Cody was a smiling, happy baby when we brought him home from the hospital to our home.
Bridget’s cat, Gurdy, who’d previously enjoyed full run of the domain, instantly adopted Cody as her own.
She would occupy the foot of Cody’s crib, which amazed me, as Cody’s turds truly ponged, the vapours seemingly able to penetrate leaden walls – an aroma that should have sent up red flags, or rung alarm bells.
Poos from un-enzymed CF kids are horrifically ripe. They pong.
We worried Gurdy-cat might accidentally smother Cody, so we made alterations to his crib to safely accommodate her.
I was already on the way to becoming a neurotic father, and we planted the crib at our bedside. No need for the high-tech baby monitor.
Before Cody was born the cat always took up her place at the foot of our bed on Bridget’s side and I would sometimes kick it in my sleep.
Something’s just not right.
Bridget knew instinctively that something was just not right about our son.
She ignored well-intentioned advice about letting Cody cry at night and religiously fed our baby whenever he called out.
Bridget extracted breast milk by way of a battery-powered gizmo she attached to her boobs, and when she was too tired to do a 2, 4 and 6am feeding, I happily fed Cody his bottle from our bed as Gurdy kept vigil, watching me like a schoolmarm, making sure I got the procedure correct.