We Played Photoshoot today...

Some Photos!

His first taste of carrot, fresh from the garden!


And he's not a huge fan...



Wrestling with Daddy on the bed!

A big mug for the camera!

Clinic Day Yesterday

I wussed out. I dropped Patrick and Kaleb off in the pouring rain and took the truck in for some work, down the road. The anxiety I had built up for our first day in "Clinic" was unreal. Poor Patrick bore the brunt of it very well, though he had his own tumbling feelings as the day loomed over us. Apparently, it was nothing more than drawing blood and cleaning his lines. They were done by the time my truck was aligned. Whew. His counts are continuing to rise, which is fantastic. Friday we return for the real tests... ultrasounds, scans and x-rays. Another day of marching him 1/2 naked through the rat maze hospital buildings. In other words, another day of mind-numbing autopilot. Giddy up.

The larger part of me wants to know what's going on. The smaller, more frantic part of me is dreading news that the kidney lump isn't responding to treatment. The dreamer in me is still craving to hear the verdict that our treatment is shortened due to his amazing healing response. The realist in me smacks the dreamer around on a regular basis.

I've got to work on my response to this entire situation. Doctors had better be phenominal at the business end of what they do, because their social skills can be sorely lacking. They seem to enjoy holding the answers and dangling them above our heads, feeding us one tiny morsel at a time. Neither of us dances well enough to appreciate their methods. If I hear (of) one more back-handed inference of how I choose not to be present during an appointment, I'm going to lose it. No mention is ever made if Dad can't be there, after all. I guess many patients/parents of patients have a difficult time processing information and need to be told things repeatedly but there's only so much pounding into our wee little brains that we can take. The nurses are kind enough to write everything down for us, which is an invaluable tool, even if our own ears hear the words. They rarely want to tangle with the questions we do toss their way, anyhow. Too many teeth, I suppose. Tag teaming the system is our survival technique. I trust my husband implicitly with our son and all that involves his a well being. We are truly 50/50 team. This is an alien concept to most professionals, we're finding. Most won't even speak to or look at Patrick if I'm in the room. He's immensely insulted by this.

I've got to find a way to line the inside of my head with velcro, I think. I know I've talked about the fuzzy little popular phrases used in our new world before, but they continue to ping around my big empty melon with tenacity. I don't yet look forward to going to "Clinic", for example. Apparently, once we're more immersed in this pit, a light dip in the clinic pool while on vacation from the hospital will feel refreshing, as opposed to being fully admitted. While I can acknowledge the logic of this, I think I'm just too greedy to appreciate even minor poke to my holiday bubble. Guess I'm still a true government employee... when I check out at 5, I'm OUT. See you at 9 and not a second sooner. Heck, maybe 5 minutes later.

When we first arrived, I thought the children on the ward had unusually large heads, somehow warped by their treatments. Now that I’m up close, I can see that it’s just a sickly illusion. There’s a dull sheen to the scalp and a dusting of wispy remnants of old hair. All of his fresh, glossy, strong growth that so resembled my own colour is gone. And yet I don’t retain too much sadness over this observation.

In every other way, he is robust. Bursting with squirming, writhing energy, he’s offering us hours of endless entertainment. We’re constantly blown away by his many little marks of discovery. He has a new-found fascination with remote controls, of course. Crinkly papers and ribbons are particular joys, as are fresh-cut flowers in vases. He’s working on a fine little six-pack with numerous attempts to pull off his first solo sit-up. We’re going to have to raise the railing on his crib already. He’s accomplished actually moving the walker... in reverse, as he pushes off those strong little tippy-toes. And we’ve finally introduced solids to his menu! He’s quite excited about this, especially, and has almost mastered the art thanks to many minute meals of observing us. Get used to vacuuming your food up, new moms and moms-to-be. Culinary enjoyment is for the single.

We’re finally finding scraps of our former peaceful life. As I sat in my lawn chair, watching Patrick work with his horse in the arena, I just let it all flow back into my being. Feeling normal things like freshly harrowed sand sifting through my toes and rolling barrels across the sand as fast as I could were ultimate bliss.

We both rode our horses this weekend. To those of you who don’t understand the obsession, I could never aptly communicate their healing, grounding effect. To run your hands across their sleek, warm coat as their solid immoveable substance every-so-slightly returns the caress... To inhale their dusty wisdom through your nose and breathe it right down through the tips of your toes. They’re always ready with silent and stoic strength. They always know what it is you need. They’ll fly you away, through the wind that teases your ears and hair. To feel that power underneath you, so willing to leave whatever you want behind, or to carry you forward to wherever you need to go, or simply to will it into your own body, they are there. It’s an escape and re-emergence like no other.