply this life is woven into him too.
At the pediatrician, Teaks sats were still low. Respiratory panel clean (praise). No clear answer. Just the familiar uncertainty that comes with medically complex kids.
We jingled keys to try to get a smile from Teaks to play. Nothing but sad tears.
So we headed to the ER.
They took him back quickly-heart babies don’t really “wait” in lobbies. The white sheet on the gurney, the rails with gaps too big for a baby to be safe in-not any baby, but just saying, and the bright lights were all familiar. His fever had dropped, but his sats weren’t holding…frustrating. They put him on 3 liters even though he’s normally a room-air Bebe. We waited to see if he could stabilize. We waited to see if he could keep feeds down after three days of struggling.
This is the part medical moms understand without explanation:
the waiting, the watching, the constant assessment.
And yes-fear does get loud sometimes.
I think I’ll always live with a baseline of semi-holding my breath.
But honestly, I think most moms do-just for different reasons.
The team was excellent (always). They got an echo right there in the ER, and by the grace of God, it looked good, and whoa breath a big breath of relief in for me with a good echo.
It turns out something viral is going around-something a full heart handles better than a repaired one. Teaks just has to work harder through it, but he does. He always does.
Tonight he’s home.
Sleeping in his crib.
Holding his sats.
Not hospitalized. We love our beds more.
I’m writing this not for sympathy and not for shock value.
I’m writing it because this is the lived reality of medical motherhood-and because other medical moms will recognize it immediately.
And to every mama reading this-medical mama, NICU mama, heart mama, special‑needs mama, typical mama-I do see you.
I cry for your babies too.
I cheer for them like they’re mine.
I feel your fear, your hope, your exhaustion, your grit.
And when your child hits a milestone the world might shrug at-
when your almost‑two‑year‑old finally chews,
or your toddler takes three wobbly steps after months of therapy,
or your baby tolerates a new texture,
or sleeps through the night for the first time,
or breathes easier today than yesterday-
those aren’t “small” things.
They are the HOLY things.
They are the victories carved out of valleys.
They are the pages of OUR baby books-
the ones written in hospital wristbands, pulse‑ox numbers, therapy notes, and prayers whispered at 3 a.m.
Our babies don’t follow the charts.
They write their own.
And we write ours right beside them.
And to the people who stay in this journey with me and my babies-thank you.
Thank you for loving us.
Thank you for wanting to know me, and wanting to know my heart.
Thank you for seeing the work I do, and trusting that my best-and my extra-is enough.
Maybe this will be part of a book one day-Maybe that’s in my future too.
Maybe it will help another mama feel less alone.
Maybe it will remind someone that strength and softness can live in the same body.
Either way, tonight my babies are home.
And I’m thankful.
© 2026 Kayle-No part of this work may be reproduced without permission.
