when I started this blog five years ago, I was a pet sitter and the name animal-crackers made sense. now I'm a stay-at-home-dad and freelance writer, but rather than confuse everyone by getting a different blog, it's just easier to keep posting things here.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Grading grief
Tonight we visited Dylan and met with a support group. Well, sort of.
Dr. Rivera, the grand pooh-bah of NICU, was at Dylan's pod when we arrived. He and the respiratory guy were suctioning fluid from Dylan's lungs, where the bacteria in the blood had set up a new base camp. Yay.
When we came back later, the nurse had completed a second suppository and removed a butt-plug of meconium. But still no real movement.
Tomorrow, he gets another ultrasound on his head.
So yes, he's still sick. Yes, the doctors suspect blood continues to seep slowly into his brain. And no, his intestines still don't work. A trifecta of misery. A hat trick.
On the bright side, the nurse removed a godawful-fugly cover from Dylan's camper. A charity makes covers and donates them to the NICU to dampen the bright lights and loud noises. Dylan's bubble-cozy was a camouflage-esque, mottled green with deer heads. Their antlers intertwined in a grotesque display of fug.
It was replaced by what appears to be a Caribbean and/or Mexican circus of brightly colored animals and shapes. Much better.
The support group was almost laughable. There were six of us -- including the two people from the hospital. Andree and I met a very nice couple who's twins were born eight weeks early. They were the couple's first children, the culmination of eight years of effort and in vitro fertilization.
They were supposed to be the success story of how bad things can be and still have a happy ending. Then we told them the story of our three boys.
They seemed a little uncomfortable by the time we were done.
One of the lessons we learned from Jack was that grief cannot be measured. There does not exist a Federal Bureau of Grief Comparison. Judging another's loss against ours is impossible.
Mr. and Mrs. Twins were a nice couple. But this support group experience offered us nothing except free pizza and Coke.
Dr. Rivera, the grand pooh-bah of NICU, was at Dylan's pod when we arrived. He and the respiratory guy were suctioning fluid from Dylan's lungs, where the bacteria in the blood had set up a new base camp. Yay.
When we came back later, the nurse had completed a second suppository and removed a butt-plug of meconium. But still no real movement.
Tomorrow, he gets another ultrasound on his head.
So yes, he's still sick. Yes, the doctors suspect blood continues to seep slowly into his brain. And no, his intestines still don't work. A trifecta of misery. A hat trick.
On the bright side, the nurse removed a godawful-fugly cover from Dylan's camper. A charity makes covers and donates them to the NICU to dampen the bright lights and loud noises. Dylan's bubble-cozy was a camouflage-esque, mottled green with deer heads. Their antlers intertwined in a grotesque display of fug.
It was replaced by what appears to be a Caribbean and/or Mexican circus of brightly colored animals and shapes. Much better.
The support group was almost laughable. There were six of us -- including the two people from the hospital. Andree and I met a very nice couple who's twins were born eight weeks early. They were the couple's first children, the culmination of eight years of effort and in vitro fertilization.
They were supposed to be the success story of how bad things can be and still have a happy ending. Then we told them the story of our three boys.
They seemed a little uncomfortable by the time we were done.
One of the lessons we learned from Jack was that grief cannot be measured. There does not exist a Federal Bureau of Grief Comparison. Judging another's loss against ours is impossible.
Mr. and Mrs. Twins were a nice couple. But this support group experience offered us nothing except free pizza and Coke.
5 Comments:
I've been reading your blog for a few weeks now. I hope Dylan begins to heal and grow so you can take him home one day soon.
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Good luck to your family!
Hey, the pizza was good! And I drank two cokes, so I have no complaints :)
Andree
Poor Dylan. *hugs*
At least you got some food outta the deal...
Me being so OLD now (56), I have some firsthand knowledge of your statement on "grief can't be measured" on anybody's scale but your own. But I think that balances out with "joy can't really be measured either". I am so impressed with how hard Dylan is fighting. Every little step brings joy, too. Very Best Wishes!
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