Safe place

Aspen raced into this world. We induced two weeks early and active labour was quick. I turned to the doctor: “My lord, that must have been under an hour.”“Four minutes and change,” she said. “He made it in time for lunch.”

Our doctor was worried about Aspen’s heart rate and breathing. A group of nurses circled him and we couldn’t see what was going on. He had phlegm in his throat. The circle opened. “Make him cry” one of the nurses yelled to me. I couldn’t.

Aspen’s whole belly sank with each breath he tried. He struggled for air. His blood oxygen level was dropping. He went quiet. Each second lasted an hour. They gave him injections. They shoved tubes into him. Eventually —thank God—he cried. He cried and he could breathe again.

We thought that was it. It wasn’t.

When Aspen was two months old I took him to Emergency. He was panting heavily and showing no emotion. The triage nurse looked at him then ran us into a room and slapped on a ventilator. She took our names after.

Aspen and I spent all night at the hospital. I was afraid to sleep—I didn’t want to miss his final breath.

A month later we were in the hospital again. Then again. Then again. For the first year of Aspen’s life we floated between panic and uncertainty.

We had a home monitor attached to his foot. If Aspen’s heart rate jumped or breathing slowed, alarms rang everywhere.

Last fall, near Aspen’s first birthday, we were back in Emergency. A new team of doctors and a new round of medicine and a new Aspen. A son who breathed freely. Who slept soundly. Who cuddled more closely. A son who was fully alive.

So now we have a new routine: orange puffer for maintenance and blue puffer for quick response. If things get bad we get as much blue into him as possible then race to ER.

Nicole and I own Fieldbird Cider. We closed our retail space and tasting room on March 13. It took us a few weeks to figure out online sales, but that’s all we do now.

For a week I’ve been getting official emails on how to reopen our tasting room in the middle of this pandemic. A pandemic that preys on people with compromised respiratory systems.

We’re not going to open. At least not while I’m getting emails like that. The farm is where my kids play. Where Aspen builds tall towers out of empty baskets. Where Linden licks things he probably shouldn’t.

I won’t speak for other winery owners, but I will speak for us. Our retail store is closed. It will be closed for a long time. I’m sorry if you were hoping to visit us this Summer.

Our staff remain busy. Online ordering is more complicated than we thought. We’re learning and growing.

But for now our tasting room is closed and Aspen is safe.

We look forward to having you visit the farm—but not yet.