Last Saturday, I joined my friend Christa and a bunch of her friends for a ladies night out. We caught a matinee of Rent at The Lab Theater in Minneapolis and enjoyed dinner and drinks at The News Room afterward. It was refreshing to take off the mom hat for a night, and I can't remember the last time I'd been out to see a play.
It kind of made me wonder what all I might be doing if I lived near the Cities. There are so many theaters, museums, lakes to jog around (real lakes, not just man-made ones -- ahem, Rochester), and such diversity for people watching. Maybe I'd learn to speak French, take up cardio-kickboxing, try my hand at ceramics, and see whether I am coordinated enough to dance. Maybe jazz, swing, contemporary or salsa? Mmm, maybe not salsa. I don't think I'm quite sassy enough. Then again ...
Oh well. Realistically, I'd probably only take the time to explore those interests if I didn't have a little one at home, and if I wasn't married. And then I'd most likely be wishing I was married and had kids. Even single and focused on myself, I might enjoy it wholeheartedly for a month and then be fed up with the traffic and dream about the wide horizon of the country again. I guess we can't have it all. (Still, I wish someone would offer cardio kickboxing in Lake City.)
While I was enjoying my excursion, Jonathan hung out with Grandma and Grandpa Klein, because Chris and his brothers, Tom and Jerry, were putting new cabinets in their kitchen. Jonathan usually gets excited about going to Grandpa's farm, so I imagine he did pretty well there. He even told me he saw some cows. What a highlight! I didn't get back until after he was asleep, though, and while he didn't give Chris a hard time about going to bed, he did wake up about a half hour after I got home and was out of sorts for nearly three hours. Yikes! None of us got much sleep that night.
With Carol being gone on vacation now, Jonathan gets to spend all week with Jean, which I suspect he's thrilled about. He asks to go to "aunt Jean's house" so often, I'm starting to think he'd rather live there. Yesterday she sent some toy tents back with him to use here today. He wanted to play with them right away when we got home, and immediately after supper, and then didn't want to go to bed because he was having too much fun.
We've often told Jonathan to use his words (e.g., "stop") rather than scream or hit when someone is bothering him. When we told him it was time for bed last night, he looked at us and firmly said, "Stop!" and then remembered his manners and continued, "Please. Stop. Please. Stop. All done bed! Play tents. Please. Stop." He didn't use a begging "please," though. He had the same tone as I do when I tell him not to bang his cup on the table -- with an expectation that of course the request will be honored.
But he signed "please" and "stop" as he said them, which he does sometimes when he feels like he's not being understood. I had to turn away to face Chris so Jonathan wouldn't see me swallowing my laughter.
Once I got my composure, I tried to coax him out of the tent again. "Jonathan, it's time for bed." But he persisted to sign and say, "Please. Stop. Please. Stop." He had such an authoritative expression on his face, too. He suddenly reminded me a lot of my dad! We did get him out and off to bed, but not without a hearty protest on his part.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Feb. 12 - Two Months Later
Yesterday marked two months since Garrett passed away. For some reason, I can acknowledge that as a simple fact, like noting the roads were icy earlier this week. But when I think that he would have been three months old today ... that hurts.
It's all the would haves that hit me like a blast from a sandstorm. He would have been holding his head up. He would be cooing and smiling. He would be mesmerized by Jonathan, who would surely evoke eruptions of giggles from his little brother.
The night we brought Garrett home from St. Elizabeth's -- before the trip to the ER, before Saint Marys, before the diagnosis and procedures -- was the only night I'd set Garrett in his bassinet and head to bed excited, instead of worried, about what the future would hold. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought about Jonathan sleeping soundly in his crib, Garrett swaddled and content close by, and Chris lying next to me. Maybe it was partially the postpartum hormones, but I was moved by the sense of fullness in the house. Now I had my family. The one I had envisioned since I was 13. The one with kids -- plural. I felt so complete that night. And to think that six hours later we'd be making our first trip to the emergency room and our world would begin to unravel.
He would have been three months old today. Maybe his eyes would have turned a deep brown like mine. He probably would have outgrown his newborn clothes. We'd have had plenty of hours of nighttime nursing for me to study his features and see how much of Chris and myself was emerging. I would be looking forward to warmer weather and getting my boys outside. Our minivan, with ample room for two car seats, would be serving its purpose all the more.
If we didn't live in a fallen world where illness can chip away at a newborn's capabilities and where tragedy can snatch away children unnaturally early, Garrett would be with us, as healthy as any other baby, and we would still be a family.
It's all the would haves that hit me like a blast from a sandstorm. He would have been holding his head up. He would be cooing and smiling. He would be mesmerized by Jonathan, who would surely evoke eruptions of giggles from his little brother.
The night we brought Garrett home from St. Elizabeth's -- before the trip to the ER, before Saint Marys, before the diagnosis and procedures -- was the only night I'd set Garrett in his bassinet and head to bed excited, instead of worried, about what the future would hold. As I closed my eyes that night, I thought about Jonathan sleeping soundly in his crib, Garrett swaddled and content close by, and Chris lying next to me. Maybe it was partially the postpartum hormones, but I was moved by the sense of fullness in the house. Now I had my family. The one I had envisioned since I was 13. The one with kids -- plural. I felt so complete that night. And to think that six hours later we'd be making our first trip to the emergency room and our world would begin to unravel.
He would have been three months old today. Maybe his eyes would have turned a deep brown like mine. He probably would have outgrown his newborn clothes. We'd have had plenty of hours of nighttime nursing for me to study his features and see how much of Chris and myself was emerging. I would be looking forward to warmer weather and getting my boys outside. Our minivan, with ample room for two car seats, would be serving its purpose all the more.
If we didn't live in a fallen world where illness can chip away at a newborn's capabilities and where tragedy can snatch away children unnaturally early, Garrett would be with us, as healthy as any other baby, and we would still be a family.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Feb. 5 - Filling in Some Gaps - Part I
Yesterday was the day I originally planned to come back from maternity leave. I returned a month early, but in some ways it feels like it's been a lot longer.
While talking with some friends at work, though, I realized I never explained what all transpired the afternoon and evening that Garrett passed away. I went right from a post about waiting for him to come out from his procedure to sharing the news that he had left us -- and although there weren't many hours in between, those were probably the longest hours of my life. So for those who haven't heard the full story already, here goes. (I should qualify this with a disclaimer that I'm relaying the way I remember it. I might be off with exact sequence and medical details, but my mind was lost in trying to comprehend the reality we were facing, so some ambiguity is probably to be expected.)
So on the morning of December 11th, after shifting a sleeping Garrett from my arms to those of a blond anesthesiologist (who smiled and said he'd hang onto him, versus let his female colleague carry him, because he likes babies), Chris and I headed to the cafeteria to eat a quick breakfast before venturing back to the control desk to join other families waiting for their loved ones. Signs were scattered throughout the waiting area that food and beverages were not allowed, out of respect for patients -- presumably who were fasting before their procedures.
We knew Garrett would be heading to the PICU afterward, and thought his room would be assigned early enough that we could wait there (where we could later eat lunch and where a room was available for me to pump), but it wasn't. So I updated the blog, Chris played a few games of spider solitaire, we thumbed through some National Geographic magazines and read about the fall of Mayan civilization possibly being attributed to climate change, and eventually even tried to sleep. I wouldn't say we were at ease, but for some reason, we didn't feel nearly as anxious as we had with Garrett's first two procedures. Maybe that was simply because he'd made it through those two already. Maybe it was because he'd been improving so much. Given his track record, it hardly seemed logical that he'd run into problems at this point.
So waiting this time was quite the contrast to waiting through Garrett's first round of embolizations at just four days old. At that time, we were still reeling from the shock of facing both a high-mortality condition and treatment. After all, we had only learned about them a few hours before. As we followed the team pushing his little bed through the halls to the room where they would prepare him, it felt like we were already saying goodbye. I'm sure my face was a flushed, contorted mess as I kept myself from sobbing openly. I remember passing a few women who laughed as they talked, and thinking how strange it seemed that life would be going on as normal for other people when our world had just shattered into dust and rubble around our feet.
The team transporting Garrett also had to cart along the tanks of various gases being mixed for his breathing concoction. In his room, a machine had been responsible for his breathing, but while we were en route, one of the staff had to manually squeeze an anesthesia bag instead. It seemed so wrong to watch my son's tiny chest rise and fall obediently to this stranger slowly pumping a black bag. On the trip, there were a few times that man let go of the bag to push a button to open a door or hold the elevator just long enough to get his end of the bed through. Although I knew that these were professionals and Garrett was fine (the interruptions probably lasted no more than a few seconds, after all), I couldn't help but shout mentally, "Hey, buddy, my son's life is literally in your hands! Keep your paws on that bag!"
During that first procedure, we had gone back to Garrett's PICU room to wait. Some of Chris' family began to show up, though, so we moved to join them in the waiting area. (Mayo had implemented visitor restrictions during our PICU stay to avoid the spread of the H1N1 flu virus, so only parents were allowed in pediatric patients' rooms.) A part of me didn't want to be around anyone at first, but it didn't take long at all for me to appreciate the distraction.
When Garrett's procedure was over, I was a little surprised that Dr. Cloft and Dr. Lanzino came to tell us how it went while we were still in the waiting area. But I was glad they did, so our family could hear first hand about the success. With Garrett's second procedure, we again sat with some of Chris' family in the PICU waiting area, and Drs. Cloft and Lanzino again came out to give us good news.
With Garrett's third procedure, we didn't have family waiting with us, but as I said, for some reason we weren't quite as stressed about it. Although, since Dr. Cloft had indicated it might take three or four hours, we expected to hear some news by 12:30 at the latest, so we did start wondering whether something was wrong as 1 p.m. approached. I don't think Dr. Cloft showed up until about 1:30. He explained that the procedure seemed to have gone well. As with the first two, the hardest part was getting into the femoral vein. On an adult, that step would normally take five minutes, but with Garrett it took an hour this time. He said they had to call in another doctor who had more experience, and even he had trouble.
But, like before, once they were into the vein, it was relatively easy to get up to the brain. From what they could tell, the coils had clotted over as expected and the excess blood flow had been stopped. Dr. Cloft said Garrett would have a CAT scan on the way back to the PICU to check for any bleeding, but overall, things seemed to be looking good.
The folks at the control desk said Garrett still hadn't been assigned a room, but we could head over to the PICU and probably find out where he'd be once we got there. We did just that and eagerly waited to see our little guy again. I had last nursed Garrett at 3:45 that morning, and desperately needed to pump, but I didn't want to miss his arrival.
Dr. Lanzino caught me in the hall when I was on my way back from the ladies room and explained calmly that the scan had shown some bleeding into the ventricles, so a shunt was going to be placed to relieve the pressure. He didn't seem very concerned about it, so I didn't think it was a very big deal at the time. It was a drawback, certainly, but our little guy was a fighter and had made it through so much already ... Surely this wouldn't be any different. I had wished Chris would have heard it right from Dr. Lanzino, so he could have be reassured by his demeanor, too, but Dr. Lanzino was off again.
I don't remember whether I told Chris the news when I got back to the room or whether another doctor was already there letting him know. In any case, Garrett arrived not long after that, and we were asked to leave while they took care of the shunt. It's interesting that they could do that right in the room, but given that he was in his room, it felt like he was getting settled in for recovery. Chris and I stayed by the doors in the waiting area so they'd find us quickly to let us know when we could go back in.
Eventually Dr. Lanzino came out and told us the shunt was in place. I asked whether we could go back yet, and he said we'd better wait until they were done cleaning up ... maybe twenty minutes. He had seemed as calm as he was before, so I still had the impression everything was being managed just fine.
I took advantage of those twenty minutes to finally go pump -- although I'm sure it actually took a half hour or more because I had waited so long. When I came out, I was surprised to find Chris waiting outside Garrett's room (which still had the curtain pulled closed) while quite a few people were hurrying in and out and others stood nearby, ready to act. I was deciding how to maneuver through the crowd to get to Chris when a woman asked if I was doing all right or if I needed anything. Thinking back on it now, her tone had hinted at an expectation that I wouldn't be okay, but I was still under the impression that things were going as planned. I told her I was fine -- just trying to get over to my husband.
Although I was confused as to what was taking so long, I still wasn't worried yet. Chris probably was, but I misread his silence as simply being tired of waiting all day. I don't remember whether we were told what exactly was happening at that point, but Dr. Arteaga asked us to wait in the waiting area. She'd come get us later. I think at that point I called my mom to let her know that the procedure had gone well, but they were working on a shunt to address some bleeding that followed.
I was probably rather matter-of-fact about it. Between my expectation that everything would go well and the cues I took from Dr. Lanzino, I was pitifully slow at realizing there was a real problem. When I got off the phone, Chris solemnly pointed out that it probably wasn't just a matter of there being some blood in the ventricles. With all those people rushing in and out of Garrett's room, it was clear something wasn't right. He had witnessed more of it than I had, and obviously wasn't as blinded by optimism to miss the meaning.
Eventually, Dr. Arteaga came out and asked us to step inside the doors to the PICU. We knew right then that, whatever she had to say, it wouldn't be good. The doctors had always spoken with us wherever we were, regardless of who was around. The only reason to move someplace more private would be to share some bad news.
She explained that they were having trouble getting the bleeding under control, and that if it continued on that course, Garrett would get as sick as he was when we first brought him in to the PICU. We still couldn't go back to see him, but were instructed to stay close by. I needed to call my sister to rally some more urgent prayer support, though. It's funny that cell phones are to be turned off in the PICU, where there is good reception, but in the waiting area, where you're permitted to use them, you have to lean into a window to maybe get a signal. It wasn't working for me then, so I had to walk halfway to the Joseph Building and cozy up to a window there.
I think I got as far as, "Hey, Shelli," before my throat closed up. She probably thought the call had dropped. When I had spoken with her earlier to let her know Garrett's procedure was over, those calls were lost several times. "Mindi? Are you there?" she asked. I eventually squeaked out a "Yeah." She knew I was upset and told me to take my time.
That's one thing I love about Shelli. I'll be lost in my emotional turmoil, not having a clue how to say what needs to be said ... In fact, being physically unable to say anything because my entire chest becomes a block of concrete. Have I even forgotten how to breathe? But she remains calm and collected. Rational. And that's just what I need to help me pull it together long enough to get a few words out.
I managed to share what Dr. Arteaga had told us. "They're having trouble controlling the bleeding, and if they don't get it under control (huge sigh), he could be as bad as he was when he first came here." Now just look at that sentence. That's a lot to shake out of uncooperative vocal cords. I don't know how anyone can understand me when I'm so emotional, but Shelli did. She asked if I wanted her to call Grandma and the rest of the family and get people praying. It's a good thing she understood that's ultimately why I was calling, or we both would have been subjected to my voice rising to an even more unpleasant pitch if any additional words were needed. I was able to let out a relieved "Yeah" in response and we said goodbye so I could get back to Chris.
I think we were allowed into Garrett's room then. There was still some blood on his scalp, which kind of jarred me, and the shunt was draining to a bag by his bed, versus being concealed under his skin and draining to his abdomen as I expected. Initially, Garrett's blood wasn't clotting, so they had to give him something for his coagulation. I don't know whether that over-corrected the problem, but they seemed concerned that his blood was then clotting in the shunt and plugging it. I think they did something to flush the shunt a few times to let the fluid drain, but it wasn't draining very quickly, and it wasn't clear cerebrospinal fluid like it was supposed to be. It remained bloody, so it was hard to tell (for me, anyway) whether the hemorrhage was still bleeding into the ventricle or if it was just a matter of the blood not clearing because the shunt was getting clogged.
Ugh. I'm going to have to break this into two posts. It's getting pretty long already, and I really should try to get some sleep. (And now I'll need to do some reading before heading to bed so I'm not thinking about this.)
While talking with some friends at work, though, I realized I never explained what all transpired the afternoon and evening that Garrett passed away. I went right from a post about waiting for him to come out from his procedure to sharing the news that he had left us -- and although there weren't many hours in between, those were probably the longest hours of my life. So for those who haven't heard the full story already, here goes. (I should qualify this with a disclaimer that I'm relaying the way I remember it. I might be off with exact sequence and medical details, but my mind was lost in trying to comprehend the reality we were facing, so some ambiguity is probably to be expected.)
So on the morning of December 11th, after shifting a sleeping Garrett from my arms to those of a blond anesthesiologist (who smiled and said he'd hang onto him, versus let his female colleague carry him, because he likes babies), Chris and I headed to the cafeteria to eat a quick breakfast before venturing back to the control desk to join other families waiting for their loved ones. Signs were scattered throughout the waiting area that food and beverages were not allowed, out of respect for patients -- presumably who were fasting before their procedures.
We knew Garrett would be heading to the PICU afterward, and thought his room would be assigned early enough that we could wait there (where we could later eat lunch and where a room was available for me to pump), but it wasn't. So I updated the blog, Chris played a few games of spider solitaire, we thumbed through some National Geographic magazines and read about the fall of Mayan civilization possibly being attributed to climate change, and eventually even tried to sleep. I wouldn't say we were at ease, but for some reason, we didn't feel nearly as anxious as we had with Garrett's first two procedures. Maybe that was simply because he'd made it through those two already. Maybe it was because he'd been improving so much. Given his track record, it hardly seemed logical that he'd run into problems at this point.
So waiting this time was quite the contrast to waiting through Garrett's first round of embolizations at just four days old. At that time, we were still reeling from the shock of facing both a high-mortality condition and treatment. After all, we had only learned about them a few hours before. As we followed the team pushing his little bed through the halls to the room where they would prepare him, it felt like we were already saying goodbye. I'm sure my face was a flushed, contorted mess as I kept myself from sobbing openly. I remember passing a few women who laughed as they talked, and thinking how strange it seemed that life would be going on as normal for other people when our world had just shattered into dust and rubble around our feet.
The team transporting Garrett also had to cart along the tanks of various gases being mixed for his breathing concoction. In his room, a machine had been responsible for his breathing, but while we were en route, one of the staff had to manually squeeze an anesthesia bag instead. It seemed so wrong to watch my son's tiny chest rise and fall obediently to this stranger slowly pumping a black bag. On the trip, there were a few times that man let go of the bag to push a button to open a door or hold the elevator just long enough to get his end of the bed through. Although I knew that these were professionals and Garrett was fine (the interruptions probably lasted no more than a few seconds, after all), I couldn't help but shout mentally, "Hey, buddy, my son's life is literally in your hands! Keep your paws on that bag!"
During that first procedure, we had gone back to Garrett's PICU room to wait. Some of Chris' family began to show up, though, so we moved to join them in the waiting area. (Mayo had implemented visitor restrictions during our PICU stay to avoid the spread of the H1N1 flu virus, so only parents were allowed in pediatric patients' rooms.) A part of me didn't want to be around anyone at first, but it didn't take long at all for me to appreciate the distraction.
When Garrett's procedure was over, I was a little surprised that Dr. Cloft and Dr. Lanzino came to tell us how it went while we were still in the waiting area. But I was glad they did, so our family could hear first hand about the success. With Garrett's second procedure, we again sat with some of Chris' family in the PICU waiting area, and Drs. Cloft and Lanzino again came out to give us good news.
With Garrett's third procedure, we didn't have family waiting with us, but as I said, for some reason we weren't quite as stressed about it. Although, since Dr. Cloft had indicated it might take three or four hours, we expected to hear some news by 12:30 at the latest, so we did start wondering whether something was wrong as 1 p.m. approached. I don't think Dr. Cloft showed up until about 1:30. He explained that the procedure seemed to have gone well. As with the first two, the hardest part was getting into the femoral vein. On an adult, that step would normally take five minutes, but with Garrett it took an hour this time. He said they had to call in another doctor who had more experience, and even he had trouble.
But, like before, once they were into the vein, it was relatively easy to get up to the brain. From what they could tell, the coils had clotted over as expected and the excess blood flow had been stopped. Dr. Cloft said Garrett would have a CAT scan on the way back to the PICU to check for any bleeding, but overall, things seemed to be looking good.
The folks at the control desk said Garrett still hadn't been assigned a room, but we could head over to the PICU and probably find out where he'd be once we got there. We did just that and eagerly waited to see our little guy again. I had last nursed Garrett at 3:45 that morning, and desperately needed to pump, but I didn't want to miss his arrival.
Dr. Lanzino caught me in the hall when I was on my way back from the ladies room and explained calmly that the scan had shown some bleeding into the ventricles, so a shunt was going to be placed to relieve the pressure. He didn't seem very concerned about it, so I didn't think it was a very big deal at the time. It was a drawback, certainly, but our little guy was a fighter and had made it through so much already ... Surely this wouldn't be any different. I had wished Chris would have heard it right from Dr. Lanzino, so he could have be reassured by his demeanor, too, but Dr. Lanzino was off again.
I don't remember whether I told Chris the news when I got back to the room or whether another doctor was already there letting him know. In any case, Garrett arrived not long after that, and we were asked to leave while they took care of the shunt. It's interesting that they could do that right in the room, but given that he was in his room, it felt like he was getting settled in for recovery. Chris and I stayed by the doors in the waiting area so they'd find us quickly to let us know when we could go back in.
Eventually Dr. Lanzino came out and told us the shunt was in place. I asked whether we could go back yet, and he said we'd better wait until they were done cleaning up ... maybe twenty minutes. He had seemed as calm as he was before, so I still had the impression everything was being managed just fine.
I took advantage of those twenty minutes to finally go pump -- although I'm sure it actually took a half hour or more because I had waited so long. When I came out, I was surprised to find Chris waiting outside Garrett's room (which still had the curtain pulled closed) while quite a few people were hurrying in and out and others stood nearby, ready to act. I was deciding how to maneuver through the crowd to get to Chris when a woman asked if I was doing all right or if I needed anything. Thinking back on it now, her tone had hinted at an expectation that I wouldn't be okay, but I was still under the impression that things were going as planned. I told her I was fine -- just trying to get over to my husband.
Although I was confused as to what was taking so long, I still wasn't worried yet. Chris probably was, but I misread his silence as simply being tired of waiting all day. I don't remember whether we were told what exactly was happening at that point, but Dr. Arteaga asked us to wait in the waiting area. She'd come get us later. I think at that point I called my mom to let her know that the procedure had gone well, but they were working on a shunt to address some bleeding that followed.
I was probably rather matter-of-fact about it. Between my expectation that everything would go well and the cues I took from Dr. Lanzino, I was pitifully slow at realizing there was a real problem. When I got off the phone, Chris solemnly pointed out that it probably wasn't just a matter of there being some blood in the ventricles. With all those people rushing in and out of Garrett's room, it was clear something wasn't right. He had witnessed more of it than I had, and obviously wasn't as blinded by optimism to miss the meaning.
Eventually, Dr. Arteaga came out and asked us to step inside the doors to the PICU. We knew right then that, whatever she had to say, it wouldn't be good. The doctors had always spoken with us wherever we were, regardless of who was around. The only reason to move someplace more private would be to share some bad news.
She explained that they were having trouble getting the bleeding under control, and that if it continued on that course, Garrett would get as sick as he was when we first brought him in to the PICU. We still couldn't go back to see him, but were instructed to stay close by. I needed to call my sister to rally some more urgent prayer support, though. It's funny that cell phones are to be turned off in the PICU, where there is good reception, but in the waiting area, where you're permitted to use them, you have to lean into a window to maybe get a signal. It wasn't working for me then, so I had to walk halfway to the Joseph Building and cozy up to a window there.
I think I got as far as, "Hey, Shelli," before my throat closed up. She probably thought the call had dropped. When I had spoken with her earlier to let her know Garrett's procedure was over, those calls were lost several times. "Mindi? Are you there?" she asked. I eventually squeaked out a "Yeah." She knew I was upset and told me to take my time.
That's one thing I love about Shelli. I'll be lost in my emotional turmoil, not having a clue how to say what needs to be said ... In fact, being physically unable to say anything because my entire chest becomes a block of concrete. Have I even forgotten how to breathe? But she remains calm and collected. Rational. And that's just what I need to help me pull it together long enough to get a few words out.
I managed to share what Dr. Arteaga had told us. "They're having trouble controlling the bleeding, and if they don't get it under control (huge sigh), he could be as bad as he was when he first came here." Now just look at that sentence. That's a lot to shake out of uncooperative vocal cords. I don't know how anyone can understand me when I'm so emotional, but Shelli did. She asked if I wanted her to call Grandma and the rest of the family and get people praying. It's a good thing she understood that's ultimately why I was calling, or we both would have been subjected to my voice rising to an even more unpleasant pitch if any additional words were needed. I was able to let out a relieved "Yeah" in response and we said goodbye so I could get back to Chris.
I think we were allowed into Garrett's room then. There was still some blood on his scalp, which kind of jarred me, and the shunt was draining to a bag by his bed, versus being concealed under his skin and draining to his abdomen as I expected. Initially, Garrett's blood wasn't clotting, so they had to give him something for his coagulation. I don't know whether that over-corrected the problem, but they seemed concerned that his blood was then clotting in the shunt and plugging it. I think they did something to flush the shunt a few times to let the fluid drain, but it wasn't draining very quickly, and it wasn't clear cerebrospinal fluid like it was supposed to be. It remained bloody, so it was hard to tell (for me, anyway) whether the hemorrhage was still bleeding into the ventricle or if it was just a matter of the blood not clearing because the shunt was getting clogged.
Ugh. I'm going to have to break this into two posts. It's getting pretty long already, and I really should try to get some sleep. (And now I'll need to do some reading before heading to bed so I'm not thinking about this.)
Monday, February 1, 2010
Feb. 1 - Jonathan's ABCs
Today I'm home with a somewhat-sick little guy. As usual, Jonathan isn't acting very sick, but his body is giving us some clear signs -- particularly with his diapers. Yuck. I think he was looking forward to going back to Carol's house, but I don't imagine the other kids (or their parents) would appreciate the spread of germs.
He seemed to do pretty well there last week, though. He didn't cry at all when Chris dropped him off the first day. I called Carol once I got to Rochester to see whether he had a meltdown after Chris left, but she said she just asked him if he wanted to find the toys, and he went around the corner from the entry and said, "There they are!" Apparently he did cry a little when he woke up from his nap Monday, and he cried when Chris left on Tuesday, but with a little cuddling, he was good to go both times. And he wasn't distressed when Chris came to pick him up -- like he was when I got him from Mayo's Backup Child Care Center when he spent a week and a half there last summer.
Jonathan was all giggles Monday night, which was a good indicator that he had a fun day with the other kids. I asked him if he enjoyed playing with his friends: Nevea, Taylor, Noah, Natalie, Sydney, Trey, and Nicolas. He smiled with his eyes brightening and said, "Friends. Again!" Hopefully he'll be in better shape to go back tomorrow.
He seems to be figuring out his colors now, and I wonder whether that's related to some of the activities at Carol's. He's known the signs for colors for a while (and will sing the Colors of the Rainbow song from Signing Time whenever he sees a rainbow in one of his books), but if you were to ask him what color something was, he'd just throw out a guess.
Last week, however, he dumped out a bag of plastic balls, picked one up and correctly identified it as being blue. The next day, he pointed to his foam Cars chair and said, "Red car." Since then, he's pretty much covered the other colors as well. But displaying this ability has to be on his terms. If he feels like it, he'll tell you what color something is, but if you ask him, he'll still usually just toss out a name, like he doesn't want to bother thinking about it.
Jonathan is much more cooperative with identifying letters, though, and got a kick out of showing Grandma and Grandpa Rossing how he can complete his alphabet puzzle when they came to visit yesterday. I'm not sure exactly when he figured out his ABCs. He's been saying "M for Mommy" and "T for TyTy" for a while, but the rest of the letters seem to have come all at once.
When Jonathan was almost 17 months, I found him pointing at different Mickeys on a diaper box in his room, and then point to the number 3 and said "ess." Granted, a 3 is not an S, but it's similar in shape. That was the first time I witnessed him identify what he thought was a letter.
I'd read that kids can distinguish the differences between colors and the shapes of letters around 18 months, so once we saw him express that awareness, we tried to make more of an effort to expose him to letters and words. And he'd get excited, squealing, "A, B!" when Rachel signed the alphabet at the end of Signing Time: Leah's Farm. So then we tried the Signing Time movie that's dedicated to the alphabet, and that's been a hit -- as has the Blue's Clues alphabet movie.
We've tried flash cards, too, but he's more attentive to the objects than letters being represented with those. He loves the foam letters he gets to play with in the tub, though, and will pull out his alphabet puzzle pretty frequently. Those are probably more interesting because he can grab each letter, stick his fingers in the holes and bite down on the foam ones -- unless Mom or Dad catches him and tells him not to eat it. Then he'll reply, "Don't eat it," and fling it away.
It's so fascinating watching him learn new things. People describe children's brains as being sponges at this age, and I can certainly see why.
I sure would have liked to watch Garrett grow and learn, too. Although after everything he'd been through -- with the lack of oxygen from his initial heart failure, the "instrumentation" in his brain with his first two procedures, and the bleeding following his final treatment -- it wouldn't have come as easily for him. And wth what his brain suffered as the end neared, I really worried about what quality of life he'd be left with. He might never learn his colors or ABCs. Would he even be able to talk? I guess I'm not an expert on the capabilities that remain with varying degrees of brain damage, but even if Garrett had made it, I still would have felt he'd been greatly cheated.
As it is, we'll never get to cheer on Garrett reaching various milestones. But we have Jonathan, and we'll celebrate his accomplishments. And hopefully we'll have another baby some day to nurture and praise -- to usher through infancy and childhood as parents are supposed to.
He seemed to do pretty well there last week, though. He didn't cry at all when Chris dropped him off the first day. I called Carol once I got to Rochester to see whether he had a meltdown after Chris left, but she said she just asked him if he wanted to find the toys, and he went around the corner from the entry and said, "There they are!" Apparently he did cry a little when he woke up from his nap Monday, and he cried when Chris left on Tuesday, but with a little cuddling, he was good to go both times. And he wasn't distressed when Chris came to pick him up -- like he was when I got him from Mayo's Backup Child Care Center when he spent a week and a half there last summer.
Jonathan was all giggles Monday night, which was a good indicator that he had a fun day with the other kids. I asked him if he enjoyed playing with his friends: Nevea, Taylor, Noah, Natalie, Sydney, Trey, and Nicolas. He smiled with his eyes brightening and said, "Friends. Again!" Hopefully he'll be in better shape to go back tomorrow.
He seems to be figuring out his colors now, and I wonder whether that's related to some of the activities at Carol's. He's known the signs for colors for a while (and will sing the Colors of the Rainbow song from Signing Time whenever he sees a rainbow in one of his books), but if you were to ask him what color something was, he'd just throw out a guess.
Last week, however, he dumped out a bag of plastic balls, picked one up and correctly identified it as being blue. The next day, he pointed to his foam Cars chair and said, "Red car." Since then, he's pretty much covered the other colors as well. But displaying this ability has to be on his terms. If he feels like it, he'll tell you what color something is, but if you ask him, he'll still usually just toss out a name, like he doesn't want to bother thinking about it.
Jonathan is much more cooperative with identifying letters, though, and got a kick out of showing Grandma and Grandpa Rossing how he can complete his alphabet puzzle when they came to visit yesterday. I'm not sure exactly when he figured out his ABCs. He's been saying "M for Mommy" and "T for TyTy" for a while, but the rest of the letters seem to have come all at once.
When Jonathan was almost 17 months, I found him pointing at different Mickeys on a diaper box in his room, and then point to the number 3 and said "ess." Granted, a 3 is not an S, but it's similar in shape. That was the first time I witnessed him identify what he thought was a letter.
I'd read that kids can distinguish the differences between colors and the shapes of letters around 18 months, so once we saw him express that awareness, we tried to make more of an effort to expose him to letters and words. And he'd get excited, squealing, "A, B!" when Rachel signed the alphabet at the end of Signing Time: Leah's Farm. So then we tried the Signing Time movie that's dedicated to the alphabet, and that's been a hit -- as has the Blue's Clues alphabet movie.
We've tried flash cards, too, but he's more attentive to the objects than letters being represented with those. He loves the foam letters he gets to play with in the tub, though, and will pull out his alphabet puzzle pretty frequently. Those are probably more interesting because he can grab each letter, stick his fingers in the holes and bite down on the foam ones -- unless Mom or Dad catches him and tells him not to eat it. Then he'll reply, "Don't eat it," and fling it away.
It's so fascinating watching him learn new things. People describe children's brains as being sponges at this age, and I can certainly see why.
I sure would have liked to watch Garrett grow and learn, too. Although after everything he'd been through -- with the lack of oxygen from his initial heart failure, the "instrumentation" in his brain with his first two procedures, and the bleeding following his final treatment -- it wouldn't have come as easily for him. And wth what his brain suffered as the end neared, I really worried about what quality of life he'd be left with. He might never learn his colors or ABCs. Would he even be able to talk? I guess I'm not an expert on the capabilities that remain with varying degrees of brain damage, but even if Garrett had made it, I still would have felt he'd been greatly cheated.
As it is, we'll never get to cheer on Garrett reaching various milestones. But we have Jonathan, and we'll celebrate his accomplishments. And hopefully we'll have another baby some day to nurture and praise -- to usher through infancy and childhood as parents are supposed to.
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