Home again, home again. Jiggity jig.

Here's Ford at home ( precariously perched on our dinner table, if you can't tell), where every baby belongs. He's practicing his Vulcan neck pinch on my hand - silly baby.

So my plan to set everyone straight seems to have worked, regardless of how reckless it may turn out to be (ie: dinner table). We were discharged Wednesday afternoon and have slowly been readjusting to Ford's presence at home. My initial, impulsive impressions were correct: We could not tolerate another rotation of the "Blue Team" pediatricians, comprised mostly of student interns and junior residents, who seem more interested in impressing their superiors than in taking care of Ford. The morning rounds were, at times, almost embarrassing, with us having to repeatedly impose ourselves onto the conversation to preserve some semblance of accuracy towards his condition: No, he is not 7 months old; no, he is not tolerating is oral feeds "really well," he doesn't take food orally; no, he hasn't regained full use of his right arm, he hardly uses it; no, he isn't taking 50mg of Blahblahblahbitol, please don't up his dose of that, you've got your patients mixed up, etc. Not that I'm tooting my own horn, here. It's just that this last stay in the hospital has brought home the importance of the expression: You are your child's advocate. Which was at first a horribly overwhelming abstraction, and is now, I feel, the only thing standing between Ford and another 6 months on the ward.

Not that we are the competent professionals we blame the residents for not being. This evening, for example, we had to frantically page both the Cardiologist and Neurologist on-call because Ford's evening dose of Phenobarbitol got lost in the day's chaos, and the pharmacy where Christa dropped it off closed before we could get there. In a pinch, it appears, no 24 pharmacy in the city can make Phenobarbitol for you, despite a doctor's willingness to fax in a prescription. So we had to haggle with the ER's charge nurse to let us come and pick up a free dose prepared by the hospital, without ever actually confirming with them the presence of an actual patient (Ford was at home, comfortably sleeping - not on the dinner table):

(a snippet of the conversation in the ER)

Me: I'm here to pick up a dose of Phenobarbitol for my son. My wife called the Neurologist and they said you would make it for us.

Nurse 1: Umm. ok. Is this an emergency? Where is your son?

Me: He's not here. He's at home sleeping.

Nurse 1: Umm... Ok. I don't think I can help you...

Me: I was told to ask for "Jerry"

Nurse 1: ...Ok. Well, you can go ask for her at the Nursing station.

Me: Hi. I need to speak to Jerry about getting some Phenobarb (note my casual abbreviation)

Nurse 2: Oh. Ok. Here. We have a note saying: Mom to pick up Phenobarbitol for Ford.

Me: Yeah, that's it.

Nurse 2: Ok, I'll just cross out "mom" and put... umm.. "dad"?

Me: Sure. Great.

Nurse 2: Ok. Well I hope it's the right dose.

Me: Yeah, yeah. Thanks. Do I need to sign anything?

Nurse 2: Umm... nope. I'll just put "dad" down here.

Me: Ok, great. See ya.

Moonlighting as a drug-pusher in a children's hospital ER, before making a speeding exit in a taxi, is not what I had in mind when I thought I'd like to "have kids."

I guess we're still learning. I hope the progress is exponential, otherwise Ford is in for a doubly rough start.

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(A self-indulgent treat that I'd like to share with all the grandparents out there)

Though I believe Grandma Corinne gets full credit for coaxing the first smile out of Ford post-stroke, I credit the second one to dancing around the room with him to this song.

Nothing's warmed my heart more these last few days than watching his face light up as we spin around together. I was prepared to accept that he might never smile again, having had to endure this last ordeal. It hurt so much the first time I saw him crack a grin, it was like being punched in the face. I hope that gets all you old fogies smiling as much as it did the young baby (and perhaps all the rest of us in between, too).