NICU Nightmares

Over at Navy Blue Elephant Trunks, Blue is blogging through the nightmare of delivering a baby at 24 weeks.

She says, in part:

We also learned to talk to a nurse after talking to the doctor since he apparently likes to give the worst case scenario. The nurses will tell us the same information but it doesn't come across as doom and gloom from them. They are much more practical and reassuring. (My personal opinion is that the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit is NOT a place to be spouting off worst case scenarios. We have enough on our minds without unnecessary worry.)

Oy, this brings back bad memories.

When D. was brought to the NICU -- and I haven't spoken here about his birth, which is an important part of his story, but for now we'll just fast forward an hour or two to the part where Mr. WG and I sat in the NICU waiting area -- Dr. Nice Guy was on call. We caught glimpses of him working on D., and after some time, he came over to us and sat down.

"You baby is sick," he said, and I remember how the world started spinning and I could hear a rushing in my ears. "We had to intubate, and we started him on antibiotics," he said.

"Can we see him?" I asked.

"Of course," said Dr. Nice Guy, and he walked us over to our son, who was splayed out on a small, open bassinet with the sides down for easier access. "We had to give him some paralyzing medicine so that he wouldn't fight the tube," said Dr. Nice Guy. He explained that he thought our baby had an infection that was making it difficult for him to breathe. That he had received the first dose of a 3-day course of antibiotics.

"So we have to stay here for at least 3 days?" I asked. Bear in mind, when we arrived at the hospital, my husband and I thought our midwife was being overprotective. We thought we would be taking the baby in for a quick check and going home. We thought *maybe* we'd have to stay overnight for observation. At that point, we still thought D. was a 37.5-weeker -- a just-full-term baby. In the next few minutes, all of those thoughts came crashing down around us.

"This is a sick baby," I heard again and again in the NICU. "You should count on being here at least a week." It wound up being 11 days. Eleven. Eleven days that dragged on endlessly, eleven days of despair. Dr. Nice Guy pointed out different signs that D. was more consistent with a 36-weeker -- a preemie. Hypotonia, difficulty breathing, COVERED in lanugo, jaundiced.... But through that first night, Dr. Nice Guy was calm and reassuring, and we felt like our son was in good hands. And just before he went on to heal the next sick baby, he mentioned, casually, "His head is a little big, you know." Famous last words.

The next day, we met Dr. Death. His manner was abrupt. Every piece of information was presented as if we were interrupting him, keeping him from his more important tasks. Every question we asked was met with the most pessimistic response possible. And when D. had his first brain MRI, at 7 days old, Dr. Death showed his true colors.

The day of the MRI, my parents sat with me in the small waiting area, the closest they would let us be to where D. was. At the end of the hour, my father -- a retired surgeon -- motioned to my mother to walk me back up to the NICU. He hung back to do his thing. He played the doctor card and got the radiologist to read him the films on the spot. She said that what she saw was the normal brain of a slightly premature infant, and that her report would reflect that.

Two days later, that report made its way to the NICU, to D.'s chart. Dr. Death was on the floor that day. My parents had just left for a quick lunch, and I was alone by D's side. (Mr. WG spent early mornings, late afternoons, and nights at the hospital. In between, he put in appearances at work. He was amazing.) Dr. Death came over to me and said, "I have your son's MRI results, but I'm going to wait until your father comes back, because I don't want to have to go over it twice." I was so stunned I couldn't even speak, which in retrospect is probably good. My parents returned, and Dr. Death made his way to our area. He handed my father a copy of the MRI report. The report stated, in part:

Findings are consistent with a slightly immature infant brain. Followup MRI recommended in 6-8 months if infant is not meeting developmental milestones.

Dr. Death said, "Well, the MRI tells us that your son will likely not meet his milestones and have some delays. We need to repeat the MRI in 3 months." We all looked at him, speechless. He continued, "He's going to have some problems." He kept talking, but I stopped listening. Did he think we couldn't read? Did he think we were STUPID?

Later in the day, Mr. WG came and was brought up to speed. He asked Dr. Death, "What kind of problems?" And Dr. Death said: "We don't know. He might never learn to walk or talk."

That, my friends, is pretty much malpractice. Even if my son's prognosis were truly that grim, that is NOT the way to present it. And because he could not POSSIBLY know that, and because the MRI did not indicate that, to toss off such comments was grossly irresponsible.

Imagine if we had believed him, and if we had brought D. home and assumed that he would never learn to walk or talk. Imagine if we had not bothered with physical therapy. Imagine if we had simply plopped him in a bouncer and ignored him, because, what's the point?

Or, imagine a highly realistic scenario in which the already hormonally-affected post-partum mother hears this horrific prognosis and sinks into post-partum psychosis and harms herself or her children.

I get so angry when I think about our NICU experience. And so I say to Blue, be careful. Yes, you need to listen and be prepared and be knowledgeable, but you are correct when you say that the NICU is not a place for pessimism. You be your daughter's cheerleader. I told D. every day in the NICU, over and over again, how proud I was of him. When he kept his numbers good for an hour or two, when he tolerated a feed, when he peed -- everything he did, I told him he did well. I praised him constantly. And damn straight it makes a difference.

A Kodak Moment We Didn't Quite Capture

D's speech therapist mentioned that when kids hit about 50 words, they start using 2-word phrases more consistently. I asked if I'm supposed to be keeping track of how many words he actually has. You'd think this would be fairly easy, as he doesn't have so many words yet, but when you're on the spot, you'd be astonished at how difficult it is to remember what your kid can say. Anyway, the therapist said that right now we don't need to keep a log.

"You know approximately how many words he has," she said. "Like, would you say he has about 30 to 50 words?"

"I guess."

"How about 50 to 100?"

"No, defintely not."

"See?"

Heh, cool. A whole new side to mother instinct that I never even knew existed.

Anyway, I guess that we really are at around 50 words, because D. has started combining words more frequently. Now, when he wants juice, he says and signs "more," followed a beat later by "please." When he's finished with a book, an activity, or a tv show, he says (and signs), "all done, bye-bye."

Yesterday, we noticed that D. had a fever. It wasn't really affecting his mood or behavior, but he had that sick look around his eyes, and he was really congested, so we gave hom some generic Tylenol Cold and put him down for a nap. In the evening, he sat down and had something light to eat and some juice, and we gave him a dose of nighttime medicine. A few minutes later, he gave one of those burps that you know isn't going to end well, but he was still acting fine.

Mr. WG took D. to the bathroom, where D. leaned over the toilet and threw up. Then he looked up at Mr. WG and said, "All done. Bye-bye." He waved bye-bye to what he had, um, expelled from his body, and flushed the toilet.

Yes, it's gross, but isn't it also a little bit cute?

The Unbearable Lightness of the *$&%* Sun

At 2:30 a.m. or thereabouts, the baby woke up. This is not uncommon, nor is it particularly unexpected -- he is, after all 6 weeks old. We have been through this before, of course, and so we have a sort of system established. This is how the system is supposed to work:

Baby cries. I wake up and nurse him. This is done without leaving my bed, because the baby is right there, next to me. Don't start with me on co-sleeping; I'm not interested. I'm tired. OK, so I nurse. I burp baby. If baby is still awake, at this point, I hand him to Mr. WG for him to change while I go to the bathroom. I return, nurse baby some more. Then I hand a somewhat sleeping baby to Mr. WG, who is supposed to let the baby sleep on his (Mr. WG's) chest until the baby is deeply asleep, at which point Mr. WG is supposed to gently lay baby back down on his back in bed.

Can you guess where I'm going with this yet? Last night, I repeatedly jabbed Mr. WG, but he refused to awaken enough to hold the baby. So guess who got to sit up holding the baby from 2 to 5 a.m.? No, really, guess.

At one point, I started ranting out loud, only to be ignored by Mr. WG. And then, when his CrackBerry buzzed to announce an all-important middle of the night email, I threatened to remove its battery and flush it. For that, he woke up long enough to clutch the phone protectively.

This morning, he tried to tell me that the baby was only awake from 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. "Um, no," I said. Not gently. "Ya-huh," he replied. "No," I said, with less love and more malice. "Ya-huh," he repeated unoriginally. "What time did your BlackBerry buzz?" Aha! He checked, and then was forced to admit that it had buzzed AFTER 4. WELL after 4.

Somehow, this does not make me any less tired.

After the Anticipation

So, it's over, and D. is home and sleeping. They had to really knock him out, so it took him a while to wake up afterwards, and he came home really groggy and cranky. He staggered around the house and refused to sit -- or, God forbid, lie down -- for a while. In fact, at one point, he took one of our dining room chairs and carried it into our bedroom for no good reason. We finally got him to lie down in bed where he banged his trucks around (how cute is it that my son sleeps with his trucks??) for a while, but it's all quiet now.

Results won't come for a few days. I have a CD with all the images on it, so if I happen to run into a radiologist with a laptop on the street I could demand a reading, I suppose.

Anyway, it's over, and we can begin moving on.

But it's my kid's brain that worries them....

People are idiots.

No, really. And I'm not just talking about morons who come up to me in the park and congratulate me for being "strong" when they see my obviously 4-year-old kid acting like THE 2-YEAR-OLD HE IS. No, that's a rant for another day. Today, today, I reserve for the freaks who hire me. Wait. That came out wrong.

Let me back up and explain, but in a way that doesn't let my clients figure out that I'm talking about them. OK. So, I have a client who makes...um, let's say, spill-proof cups. And they asked me to write a course about their very latest super-duper spill-proof cups and how to use them to, um, drink, really well. Well, they want an entire lesson dedicated to drinking through a straw with these cups, and they even sent me a cup to use while writing the course so that I could really get into it and take digital photos of the cup IN USE and whatever. Don't you think that somewhere along the line, they might have mentioned that THE FREAKING CUP DOESN'T COME WITH A DAMN STRAW???? And that their company doesn't even MAKE OR SELL the compatible straw and that I would have to SEARCH THE INTERNET FOR HOURS to find a compatible straw? Did anyone from S-P Cups READ the proposed lesson plans?

Yeah, let's let these people continue to run a company, but let's all get up in arms because my kid doesn't have a lot to say.

Mr. WG took D. out to get a new passport this morning. After that, they'll drive around while D. watches DVDs in the backseat of the Honda, and eventually, they'll get to the hospital.

My girls -- and by girls, I actually mean my daughters, not my boobs -- attend private religious school, so they were both sent off with instructions to pray extra hard for good results. Any of you who want to do the same are welcome. And appreciated.

Moving Forward

So. We have the weekend ahead of us, and on Tuesday, D. goes for his MRI. He can have a "light" meal in the morning. I will go ahead and assume that "light" means his usual 3 yogurts, white flour processed waffles, sugared cereal (we are not big on the health thing in my house), milk, and whatever leftovers he can scrounge from his sisters' plates. If they want him to eat less than that, they'll have to admit him the night before and put a nurse in charge of keeping me out of his room.

He can have juice until 2 hours prior to the scheduled test time. He's scheduled for 2 p.m., and he has to be at the hospital at 1. Normally, he eats lunch at noon and naps afterwards. We'll have to try to trick him into thinking lunchtime is... juice time? around, oh, say, 11ish, then maybe put him down for a nap? You know, to prep him for the sedation. And then we'll wake him at 12:40 to take him to the hospital? Maybe it'll be best to stick him in the car at 10:30 and drive around while he watches a movie, then park outside the hospital and take him in at 1? I'm not sure.

I will stay home with the baby. That way, I can be here when the girls get home from school and their routine doesn't also have to be messed with. The MRI itself took about an hour the last time he had one (when he was 7 days old), and then he has to wake up and be OK enough to leave the hospital. They said it takes a few hours. And all of this assumes that he's actually taken in on time. Ha! So, realistically, he won't be home till about 6 or 7 p.m., is my guess. AND it's likely that once the sedation wears off, he'll be, you guessed it, WIRED! Yay! Because THAT is what you want at bedtime.

We still haven't received the written report on the genetic testing. I'm hoping it'll be in today's mail.

In other news, H and R Block did my taxes and figured out that we owe! $2600! And that's only the Federal return. They have to send our state return to the district office because we live in a different state than we did when at the beginning of 2005. And I strongly suspect that our return is plain WRONG in places -- although I don't know whether they erred in our favor or Uncle Sam's. But I watched the woman entering the information (and HOLY CRAP if your job requires that you type all day, freaking LEARN TO TYPE. It was PAINFUL to watch her hover over each letter on the keyboard.), and trust me, she knew no more than I do about the tax code. So I may simply take advantage of their whole "Not satisfied? Don't pay" thing and go back to my old accountant. Who would have been my first choice anyway, but my husband insisted that we give good old H and R a try.

Right. So, enjoy the weekend. See you on the other side.

Nothing Changed, But Everything Is Different.

D. doesn't have the syndrome the neurologist thought he had. He also doesn't have anything else that specific test covers. The neurologist said he was "surprised" that D's results were normal. I think I'm offended by that.

I'm "surprised" that I don't feel more relieved. I thought that I would feel like everything was all better, that we were out of the woods. I guess my reaction is guarded because we are still looking for answers. We still have to get through the MRI next week, and we still have an appointment with a geneticist in May, when I'm guessing other syndromes will be considered for several more weeks of angst-ridden fun.

There's this bit in Civil Disobedience (dudes, I warned you that I'm an intellecutal snob, so suck up my Thoreau references):

When I came out of prison--for some one interfered, and paid that tax--I did not perceive that great changes had taken place on the common, such as he observed who went in a youth and emerged a gray-headed man; and yet a change had come to my eyes come over the scene--the town, and State, and country, greater than any that mere time could effect. I saw yet more distinctly the State in which I lived. I saw to what extent the people among whom I lived could be trusted as good neighbors and friends; that their friendship was for summer weather only; that they did not greatly propose to do right; that they were a distinct race from me by their prejudices and superstitions, as the Chinamen and Malays are that in their sacrifices to humanity they ran no risks, not even to their property; that after all they were not so noble but they treated the thief as he had treated them, and hoped, by a certain outward observance and a few prayers, and by walking in a particular straight through useless path from time to time, to save their souls. This may be to judge my neighbors harshly; for I believe that many of them are not aware that they have such an institution as the jail in their village.

That's a little bit like what I feel. I see yet more distinctly my son.

We still have a lot of unanswered questions, but we can begin to dust ourselves off and move forward with, perhaps, a slightly lighter step.

Monday Musings

I compose great posts in my head in the shower, but when it comes time to type them up, I can never remember what I wanted to say.

I'll tell you what makes me crazy. I look at my son -- who, by the way, will now be known as D. -- and I don't see his face so much as I analyze him for signs of this syndrome that he might or might not have. (By the way, the only reason I'm not naming this syndrome is because, for now, I don't want my family to Google it and wind up here. If it turns out that D. has it, I'll name it and put up a disclaimer for people who think they know me.) Every time my kid has a tantrum -- and remember, he's 2, so we're talking fairly regularly here -- I think, "Is this a normal tantrum? Or is this a syndrome-related tantrum?"

I consider the worst-case scenarios all the time. Part of the problem is that I'm a snob. I come from a family of smart people. The kind of people who correct your grammar while you're telling a story. So to me, the thought that maybe my kid isn't -- can't be -- smart is terrifying. To think that I can't share literature with him, that I'll drop an obscure reference and he won't get it, it hurts me so much that it causes physical pain in my body. Yes, I know, he's my son, and I love him and he is who he is and I love him unconditionally, but it scares me speechless when I read about kids with this syndrome who are 16 but remain forever 10-12 intellectually.

I'm exhausted from having to confront the worst parts of myself. The part of me that is an intellectual snob. The part of me that focuses on my suffering in all of this, instead of focusing on, oh, say, HELPING MY KID. The part of me that blames my husband's family for this. His parents are FIRST COUSINS, for God's sake. I found this out an hour before my wedding. To this day, my husband insists there is nothing at all abnormal about this. It's so freaking abnormal I actually CANNOT think about it because it makes me so insane. HIS GRANDMOTHERS ARE SISTERS. And two of his brothers tested positive for a genetic disorder that is directly related to the fact that their parents are, well, RELATED.

I'm angry with my former pediatrician. Not so much for not catching the potential for this diagnosis, but for not answering the email I sent two weeks ago detailing where we are now. He's the one who asked me to keep him updated about D. It would kill him to reply? And the neurologist we saw when D. was 6 months, the one who said he would be "better than normal." I emailed her before I met with this neurologist to ask if there were any records she had that I should be taking to the appointment. Not a peep back from her. People suck, they really do. Yes, I know that not everyone sits around waiting for my email, but, you know, frankly, maybe they should. (That was tongue-in-cheek, we all got that, right?)

I'm just plain tired. And I'm annoyed with myself for feeling like this. So, how was your weekend?

Walks Like a Man, Tal... oh, wait, never mind.

It's articles like this one that make my blood run cold.

My son is 2. He acts like a developmentally delayed 2-year-old. He cannot tell you his name. He cannot tell you how he is feeling. He can hug you, or he can get mad and throw things. Which is fine, except that my son is the size of a 4-year-old. He is almost 40 inches tall, and he weighs 40 pounds. He can carry in a 12-pack of soda cans. He can lift and throw heavy objects. He can push you and knock you over or hit you hard enough to leave a real bruise. At 2, you expect to see some bullying tendencies in kids. But because my kid looks older, people aren't understanding about it. That's only going to get worse for the next few years, regardless of his diagnosis. No matter what the genetic testing shows, we still have a kid who, for whatever reason, looks a lot older, but acts younger, than he really is.

Yesterday we went to Sears to scope out appliances for the new kitchen. We had the baby in his stroller and the 2-year-old in his. (We managed to pawn the girls off on unsuspecting victims arrange playdates for the girls.) The 2-year-old climbed out of his stroller, commandeered a shopping cart, climbed into and out of it and crashed it into things. If he were a little bitty 2-year-old, he wouldn't have been able to climb in and out so readily, and he would have been little and cute and not so forceful. But he is big and... clunky-looking sometimes, and people just stare and tsk-tsk me under their breath. I have this urge to just walk up to these people and say, Listen, my kid is two. He's acting his age. But you're obviously in your... forties?...and you haven't mastered that whole 'not polite to stare' thing that my 6-year-old has down pat, so let's not be passing judgment on me, OK?

I see my son now with his sisters and his baby brother. He simply doesn't know his own strength, so when he does ordinary 2-year-old things -- a little grabbing, some pushing -- it comes off downright mean and aggressive. So if he starts preschool in the fall and he looks like a 5-year-old, you just know that some parents are going to be making comments to their kids. All his actions will be scrutinized. They'll create a bully persona for him -- and I really believe that kids live up to our expectations for them. All I can do is keep focusing on his speech. If he can articulate his desires, there's a chance that whole "use your words" thing will come in handy.

Seems like forever ago that I used to joke, "I don't know why we're bothering with this speech therapy thing. I mean, it's not like we appreciate anything the girls say. Why exactly are we encouraging yet another child to talk back?" Ah, hindsight.

Reality and TV (Not Necessarily in that Order)

Why do I watch episodes of Law and Order about kidnapping young children? I never, ever watch L&O SVU -- way too upsetting. But Tivo picks up the occasional episode of the original L&O, and I sometimes watch. But when the episode description involves a kidnapped child -- why, oh WHY do I watch? This is just plain stupidity on my part.

Moving on to reality.

For the last few days, we've changed our son's nap and bedtime routine. The old routines were along the lines of: Wait for child to feel sleepy and eventually doze off. Carry child from where he sleeps to an available bed. Later, we evolved into: Lie down with child in his toddler-size car-shaped bed. Contort body into highly uncomfortable position and lie still for 40 minutes to two hours until child falls asleep. You can see where maybe this isn't the best system. So, a few days ago, we started a new system. Now we stick the kid in his bed, give him Elmo, and kiss him goodnight. We leave the room. He falls asleep, or he stays awake and sings to himself, plays with his truck, and then falls asleep. Either way, it's working, and this amazes me no end.

A Million Letter-Size Pieces (of Paper)

(So? Do we like the new look?)

Yesterday's mail brought the neurologist's write-up of our visit. Not a bad turnaround time -- I was pretty impressed. The report, when everything is written down, in some ways doesn't look as dire as I've been feeling. Of course, the doc did raise the possibility of another problem, this one characterized by a propensity towards brain cancer, but my hsuband, the pediatrican, and I all agreed that that dx was a real stretch, and it's not something I have time or energy to worry about right now.

My son's medical file is already so thick. When I got copies of my kids' records in preparation for our move a few months back, I was at first amused, and then disturbed to see that his chart -- and remember that he is two years old -- was easily 4 times as thick as my daughters' charts put together. And it just keeps growing.

We are currently in a rental house, waiting to move into the house we just bought (I forgot to mention on Wednesday that I bought a house (OK, so we bought it a month ago, but we closed on Wednesday, and I meant to be all cute and post a little, Oh, yeah, by the way, I bought a house today, but somehow, I forgot)), and I have no desk right now. The desk that used to be mine was usurped by my husband who needs it for his ACTUAL PAYING JOB, whereas I just, you know, wanted it so that I wouldn't have to sit at the dining room table while I bang on the keyboard.

Anyway, along with the loss of my desk,. I have suffered the loss of my filing cabinets, which means that all these pieces of paper are stored in pretty little piles that take up all the free space on the extra sofas crammed into our bedroom (don't ask). Whenever I need a particular sheet, I have to start moving piles and boxes and balancing things precariously on the edge of a windowsill, and it's just SO frustrating. But in the new house, I have already claimed the gorgeous, spacious office just off the living room, with a built-in desk and SO MUCH STORAGE SPACE it makes me weep with pleasure. I will try to post a picture in the near future.

(My husband's office in the new house could politely be described as "dank" and fabulously inferior to mine." But it's for his own good, because his office is tucked away in a quiet corner of the house, whereas mine is right at the bottom of the stairs, off the living room, near the front entrance -- I spent a long time convincing my husband that he would face far too many interruptions in that space. That bright, cheery, SPACIOUS space. Heh.)

I am so looking forward to having a place where all those pieces of paper can be contained, tamed, and easily found when needed for various doctor visits. But of course, what I am really hoping for is to filie those papers away and then never need them again.

Things I Have Done Today of Which I Am Proud

1. Ate breakfast.
2. Started laundry.
3. Mailed contracts for assignments that have been sitting, waiting to be signed and mailed, for several weeks.
4. Funded brokerage account so that I can actually invest a little money to maybe provide for my kids in the future.
5. Brought Quicken up to date and paid my bills.

Can I just say, for Dee and anyone else who ever feels like "some sort of mom-failure" (that would be pretty much anyone with a kid she cares about, if you ask me) the one thing I have insisted upon, since I started this mom thing almost 7 years ago, is that I get to take a shower every morning before my husband leaves the house. It is his responsibility to wake me in enough time to shower and dress. If he wakes me late, he has to hang around until I am done. Now, this is not a leisurely shower, but I get my 10 minutes in hot water and another 5-7 to dress. I never bother to blow dry my hair, but that's my own laziness. But the shower and dressing? Key to feeling human.

I have also found that I am more organized with four kids than I ever was with one, by necessity. I have now added a new invoilate rule to my morning routine: I make myself a beautiful cappuccino and drink it while sitting down. It only takes a moment to prepare and 2-3 mintues to drink, but it makes a real difference in how I feel. The eating part of breakfast, I am not so good about, which generally leaves me weak and STARVING around 10:30 a.m. So I'm trying to get better.

The paperwork used to fall by the wayside regularly, but we just implemented a new morning procedure: my husband now takes our 2-year-old (you know, the one who is the primary focus of this blog's angst) along on the carpool ride. This means that if the baby sleeps or is content to be awake in his cradle swing, I can have AN ENTIRE HOUR to myself. (Yes, my husband drives morning carpool. He also gives the kids their nightly baths. But I do pretty much everything else related to the care and feeding of our children, and he did not take on these responsibilities until I informed him that they were his. Try it. Speak firmly and calmly, and if that doesn't work, simply stop cooking dinner and doing laundry and everything else. He'll come around pretty fast.)

It is amazing how good that hour is, how desperately I crave it, and how the thought of it is enough to get me through bad, bad times.

Also, can I just say how cool it is to have someone whose blog I've read and enjoyed for so long pop by mine and comment? I feel like I've gained entry to a highly exclusive club.

I Get So Emotional, Baby

I swear, I SWEAR, it's just a coincidence that it has "get" in the title.

This morning, I was sitting with my son's speech therapist, trying to tell her about the neurologist appointment from last week, and I just couldn't get the words out. I just kept crying and feeling stupid. She was really nice and pointed out that the way I'm feeling is perfectly normal and that it's important to work through this, but I still felt like an idiot, because really, who wants to lose it completely in front of a very nice person you barely know?

One of the things I said to her was that for the next few weeks -- until we get the bloodwork back -- and then, possibly, for the rest of his life, we're going to ask ourselves, "Is he doing XYZ because that's normal? Or because of this syndrome?" And we'll never really know. I'm totally like those -- what are they, second year med students? -- the ones who get the big book of diseases to study and promptly decide they're suffering from the most obscure ailments known to man. Every symptom I read about, I give my son. And then I try to sit down and be rational and objective, which is just SO not working out for me right now, and it's just insane.

The speech therapist, Mel, said something like, "Well, you know, God never gives you more than you can handle." And I said, "Yeah, I don't really believe in that anymore. I remember thinking, when my son was in the NICU, 'Um, God? Who exactly do you think you have here? I can't handle this.'" And Mel said, "But you did." And I said, "Well, maybe, but not with GRACE. I mean, I just barely made it." And she said something to the effect of it not being a graded performance, more like a pass/fail class, but you know those people? The ones who take a crisis and just glide through it? Yeah, that's not me. I'm more like the cursing, stomping, shaking her fist at the world kind of crisis-goer. Like, I'm the person you DON'T want around during your crisis.

In fact, in an effort to win the all time World's Worst Mother award, I give you this: my son is scheduled for an MRI of his BRAIN in three weeks. This involves IV sedation. Know what that means? It means HE CAN'T EAT OR DRINK FOR LIKE 8 HOURS BEFORE WE GO TO THE HOSPITAL. Do you think, for even one second, that I can handle that? Well, guess what? I can't. I told my husband today -- and I know for sure that he has not yet processed what I told him or else he doesn't think I'm serious, but I am -- that I cannot even be around to witness this AND I am not going to the hospital for the MRI. I'm going to stay home with the baby (who, granted, will be all of 6 weeks and does actually kind of need me). And I'm going to lock myself in my bedroom in the morning when my precious boy can't have his breakfast. Becuase I cannot bear to see him ask for juice or pancakes and be denied. And no matter how loud I have to make the TV, I will block out the sound of his cries because I am THAT WEAK.