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| My son, P-2, is still in the hospital and will be coming home sometime soon, I hope. I'm not sure how much of the story I gave last time, so I'll elucidate a little here. W went in for an appointment on Jan 7 and was sent to the second floor of the hospital to be monitored because she was having contractions. After failed attempts to control them with medication and several boring hours waiting around for the doctors to let us go home (we were pretty sure we'd be going home, despite the news that she was a little dilated) we were talking with a nurse when my wife all of a sudden projectile vomited all over herself--and later the nurse, I proudly add ;o)--only, it was regular vomit. W spewed forth probably a couple of cups of dark blood. At that point, I knew she would be having the baby that night, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that my wife will someday die. In fact, I found myself thinking she may die that morning (night had rolled on by and this was around 2:00 AM Jan 8). The doctor came in, didn't seem to care about a whole lot of anything, but was dang eager to get to cut someone up. Without much inspection, questioning, or anything else--the ol' doc wheeled my wife into his little room of horror equipped with his little gore crew (you may know them as nurses and assistants) and modern tools-for-torture where a frighteningly thin man stuck a needle in my wife's spine. After having to watch with horror through a window, I was finally allowed in the chamber de torture with my wife, where she was readying herself for her last night on earth as the doctor filled the room, nay, the whole wing of the hospital with his horrifically sordid laugh. His rancid breath bellowing from the depths of his body, his sickeningly well-kept teeth and baldhead reflecting light, not unlike the sharp knife he was wielding. I grasped my wife's hand, perhaps for the last time, as she lay with her arms strapped outward to keep her from fending for herself. She cried, I comforted. I watched her jerk and shuffle as the doctor & company slashed at my wife's precious abdomen, pulling our lovechild from the womb. The infant was hidden behind us; we could hear the frightening sound of oxygen being manually pumped into the chest of our premature infant, too weak to breath on his own. Drool dangled from the doctor's crimson-red lips; his fingers gnarled around his torture devices--he began the process of closing the gaping hole he had just made in my wife. Trying to ignore the agonizing smell of my wife's burning flesh, apparently the doctor was burning little bleeding vessels with a cigarette; I focused my attention to my worried and barely coherent wife. Finally, with a look of sad longing in his face, the doctor announced that he was nearly done and I was asked to leave the room. He undoubtedly pulled out a video recording device to record his moment of glory the moment I left the room to take home and place on a shelf littered with old polaroids of mutilated frogs and pigs' eyes, perhaps even his first scalpel. The man was thirsty for blood; I could see a childhood's dream coming true with each slice of flesh he made. Well, maybe he was just a regular doctor doing his job--but it sure seemed scary to me. The baby was taken to the NICU and has been there since. He lost some weight, went below 3 lbs even, but has gained it back and is nearing 4 lbs. I'm sure he'll have reached and surpassed 4 lbs by 12:00 PM Jan 27. He's a tough kid with his mother's nose and his father's short . . . Well, he's a tough kid and anything short on him is sure to grow. |