When he was seven months old, he began vomiting anything and everything. My baby cried for the first eight months of his life and screamed blood-curdling screams while hooked to the feeding pump. I thought it was reflux but looking back I should have known better. Tylenol would help. (How would Tylenol help reflux?)

They continued to look because I was a squeaky wheel making weekly visits to the children’s emergency department, telling anyone who would listen that something was wrong with our baby. Our son’s doctors thought we were crazy and that we, “could not cope as parents.” We were admitted to the hospital for a few tests and in walks a lady introducing herself as a physiatrist. I was thrown off but wasn’t surprised. She talked to me for an hour. I remember asking her if she was there because they think I’m crazy. “They think I have Munchausen’s, don’t they?” I asked. “Maybe,” she replied. At the end of the conversation, she told me that I needed to keep advocating for my child. She understood the situation and knew I wasn’t crazy, and she too was convinced that the doctors were overlooking something. It felt good to have someone finally believe me, but all that I could do was hope that it would result in them finally looking into what was really going on with our son.

Finally, a doctor agreed to do an MRI and there it was. On New Year’s Eve, at the age of thirteen months, we found the source of the problem – our son had a Chiari malformation and pressure was building in his brain because part of his brain had dropped out of the skull and was blocking the flow of cerebrospinal fluid. They recommended an emergent decompression surgery and surgery was scheduled for January 5th. When the day that the diagnosis came, the doctor who had thought that I was crazy the entire time, came in and apologized.

At my insistence, they did a sleep study that showed that our son suffered from central sleep apnea. The sleep study showed he never ever made it to a deep sleep before awakening. The same doctor who refused to believe that our son was anything other than a typical baby awakening often was being humbled by the results. His initial surgery was bumped, and on January 11, 2019, our baby went in for brain surgery (a posterior fossa decompression with duraplasty).

Less than a week after returning from the hospital, he started acting as he had prior to surgery. I took him in, and they diagnosed him with a post-operative leak known as a pseudomeningocele. They assured me that he would be fine if I could just “get him to slow down and rest.” Two days later I couldn’t handle seeing him in such pain again, so I took him back. They decided to take him back into surgery to repair the leak.

This time, we knew going in that morphine was not an option. We talked with the anesthesiologist right before surgery and he ensured us that Cameron WOULD NOT be given morphine. After the leak surgery I went to the recovery room and the moment I set eyes on my baby I knew he was given morphine. I asked and they denied it, saying he was only given Tylenol. Finally, on the ward, the doctors looked and affirmed that he was indeed given morphine and they apologized.

Morphine wasn’t his only allergy. We already knew that he had a dairy allergy requiring him to have a special formula and we were given an epinephrine injector due to an allergic reaction he had to pumpkin. The hospital was made aware of all his known allergies. However, during his recovery, my son started vomiting uncontrollably because they gave him the wrong formula in his feeding tube. While the nurse scurried to clean up the vomit, he was oblivious to the fact that our son was going into anaphylaxis. I took the epi-pen out of my purse and saved our child’s life right there in the hospital. From that day forward our son would go into anaphylaxis over everything and anything several times a week without explanation. I pushed for additional testing and again was treated like an irrational, crazy mom. They did the tests to make me stop bugging them, and the tests came back positive for Mastocytosis.

Today, Cameron is a little firecracker, full of energy and spunk. He is always on the move. Even on Cameron’s hardest days it nearly slows him down. He loves his sleep. Cameron still struggles with his mast cell day-to-day and is on a few different medications to stabilize it.

For anyone out there still looking for answers, don’t give up and don’t give in. You can do this!