The girls and I just rolled in from a super quick trip up to Dallas - we're soccer addicts, what can I say? - and found this update from Charlie from yesterday.
OK, everyone - let's get this cheer started - PUSH IT OUT! SHOVE IT OUT! WAAAAAAAY OUT!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Pursuers of Happiness Everywhere:
Baby Charlie here. It's July 4th, Independence Day, the day Americans commemorate and celebrate their freedom by eating hotdogs and lighting off Chinese fireworks. I'm writing to you from the NICU Level II Lockdown. I'm confined to a 3X2' containment cell known as a "crib," shackled to four different machines that're monitoring my respiration, heart rate, oxygenation, and blood pressure. If I do anything out of the ordinary, if my behavior deviates from the norm, an alarm sounds and a nurse rushes to my side, eyeing me suspiciously. The wails of my fellow cellmates haunt my sleep.
All that being said, things are peachy keen here. Grandpa Marty (aka "Old Granddad") and Grandma Sue ("Grammy") flew in last Tuesday to make sure Mom & Dad were holding up ok. The whole gang camped out in my room for marathon sessions of Charlie Watch. Old Granddad led everyone in Irving Berlin sing-alongs while Grammy kept saying things like, "We're not much, but we're here."
They were a huge comfort to Mom & Dad in so many ways. For one thing, they insisted on treating them to lunch and dinner every day, including three trips to The Cheesecake Factory and three to the Captain's Tavern, where everyone feasted on steamed lobsters and the best chowder this side of Cape Cod. Mom's breast milk was extra yummy the morning after the double lobster.
Best of all, Old Graddad gave them one of his famous guarantees. It's so good, it's worth quoting in toto:
I, Martin Tolchin, do hereby GUARANTEE that my wonderful grandson, Charles Tolchin DeMarchi, will FULLY and TOTALLY overcome all the MISHIGAS to which he has been subjected in his first weeks of life; that he will grow up ROBUST in mind and body; that he will graduate with DISTINCTION from high school and college; that he will be a boy among boys and a man among men; that he will be pleasured by many beautiful women (a trend already apparent);that he will find MEANINGFUL work; that he will be nurtured by warm friendships and a loving wife and children; that he will live a deeply SATISFYING and COMPLETE LIFE, in every sense of the word.
Witnessed this 24th Day of June, 2009 by
Susan J. Tolchin
Torie Tolchin
I'm not sure what "mishigas" means, but I assume it must be Hebrew for farting.
Everyone should be so lucky to have a life like the one described in that guarantee. Old Granddad is already right about one thing: I am pleasured daily by many beautiful women. Look at the photo above. See the Charlie sign? That was made by my girlfriend, Nurse Danielle. Looking at it—especially the orange frog and blue bear—brings me much pleasure. So does getting changed and cuddled by Nurse Michelle, Nurse Lori, Nurse Kelly, Nurse Mimi, and all the other supermodel nurses of South Miami Hospital NICU. Last night, Nurse Annie told Dad that she wants to take care of me every shift but that too many other nurses had requested the same thing and so she got bumped from the rotation.
This is not to say I haven't suffered some pain in my short life, but it is far outweighed by pleasure.
Speaking of pain, some of you have inquired about my surgery. As Aunt Debbie said in Thursday's update, it was a success. I got wheeled into the operating room at 9 a.m., intubated, anaesthetized, and the next thing I knew it was 11:30 and my ostomy bag had been replaced by a choo-choo train bandage. I overheard Dr. Neville tell my parents that I lost barely any blood and that I was so strong she was able to extubate me as soon as the stitches were tied. Old Granddad exclaimed, "Oh, what they do to a person!" and Grammy said, "Oh, he's a genius!" Mom & Dad just sighed a lot, then Dad had to step into the hall to cry in relief. Upon return, he sat cribside and sang "Baby's Got a Brand New Butt.”
Now it's been 72 hours since the surgery and I'm still waiting to poop. Dr. Neville told Mom that I can't be fed orally until I poop. The average post-surgery wait for a CF baby is 3-5 days. So I'm pulling a Gandhi and temporarily eschewing the bottle & boob. Maybe "eschewing"'s the wrong word. I mean, this isn't exactly voluntary. The Gandhi comparison's a little self-congratulatory too. It's not as if I'm making a grand symbolic gesture in an effort to free a country from imperial rule. If someone put a boob in front of me, I'd lunge. Plus, I'm getting TPN through my broviac, so my basic nutritional needs are being met. Let's be honest: I'm not exactly starving over here, but my stomach is empty, and that emptiness is more uncomfortable than the incision. I spend a lot of time gumming my pacifier and rooting around for any nipple that'll squirt milk or formula. The nurses tell Mom & Dad that—incessant rooting aside—I'm recovering perfectly, that I'm fairly comfortable, that I can skip the morphine and stick with plain old Tylenol.
A lot of you have been offering prayers and sending good vibes for my speedy recovery. If you could maybe move from the general ("speedy recovery") to the specific ("hasty poopage"), I'd be most appreciative. Aunt Lyn, Uncle Jesse, Aunt Karyn, Aunt Nancy, and Uncle Sam just sent me a helpful instructional video with pooping tips that include sitting on the commode and waving at the camera. As soon as Mom & Dad secure distribution rights they'll post a link here. But the sooner I poop, the sooner I'll be released. I need your help is what I'm saying.
It's nearly touch time, which means Mom & Dad'll be here to check the diaper for any big updates.
In the meantime, Happy July 4th. If you're shooting off fireworks, please run for cover as soon as you light the wick. And go easy on those hotdogs. Being stuck in the hospital with a major wound and/or constipation is the last way you want to spend a major holiday. Take it from me.
Oooing and ahhhhing,
Baby Charlie
Recent Comments