Rhys smiled at me today. He's going to be one month old the day he finishes treatment. I can't believe he was only a week and a half old when we came here. He weighed 7lbs. Now he weighs 9lbs and is packing on the ounces every day. Thank you thank you thank you God.
I'm growing weary. Weary of Jerry Springer. Somehow, almost everyday I am in the infusion center, some other patient is watching Jerry Springer. It. Is. So. Annoying. I mean, at this point, even Jerry himself has got to be annoyed at the people chanting, "JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!" every five seconds. It's all I can do to not yell "SHUT UP!" at the TV. And I'm not a yell-at-the-TV kind of girl, either.
But I'm also growing weary of this place. I don't know if I'm finally going a little stir crazy, or that I am anticipating our release on Tuesday. Probably a little of both. When we get home and resettled, I am going to open that second bottle of bubbly from Rhys' birthday, and drink it with my husband. Antibiotics be damned.
And then the next day, I have to start administering my own treatment. Yikes. More about that another time. I'll wait until I've mastered the technique of not giving myself an air embolism.
I keep thinking that we should have taken pictures of our time here in order to document the experience. But I could never bring myself to do it, as if having visual proof that it occurred would somehow be bad. Like it would prolong the trauma or resurrect the pain many years from now. It makes me wonder how we will look back at this time. Will we sum it up in one sentiment? Or be able to recall the complexity; the humor, the hope, the fear, the pain, the uncertainty, the relief? Something tells me that we will just shake our heads and say, "That was fucking crazy."
Don't forget, check yourself and your loved ones for ticks EVERY DAY. Seriously. It's an EPIDEMIC, if you haven't already heard.
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