I have a son. He's my son. That might seem like a strange statement. I half joke that the only proof I have that Dorian is my son is that I remember giving birth to him. Other than that, he is his father's son. Baby pictures of the two of them are strikingly similar, and their approaches to life bear a lot of resemblance as well, and he has always preferred Kurt over me. Well, now I have have a son too, and here's why. Quinn pulled his ventilator tube out himself last night. He was done with that particular treatment and made the executive decision regarding his own care. And he's been doing very well ever since. He's back on the CPAP and about 30% oxygen and a whole lot more active than he has been for the last week. And he is still increasing in feeds, up to 15 ml every three hours. Tomorrow, they will start supplementing my milk with human growth factor, to pack on the calories, and eventually add calcium and phosphorus, since this is the time period in the womb when babies typically get the most of that.

I got a call at 11 a.m. this morning from a pediatric surgeon resident asking permission to do the surgery this afternoon to remove the central IV line. He said they would take him to the OR just like last time and put him under and so on. I said I hoped they didn't plan to use the same protocol they did last time, which obviously was too much for him. This doctor wasn't aware of that, and said he would look into it. I asked when the surgery would be, and the only answer he could give me was "this afternoon." He said he'd call back when it was more certain. At 1 p.m., having not heard back, I called and no, no one knew when exactly. About an hour later, the same resident called me back and said they were rethinking using general anesthesia, given Quinn's history, and would like to try it using local anesthetic and morphine. But he still didn't know when. Kurt and I went forward with our plan to visit in the afternoon. When we got there, his nurse said the surgery would be in an hour, in his bed, under local anesthesia and morphine. That surprised us, but, having learned by sad experience that time is relative in intensive care, we didn't count on the surgery actually taking place within that hour. And you know, sometimes I get tired of being right. But we spent that hour with Quinn, watching him in his new more active state, which actually resembles more closely the baby I remember being pregnant with. He kicked me night and day, just like his older brother, unlike his older sister, who slept for days on end. We left after more than an hour, and there was still no sign of impending surgery. But we were promised that it had to happen today, before the surgeons went home. Literally everyone we had talked to today had talked about the portal for infection that an IV line is, especially a central line, and it was important to get it out as soon as possible.

Drumroll please...

I just called to see how Quinn is recovering from his procedure. It turns out he's doing quite nicely because there was no procedure. It's now going to happen sometime tomorrow afternoon. I'm just grateful Quinn is doing as well as he is. And maybe it's a good thing because it will give him another day off the ventilator before having something major happen to him. These are the bright sides I'm looking for in an otherwise frustrating exchange.

I need to be more grateful today.
1. I'm so grateful to everyone who has taken care of my older kids so Kurt and I could spend time with Quinn. It's a huge sacrifice for anyone.
2. I'm grateful for all the prayers and fasts in our family's behalf. I can't think of another baby who has had more prayers for his well being.
3. I'm grateful for the return of warm weather and the beauty of the world around us.
4. I'm grateful for Dorian and Faith who find such wonder in their world.
5. I'm grateful for my faith in Jesus Christ, and for His atonement which covers sorrows as well as sins.