And now for something completely different...

As I write this post at 9:19 AM, I am sitting in Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital's "Launchpad Suite". The room is essentially a practice facility for parents who are getting ready to take their children home. Truman is next to me in his crib, gurgling and fidgeting (having recently discontinued screaming and thrashing). C is sound asleep, having worked the 5 AM feeding shift. We have spent the last 15 hours parenting. So far, so good, unless you like sleep, in which case this whole parenting thing may not be for you.

In a few hours, pending a check-up, we're taking our son home! It's enough to make me appreciate the un-ironic use of the exclamation point. Ok, it's more than enough.

So much has happened since the last post. I'll try to be chronological, but the days roll into one:

On Tuesday, we got a new doctor, Richard Polin, Director of the Neonatal Division. Upon first sight of Truman, he advised that we speed up the feeds and anticipate taking him home soon. "Your son is a well baby." Wow. Once we reached full feeds, it was only a matter of time before we left the hospital. The commingling of elation and anxiety was remarkable. Getting out of Columbia was our long-awaited dream, but suddenly realizing that the trained professionals would disappear to be replaced by the two of us was not a reassuring thought. Deep breathing and pep talks filled the rest of our day.

Wednesday, C headed to the Medical Records Department of the hospital to retrieve the records from the early morning of 11/17, when Fisher fell ill. We had begun to harbor thoughts of incompetence and negligence on the part of the hospital (see our last post) during the onset of Fisher's illness, and those thoughts were intolerable. On her way, C ran into Dr. Diacovo who was already in the process of gathering the records to review them with us. It comforted us both to know that he anticipated our needs in this regard.

(Briefly, let me say that Dr. Diacovo has been the model of grace, compassion, and excellence throughout the ordeals we've experienced here. While every individual we've encountered has been competent and kind, Thomas Diacovo has distinguished himself as a singular force in the recovery of Truman and in the efforts to save Fisher. He is a credit to his hospital, his profession and himself.)

Our meeting with Diacovo was lengthy and detailed. He took us through the entire week before Fisher's passing, guiding us through the abbreviations and diagnoses of the notes taken by several nurses and doctors. In short, the notes give an impression of precise and excellent care throughout the evening. The first sign of his illness was 9 milliliters of breastmilk that he had failed to digest (at the time, he was feeding by a tube through which undigested milk could be easily detected). Though 9 mls (or 1/4th) of his feed was no cause for significant alarm, the nurse called the nurse practitioner. The nurse practitioner called the medical fellow. Subsequent examinations revealed that Fish hadn't digested any of his next feed. Feedings were stopped as a precaution. X-rays were taken. The x-rays, which were ultimately shown to us by Diacovo, did not show a critically ill baby. His stomach was distended, but the pictures showed what looked like gas.

Truman's x-rays, on the other hand, showed what Diacovo called "frank NEC". We could see bubbling in the intestine (pneumatosis) and dilated loops. Fisher's films showed no such bubbling. In retrospect, Fisher never exhibited clear signs of NEC, even after he passed. Necrotizing enterocolitis may have played no role. Doctors had no way of anticipating the twisting of his bowel (volvulus) that took his life. But they took every step to save him. Our thanks to them, yet again.

I think the term that some would apply to our meeting with Diacovo is "closure". I think that term is appropriate, but only somewhat. In so far as we wondered whether or not our boy received proper care, the matter is indeed closed; in every other way, Fish remains open to us, sometimes sadly, sometimes joyfully.

Wednesday night, we had the good fortune of having Dr. Alisa Baer help us to install our car seat. She's an actual expert on the subject (http://www.thecarseatlady.com/about_us/about_us.html), and offered to teach us how to install it for free. Dr. Baer is not a very tall woman, and watching her stand in the back seat of our Grand Am, then put both feet in the center of our car seat as she tightened the seatbelt was a bit like watching Parking Lot Cirque du Soleil. Our efforts to replicate her expertise fell somewhat sort, so she made the final adjustments and sent us on our way. Thanks to Dr. Baer.

Thursday and Friday were uneventful. Dr. Diacovo stopped by again on Friday, even though he's no longer technically our doctor (yes, I am becoming obsessed with him...I've stopped just short of absentmindedly scribbling his name repeatedly alongside pink hearts). He wished us well.

Sandra has been our day nurse for the last few days, and she was also Fisher's nurse for the first several hours post-operation. She's another example of true greatness. So too are Maria, Alice, Monika, Janet, Lorraine, and all of the nurses who helped our boys.

Today, we're supposed to leave the hospital. In a few hours, doctors will determine if it's safe to let us loose, then we leave Columbia with one boy in our arms and one boy in our hearts.

Thanks to you and much love.