What Our G-Tube Journey Really Looked Like

There are parts of parenting you never imagine you’ll experience — things that feel so far outside the picture you had in your head that when they arrive, you go quiet inside. The feeding tube chapter of our story was like that. It didn’t start with acceptance. It started with fear, confusion, and the kind of exhaustion you don’t have language for until much later.

People see a G-tube and think, “medical device, what a sick baby.”

But what they don’t see is the emotional weight behind it: the decisions, the fear, the hospital rooms, the swallow studies, the alarms, the appointments, the hope, the frustration, the grief, the victories. All of it tangled together.

This chapter wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t short.

And it changed me in ways I’m still uncovering.

It started with one terrifying moment

The choking incident. The moment everything shifted from “she’s doing okay” to “something is really wrong.”

It was quick, awful, and burned into my memory. Watching your baby struggle to breathe is a kind of fear that hits every part of your body at once.

That moment shattered any illusion that we were past the danger.

And it pushed us into a new phase we didn’t see coming.

Silently aspirating — the diagnosis that explained everything and nothing

When the swallow study showed silent aspiration, my stomach dropped.

Silent means you can’t see it.

Silent means it’s happening without warning.

Silent means danger without symptoms.

The solution wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t just “thickening liquids” or “trying new positions.”

It was a feeding tube.

First the NG tube.

Then the PEG.

Then the G-tube — the one that would stay with her the longest.

This wasn’t a short-term fix.

It was the beginning of a long journey.

There’s a grief that comes with medical feeding — and nobody talks about it

Someone hands you a feeding plan, a syringe, tubing, and a list of instructions you’re expected to master immediately.

You nod, because what else can you do?

But inside, there’s grief.

Grief for the bottle-feeding you imagined.

Grief for the breastfeeding you hoped for.

Grief for the “normal” milestones you watch other parents experience without thinking.

I carried that grief quietly.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

I didn’t want to seem dramatic.

But it was there.

And it was real.

1,257 days — the full length of our tube journey

People always ask, “How long did she have it?”

The answer is burned into me:

1,257 days.

Those days were full of:

pump alarms

button changes

emergency visits

granulation tissue

supply orders

trial-and-error feed schedules

middle-of-the-night troubleshooting

therapy sessions

swallow studies

new formulas

setbacks

tiny wins

It became normal, even though none of it was ever really “normal.”

The moments that gutted me — and the ones that carried me

There were days I cried in the bathroom because I was so tired of fighting the same battles.

There were days I felt like the feeding tube defined everything about our lives.

There were days I questioned myself more than I’d like to admit.

But then there were moments of light:

The day Meadow tolerated a few sips by mouth.

The day a swallow study finally showed improvement.

The day she danced with her pump backpack on like it wasn’t even there.

The day she tried a new food and didn’t panic.

The day she hit a therapy milestone we’d waited months for.

Those little sparks kept me going.

Tube life changed the way I parented — and the way I see the world

I learned how to advocate fiercely.

I learned how to read Meadow’s body better than any chart could.

I learned how to sit with my own fear long enough to push through it.

I learned patience I didn’t know I had.

I learned that milestones aren’t a race.

And I learned that “different” isn’t wrong — it’s just different.

Tube life made me more attuned, more protective, more aware, more gentle, and more honest with myself.

The day the tube came out — and what freedom really felt like

June 12, 2023.

The day it ended.

The day the G-tube came out after 1,257 days.

It wasn’t glamorous.

There were no balloons or big declarations.

Just quiet joy.

Just a moment where something in my body finally exhaled.

Not because everything was suddenly easy — but because we had climbed a mountain I once thought was impossible.

I still feel that freedom in my chest when I think about it.

How the G-tube chapter shaped the doula I am now

This chapter taught me things no training could ever teach:

how fragile and resilient babies can be

how medical trauma sits in the body

how parents carry guilt even when they shouldn’t

how small victories sometimes matter more than big ones

how important it is to be heard

how deeply people need someone who understands complexity without judgment

I show up differently now because of this.

With more patience.

With more softness.

With more awareness of the hidden layers families carry into pregnancy, birth, and postpartum.

The G-tube chapter didn’t just change Meadow.

It changed me.

It shaped the mother I am, the advocate I became, and the doula I continue to grow into.

And it will always be part of our story — not in a painful way, but in a way that reminds me of how far we’ve come.