Since I am going to be out of town over the next few weeks, I wanted to give an update on my friend’s baby. He is almost 4 weeks old now, but still in the critical heart ward. They were hoping he would have graduated to the NICU a couple of weeks ago, but he has suffered some complications including infection and his lungs collapsing.

(”H” is my friend and “P” is her two year old who came to stay with me a couple weeks ago)

I drove down to see the baby Saturday for the first time and I even got to hold him. It was a day for a lot of firsts, as it was not only the first time I held him, but the first day his father got to hold him! Also, big brother got to get his first look and touch. Since P is only two he doesn’t really understand what’s going on. Up until Saturday, he had only seen his baby brother in pictures. Also, Baby was doing well enough on that day that H was able to change his diaper and give him a sponge bath. Up until now, only the nurses have been able to care for him.

Baby Boy seemed so much tinier than the pictures she had sent me (even though he’s over 8 lbs now). I guess partially because the photos were taken close-up making him look bigger as well as his being very swollen in the beginning. If he hadn’t been hooked up with wires everywhere, you would never know by looking at him that he has been through so much. He was awake most of the time and seemed very alert. I couldn’t stand seeing him lying on the table wearing only a onesie and no socks or blanket! I kept sneakily moving the blanket up over his feet. During his little “bath”, when H was washing him with the wash cloth I went right behind her drying him off and covering him up. He started to cry after she washed his hair, so I placed my hand over his tiny head to keep it warm. Although we could only touch him with gloves on, it had to have helped because he became immediately content. Can you imagine how cold it would be lying in a hospital room naked and wet? Poor little guy.

He did have a couple of disconcerting spells where he seemed to be choking and fighting for air (he’s on oxygen, but he was clearly struggling in some way). After he was turned on his side and suctioned he seemed to do better. He has a lot of junk in his lungs that needs to be expelled. As long as he remains stable, the next steps are for him to learn to breath and eat on his own. He has never done either in his short life. He is on a feeding tube, and has never been fed through his stomach. Although babies are born with the sucking reflex, since his was never stimulated he must even learn to suck.

I can not imagine how hard it is for her to have to leave him there. I feel like I already miss him and obviously I don’t have the new mother longing like she does. If all goes well he may be home in a few weeks, maybe even by the time I get back from my trip. Unfortunately, as the nurse was very careful to convey, you just never know what the future has in store for babies this critical. He has proven to be a fighter though, so I am remaining hopeful and optimistic.

To the faint of heart, please be advised that this narrative does contain some graphic material.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a bright and beautiful morn with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air of my sun-drenched kitchen. I was happily hosting our quaint little coffee club of sorts that a couple of friends and I enjoyed at least weekly. It was not long after the other two had arrived, for we had just begun enjoying each other’s company and were barely into our first cups of joe when I caught a faint whiff of an odor that was not a result of something I had brewed. If my suspicions served me correctly, it was likely emanating from my not quite two year old son who was playing nearby. Using my keen sense of smell which is bestowed by motherhood and tantamount to that of a hound’s, I began turning my head while instinctively sniffing in his direction. The results: affirmative.

Rising from the table I assured my companions that they would not have to miss me for long since I was a pro at this diaper changing stuff. After all, he is my third child and this would have been in the ballpark of my ten thousandth diaper to change (seriously, I did the math). Admittedly, you can occasionally be thrown a curve ball with unforeseen circumstances, like the time a few years prior when I was changing my daughter’s diaper. Upon wiping a stubborn glob of poo that seemed to somehow be affixed, a thin, string-like substance emerged. “What the…?” I muttered. Just like a long strand of handkerchiefs being pulled from a magician’s hat, the more I extracted, the longer this never-ending enigma grew. I was on the brink of freaking out when, suddenly, the light bulb in my head went off.

Dental floss.

Yes. My child often enjoyed getting into my cinnamon flavored floss to suck off the spicy sweetness. As a result of this incident, I learned that it’s never too early to teach them not to swallow. This advice will prove helpful again someday–do not allow them chewing gum until you’ve made this clear!

Since that was my most unusual experience with diapers to date, it’s fair to say that most changes are rather routine and uneventful. Eager to get it over with and return to socializing with my guests, I intended to scoop up my toddler, carry him upstairs to the necessary supplies and free his little booty from it’s annoying stench. He, nevertheless, was less anxious to have the situation resolved. Just as I bent over to snatch him up he beelined to the nearest corner and dashed behind a faux ficus. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come out voluntarily, I decided to be one step ahead and use my infinite motherly wisdom to devise a plan. My fool-proof plot was to fake a right which would undoubtedly force him out the left where I would swiftly and oh-so-cunningly apprehend him.

The plan would have come off faultlessly if not for this:

Close-up of Exhibit A

Ah, the infamous corner. Just as I diverted my body toward the right to make my fake, WHAM! With great force, my brow bone unexpectedly collided into the corner of our entertainment center, shown above. If you have ever heard the sound of bone fiercely coming into contact with something equally hard, then I don’t need to further explain the resulting thud. After the moment of impact, I immediately placed my hand over the source of the pain, and with my head bent down, sat silently, frozen in shock. I was so jolted that I did not shout or scream or even utter so much as one profane word, unlike any other time I have suddenly encountered bodily harm. I was conscious, yet oddly speechless.

After what seemed like several minutes, the shock began to wear off and I slowly removed my hand from my head. Before I had brought my hand to where I could see it, streams of blood spilled before my eyes. It was pouring from the cut as well as the reservoir that had pooled into my palm. As I stood up and began making my way to the kitchen, my always calm and rational friend began to panic at the sight–which admittedly, I found a bit disconcerting. As I started explaining what had happened, she told me not to speak since every time my face moved the gash on my brow bone widened.

So much for enjoying a cup of coffee.

The other guest then tended to the now-infamous diaper situation. After managing Brock’s dirty deed she told me, “if you didn’t want to change him, all you had to do was ask!” By the time our coffee club broke for the day Brock had a clean diaper and I had a black eye, liquid stitches, a headache, a gash that would leave a scar, and a medical bill.

Now in addition to my right eye boasting a two-toned iris of blue and brown, it also bears a permanent mark that will forever provide a loving reminder of the joys of having a potty-trained child–and of the occasional pitfalls of motherly-wisdom.

As those who have been reading my blog for a while may have noticed, I am usually quite passionate about my convictions, as well as most things I choose to write about. Today is somewhat different. Due to a great strain on me from a myriad of circumstances, I am temporarily lacking any and all passion. Just as motivation is necessary to be successful in any creative endeavor, writing is a function that can not be forced (not the meritorious sort, anyway).

Right now I feel as if the world is upon my shoulders. I am looking forward to things getting better, for I know in time, they will. However, considering the magnitude of major stresses presently upon me, it is no wonder my usually enthusiastic demeanor is pausing to contemplate, conserve energy, and to prepare for mourning.

In addition to the issues plaguing my marriage which essentially come down to deciding if it something I wish to continue, my friend whom I have mentioned recently expecting a baby boy with a major heart defect, is scheduled to give birth tomorrow. I drove the couple hours to spend the day with her on Friday, knowing it would be my last chance to see her before her life is turned into a whirlwind of hope, worry, uncertainty, and possibly immense grief. She disclosed a few details and other thoughts that she had not mentioned before, as I am sure they are too painful to talk about often.

All things considered, we did have a nice day together and I took the opportunity to appreciate her two-year old son more than I ever had. As I was getting ready to leave for my two-hour drive home, in what turned out to be a very stormy and ominous night, her unborn baby began to stir, pushing so that you could see the bulge protrude from her abdomen. As if to make sure we hadn’t forgotten about him, he moved and pressed outward for everyone to see.

After having time to think even more about her situation during my drive home, I had a very strange and intense dream later that night. I dreamed that the baby was pressing out so far that I began to see the shape of his face through her skin. He continued to protrude further and further, stretching her skin out in front of her. I began to worry he was going to break through, when the next thing I knew I was holding him with one arm. I yelled in disbelief, “Oh my God, he just came out!” but she didn’t believe me at first. I told her, “look! There’s the umbilical cord! He’s in my arm!” I quickly remembered that he will not be able to survive on his own and, panicking, used my other hand to dial 911. I shouted for them to hurry that a baby who can’t survive on his own was just born without warning. Before I knew it, there were people everywhere, coming from all around. We swept his mouth to clear out any excess fluid or debris and it seemed that he was able to breathe fine. I remember thinking how cute he was and the overwhelming feeling of joy and relief that came over me in realizing that he was going to be alright.

Reflecting on the random dreams I have had in the past that have managed to foretell an eminent event, I couldn’t wish more that the happy ending here turns out to be one of them.

Interestingly, I had no idea where this post would go when I began. It appears I found something to write about after all; although I truly fear the details of my next entry.