AOK

I haven't been up to writing these past few days. We've been through so much emotionally that there is no way to encapsulate it in a blog posting. I wish I had the gifts of a writer like Joan Didion so I could do justice to Nicholas in an eloquent rendering of the pain we've been through, but I do not, and that's ok. Over the course of time I will be able to discuss in more detail what has transpired. It is true that in his brief and troubled five days on this planet, my tiny son Nicholas was able to evoke in me emotions deeper than any I have ever felt before, and that without ever uttering one word he changed me and my life and my relationship with my amazing wife irrevocably. He will never be forgotten; we will see him every day when we look at his brother Alex, his identical twin. While Nick's story has come to a painful and all-too-quick ending, Alex's is really just beginning. And what a story it is.

And so, with apologies to Kenny Powers, so begins Chapter 2: The Next Chapter. Or: Life In The NICU. 

Born at 26.4 weeks gestation and weighing in at a tenacious 2lbs 5oz, our boy Alexander Owen Kennedy is now a cranky, long-term resident of the Pennsylvania Hospital Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. This ward is home to the sickest and most premature babies and the most exhausted and distraught new parents. Caring for all of them is a group of nurses unlike any I've ever encountered before. These women have devoted their careers to caring for sick babies at the most critical stages of their lives.  I know that even on my best days I would not have the emotional strength required to provide clear-minded, even-handed care to these tiny patients. Watching the babies come and go in the NICU, I wonder often about the bond these nurses and doctors form with their charges. At worst, some of these babies won't make it despite the staff's best efforts; at best, the kids will stabilize and ultimately leave the care of the nurses after many, many weeks. And yet these nurses are the most serene and helpful people I've yet to encounter in the health care industry. In fact the only reason Kris and I are able to sleep peacefully at night is because we know that the nurses of the NICU are there for Alex. (OK, in my case the box of cheap wine also provides a nice assist.)

I will describe in more detail soon the NICU and some of the things that go on there. Suffice to say it looks and sounds like the set of a Stanley Kubrick movie, and its walls have seen enough hope and anxiety to last many, many lifetimes.

Alex is doing well, breathing on his own, and awaiting the day that he can begin feeding on mother's milk. I know that Kris has been longing for this day, when the physical bond can be reestablished between her and our son. It may be as early as tomorrow.

I hope to write a more comprehensive account of Alex's story soon. Sometimes my thoughts run away from me on this blog. But eff it, it's therapy. Thanks for reading.