The Daddy Diary

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 . . .

Much like Lucy and Charlie Brown with the football, surgery has been called off at the last minute twice. We’ve run up to the ball only to have it pulled away as we fell flat on our backs. Maybe that’s how I threw my back out.

But game day is finally here. Michelle and I thought that the stopping and starting would prepare us and make this day easier. Nope. Not. Even. Close.

Anytime you buy a lottery ticket, you can see your chances. When you look at the odds, there is always a “one in” listed before a number that contains the same number of digits as my current Body Mass Index after eating nothing but Snickers bars and crappy pizza slices from the hospital cafeteria for three weeks. And you think that “one” can be you even after you run the numbers and realize that your odds of winning are roughly the same as being struck by lightning twice during a shark attack while watching the SMU football team win the National Championship.

If you find that you are routinely getting too much sleep, having a child in the cardiac ICU will take care of that. You get the joyous experience of waking up 13 times a night mentally playing out every possible scenario even though you have no control over any of them. It’s healthy from a psychological, physical, and emotional standpoint.