Tummy Troubles

It's not up to us, of course.
What we will find tomorrow has already been decided. It's already there. It won't change on our word or it would already be gone.
Nevertheless, Dave and I sat over dinner and discussed what we would like them to find. The worst game of "Would you rather?".

"Would you rather they found something that was surgically fixable or something that requires long term medicine?"

Nathan has his upper GI tomorrow. After almost 6 months of minimal weight gain. After literally plummeting off the height and weight curves. After a trial of antacid, a visit to a GI specialist, an ordeal of a blood draw, and a small fortune in Pediasure.

Tomorrow we just want them to find something. Something to tell us why our little boy eats a little less each day. Something to tell us why he often vomits up what he ate 6-10 hours before. Something to tell us why his meal sheets from day care are coming home empty and at home he refuses the food he has just asked for.

He's an absolute delight. A 1000 watt smile. Big hugs. Happy songs and clapping. Many words (which at least mommy and daddy can distinguish) and a cadre of rather unconventional animal sounds. Though he doesn't yet walk, he can and does get into anything he wants. If he were a less pleasant little boy, we may have realized sooner that something was wrong. Perhaps we would have been pushier with the "wait and see" outlook of our pediatrician if he had been fussy or if his cognitive development had slowed.

But here we are, with a 14 1/2 month old sweetness who is average size for a 7 month old. With the sympathetic looks of other parents on the playground when we tell them his age. With knots in our stomachs trying to decide if we want our son to need surgery or medicine.

Tomorrow morning Nathan will most likely refuse to drink the barium and they will put a tube down his nose to get it in. Then, he'll cry and beseechingly hold out his arms, and I will ignore his plea and hold him still so they can photograph the barium moving through his intestine. Dave will probably be standing outside the room listening to the screaming. We'll probably cry as well. I'll tell him it's to make him better. He won't understand. Hopefully when he is done we'll all stop crying and only Dave and I will remember it.

Hopefully we'll get an answer.
Hopefully we'll know how to fix it.
Hopefully our sweet, sweet boy's tummy will feel better, his food will stay down, he'll absorb calories, and he'll be too big for me to carry in no time.