The one where I say thank you

Today feels like it will be the least eventful day yet, though not for Asher.  Another EEG is on the schedule, as well as an MRI, which requires a parade of Asher's cords, tubes, and machinery through the hospital.  The former will get a post-test of Asher's neural activity after the hypothermia treatment.  Sedatives will still interfere with getting a pure reading, but we won't have the cooling pad confounding things.  The MRI will provide a picture of the brain and its structure.  It will also look for signs of a stroke prior to birth, though the neonatologist is not expecting this to be the case.  Damage from a stroke is typically localized in the brain.  It's believed Asher's "insult" caused more widespread damage.

A call to the NICU told us he's tolerating the warming well, with decreased seizure activity from yesterday.  He's also off of his blood pressure medication now, another positive.  He had seemed to be growing rapidly, which we really liked, but it turns out a lot of that was water he's retained.  He was given a diuretic, and I'm happy to report my son took a massive dump.  Four ounces.  For those of you scoring at home, that's a small hamburger in his pants.

For us, it seems there's little to do at the hospital other than the very important job of being and bonding with him.  We're both very excited to hold him again today.  We've spent another morning taking care of business at home like worrying about insurance and cleaning.  One order of business should be something that I don't feel has been done adequately, though that might be because of its impossibility.

Even before Asher's birth, we'd felt so much love and excitement coming in from the world around us.  When our feelings turned to shock, fear, and pain, I felt the world shake with us.

I work a lot of kids and families who've been through traumatic events.  There are three well accepted needs of a person in order to recover from an event like this: safety, mourning, and re-connection.  A person must re-establish a sense that they (and those they love) are safe; they must mentally process the event in their own way; and they must connect with the world around them.

As I watch myself and Marissa go through these stages, I'm struck by how critical others are in the process.  Amid the shock and horror of watching my child swarmed with doctors and nurses, intubated, and rushed to the NICU, I also felt as safe as a person reasonably could.  I mourned with Brad by my side in those first hours.  And I've reconnected with the world through your visits, texts, calls, Facebook messages, and the almost 8000 (!) views of my curiously long blog postings.

Keep clicking refresh everyone, it feels good.

There is no healing without you.  I do feel like we are coping as well as can be expected, and that is a direct reflection of the tsunami of love and support we've been washed in.  I would love to respond to each and everyone one of you individually, but you've been far too loving for that to be possible.  The tsunami has been too big.  Just know that we have read every one of your messages, listened to each voicemail, received every gift, and enjoyed every visit.  Each one has given us what we need most - hope.

From the bottom of my heart and soul, I say thank you, thank you, thank you a million times.


Thank you.