Today was not a good day, or a bad day. It was just a day.
All of the elements were in place: coffee to drink, diapers to change, internet to check, friends to see, a car that starts, plus zero traffic. But it was a day that just felt flat. Quiet and empty, like the PICU on a holiday weekend.
I haven’t really felt sorry for myself yet. Well, not really, really sorry… It may well be coming, and I’m as ready for that as I can be. But I have had a couple of days when I’ve moved around the hospital and thought, “I’d much rather be anywhere else.” Again, all of the elements are there: world-class surgeons, attentive specialists, brilliant and compassionate nurses, a decent cafeteria, and free parking. But still, on a day like today I look at my boy, and at my family waiting outside, and I say, “I want to go home.” I’m tired of going in circles and worrying in cycles. And I yearn for the Rockwellesque scene of family gathered around screaming baby while a casserole goes cold on the table.
I guess Will was feeling a bit that way, too. He was ornery and frustrated all day: pushing and kicking at his bedding and tubing, pulse climbing up, crying out with no sound but tiny tears. He’s supposed to be resting, of course, so the nurses allowed him some tiny doses of morphine to help him chill out. “He’s just having a tough day today,” they said empathetically, “he’s going to have those sometimes.”