When Disaster Strikes at Midnight: The Emergency G Tube Prep You Can’t Ignore
There’s a parable in the Bible that has stayed with me through some of my darkest moments as a G tube mom. It tells the story of two young men, both newly married, both eager to build homes for their growing families. They were equal in strength and ambition, but their choices couldn’t have been more different. The first man, cautious and forward-thinking, looked at the clear summer skies and the scorching sun that had persisted for months. But he knew storms would eventually come. Wanting to protect his family, he built his house on a foundation of solid rock—unshakable, enduring. The second man, enchanted by the endless sunshine, believed the good weather would last forever. He built his house on the soft, shifting sand by the beach, dreaming of sunsets and ocean breezes for his family. But as the story goes, the winds came. The rains beat down fiercely. The man who built on the rock stood firm, his home untouched by the storm’s fury. The man who built on the sand watched in horror as the waves crashed in, the winds howled, and his home was swept away, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.
This parable holds a profound truth for us as G-tube moms and parents of children with special needs. We may have fleeting moments of calm—those rare days when everything feels manageable, when our child is stable, and we can breathe a little easier. But deep down, we know the storms are coming. They always do. And if we’re not prepared, the consequences can be catastrophic. I learned this lesson the hard way with my daughter, Millie, in a moment that still sends chills down my spine.
It was a quiet Friday night, one of those rare evenings when I thought I might actually get a full night’s sleep. Millie had been doing well for a few days—no vomiting, no fussiness, just her sweet giggles filling our home. I tucked her into bed, her tiny hand wrapped around my finger, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of peace. Maybe, I thought, we were finally turning a corner. I went to bed, the hum of the baby monitor a comforting background noise, and drifted off, dreaming of brighter days.
At 2 a.m., I jolted awake to a sound that turned my blood to ice—Millie’s sharp, panicked cry through the monitor. I stumbled to her room, my heart pounding, and found her thrashing in her crib, her G-tube extension tangled around her arm, the tube itself pulled halfway out of her stoma. My stomach dropped as I realized what had happened: the tube had dislodged in her sleep, and the stoma—the tiny opening in her stomach—was already starting to close. I’d read about this nightmare scenario, but I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t have a spare tube in the house. I hadn’t packed an emergency kit. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security by those few calm days, believing the storms wouldn’t come. But there I was, in the dead of night, watching my baby cry in pain, her stoma at risk of closing completely if I didn’t act fast.
My hands shook as I grabbed my phone, calling the on-call nurse while trying to soothe Millie, her cries breaking my heart. “You need to get a spare tube in there now,” the nurse said, her voice urgent. “The stoma can close within hours.” I felt like the foolish man in the parable, my house built on sand, crumbling under the storm. We rushed to the emergency room, a 30-minute drive that felt like an eternity, with Millie whimpering in her car seat and me fighting back tears, guilt clawing at my chest. I should have been ready, I kept thinking. I should have known better. The doctors were able to reinsert a tube just in time, but they warned me that if we’d waited any longer, the stoma might have closed, requiring surgery to reopen it—a risk I never want to face again.
That night changed me. I realized that as a G-tube mom, I couldn’t afford to be the man who built on sand, hoping the sun would always shine. The storms in our lives—whether it’s a dislodged tube, a sudden infection, or a power outage that stops the feeding pump—come without warning, often in the middle of the night. And when they do, we have to be the wise builder, our foundation strong, our family protected. For me, that meant creating an emergency kit that I keep ready at all times: a spare G-tube of the same size, a smaller one just in case, syringes, tape, gauze, and a printed list of steps to follow if the tube comes out. I keep it in a small bag by Millie’s crib, and I check it every month to make sure nothing’s expired. I also keep a smaller version in my car, because I’ve learned that storms don’t just hit at home—they can strike anywhere.