The Daddy Diary

Not yet.

Open-heart surgery, stomach-eating bacteria, sinus surgery, profound hearing loss, coloboma in both eyes, six blood transfusions, having to feed through a feeding tube attached directly to her stomach, and withdrawal from pain meds. She’s made it through all of that, but we are still in the hospital. So why do we get to spend Thanksgiving in the hospital? Because Audrey has acid reflux and the doctors want to keep her here for monitoring. Acid reflux? Are you kidding me? At some point during our stay, my little girl apparently morphed into a middle-aged man who just ate a plate of enchiladas. I kindly informed the doctor that we have plenty of Tums at home. I guess he doesn’t believe me because we are still here.

So, I get to spend Thanksgiving in a hospital for the second time in my life. Three years ago, it was to say goodbye to Dad for the last time. But I’m still thankful. Last time we left the hospital during the holidays, it was to bring Dad home for the last time. This year, it will be to bring Audrey home for the first time.

No matter how bad things get, if you are looking for something to be thankful for, you really don’t have to look very hard.

The Daddy Diary – To Kill a Mockingbird

A parent will do anything to get their baby to go to sleep.  I tried singing, but my soothing rendition of “Enter Sandman” by Metallica wasn’t working on  Ella.  So, I had to switch to a children’s classic.

It’s only after you have a baby that you realize you don’t know all the words to that mockingbird song.  I couldn’t get past the second line.  What the heck comes after diamond ring?  So as I was singing my little girl to sleep, I had to make up my own version.  It was starting to work as I saw her doze off, so I sure as heck couldn’t stop.  Writing a song at 4 in the morning when you are sleep deprived is a little difficult.  I was able to maintain the rhyme scheme, but because that diamond ring wouldn’t shine, this daddy dealt heroin and bought his daughter a glockenspiel.  And then it got inappropriate.   Was it a Nickelodeon-approved lullaby? Lord, no.  Was it effective? I submit Exhibit A into evidence.

Have you ever asked for something you really wanted and then after you got it thought, “Wait.  This isn’t as good as I was expecting.” 

“ I really want to get this job” turns into “Geez, my new boss is a total douche.”

“ I really want to go out with this guy” turns into” Geez, this guy is a total douche.”

“ I really want the Texas Rangers to sign this top-notch free agent” turns into “Geez,  this guy really sucks (except for Adrian Beltre).

“If I just get this car, I’ll be so cool. “  Nope, still not cool.

Sometimes what you get ends up being even better than you wanted, but it ends up being harder than you imagined.   So worth it, just harder.  

What have we been asking for?  We just want to go home.   Not that we don’t love the people here, but we never intended to sign a long-term lease. And now that it looks like going home is only a couple of weeks away, they are starting to prepare and train us for taking care of Audrey at home. 

Observation #1

In order to work as a nurse in the Cardiac ICU, here are the following requirements.  You must:

1. Be 25 years old
2. Look like you are 12 years old
3. Be really nice
4. Really love babies
5. Own a pair of clogs or running shoes
6. Have a last name that ends in y.  So far we have worked with Britany, Kasey, Katy, Emily, Lindsay, Mary, Abby, Kelsey, Kristy, Cindy, Mandy, Sidney, another Sidney, and Sarah.  I’m not sure how Sarah got the job.  I guessing either her parents are big donors to Children’s Health or the hospital has a girl-who’s-name-doesn’t-end-in-y quota that they had to fill.

Observation #2

More Outtakes and Deleted Scenes

We knew Audrey had a heart defect before she was born, so we were prepared for that.   We weren’t prepared for everything else that followed.  It seemed like the standard operating procedure was for a doctor to come in our room, kick me in crotch, and then give us some bad news.  Then, as soon as I had adjusted to the donkey kick pushing my testicles through the back of my head, another doctor would come in, kick me in the crotch and give us more bad news.

Wash.  Rinse.   Repeat.

On day four, a doctor came in and said he was concerned that Audrey had Hirschsprung’s  disease.  As if we didn’t have enough to worry about already.  I asked him why he thought she had this disease.  He said that she hadn’t pooped in 4 days, and he was getting concerned.   

I said “Seriously?  Four days, that’s it?  Have you met the women in my family?   That’s nothing.  Go sell your defect somewhere else, we’re all stocked up here.”

Undeterred by my pseudo-sarcasm, he began to inspect my daughter and describe the test that he wants to run.   At this point, I’m pretty sure that Audrey heard him, and she was sick and tired of being poked and prodded.  So, as the doctor was inspecting her, she decided that this was the perfect time to end the four-day streak.  She released enough tar-like substance to repave levels 1-3 of the Children’s Medical Center Parking Garage.

Test this, Doc.

As she did this, the four adults in the room clapped and cheered.  Yes, we applauded poop.   This is where I live now. 

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like spending the night in a shared room of the ICU in a children’s hospital, just imagine taking a nap inside a pinball machine.  It’s a lot of beeping, clanging, whirring and constant commotion.  It’s quite relaxing.  I figure I got a solid 12 minutes of sleep last night broken up into 16 individual 45-second blocks. REM sleep is vastly overrated. 

While perusing our hospital account statement, it occurs to me that based on our total nights stayed and total dollars spent, we should qualify for elite status.  It only takes 50 nights in a calendar year to hit Platinum at Marriott.  Heck, we blew passed that marker in under 3 months.  Where’s the discounted parking?  Where’s the complimentary upgrade?  They could at least throw me a free slice of crappy pizza. (I mean, seriously, whom did they hire as head chef here?  The guy in charge of the food challenges on Fear Factor)?

Everyone keeps saying that going through situations like this gives you perspective. In case you are listening, God, I’m good now. I’m so full of perspective that I sweated some out on my run this morning.

Living in the ICU with your newborn makes you look at life through the side-view mirror that says, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” It makes you realize that things that look really small are actually really big. A smile. A hug. Not so small anymore. Holding your child might seem like a small thing, but it isn’t. I can hold Ella anytime that I want. Correction: now that she is a toddler, I can hold her anytime that she wants. If I want to hold Audrey, we have to schedule it because it takes two nurses and a respiratory therapist about fifteen minutes to complete the 24-step process to transport her to my lap.

Audrey is recovering well from her open-heart surgery. The doctors keep talking about how strong and tough she is as she recovers. (I told them that if they read my blog they wouldn’t be surprised because I explained this in my second post). So, you would think that combined with the fact that she’s the cutest baby ever to grace the interior of Children’s Medical center would entitle her to princess-like status, right? Apparently not. Apparently, when they upgrade your medical status, they downgrade your living conditions.

You Had One Job – Don’t Lose the Baby

In the childbirth story, it turns out the father has an insignificant role even though they let you wear scrubs. The bulk of my responsibility was completed about 40 weeks ago. In the hospital’s eyes, I had less responsibility than the attendant at the automated toll booth. If the barrier arm won’t go up, at least that guy can make a phone call. The hospital wouldn’t even trust me with that responsibility. I know that for a fact because our admissions paperwork listed the following emergency contacts for Audrey:

We really appreciate all the prayers and support. If anyone goes through a difficult time, trust me when I tell you that a rock star support group makes all the difference in the world. Thank you Dr. Jaquiss for spending your birthday saving my little girl’s life.

And thank you for letting me clog your news feeds with the ramblings of a desperate, yet hopeful father.

She’s out of surgery.

Finally, tears of joy.

The Daddy Diary continues . . .