Everyone has been kind. Everyone has been professional. And everyone has come bearing drugs.
Landon may hate the stethoscope; get shrill with the nebulizer treatments, act tortured with the cpt (chest pounding) exercises,
but he loves the drugs. Every nurse remarks on it. In an effort to find something nice to say about my crusty-nosed, whiny, crabby, crying, clinging cherub, one even said, "Wow. I've never met a toddler take to the meds like he does."
What a talent. Note for the baby book: you really loved prescription drugs.
Nobody said anything about the side effects.
I came back from the dinner run to find my toddler running around this small hospital room with a crazed energy that at first relieved me, but quickly wore me out. With unprecedented frenzy, he was running around, trying to climb the outside of the crib, the back of the rocker, up the wall (literally) on the couch, and then on to something else. He would play with a toy for five seconds, try to tell me something for ten, then move on.
The doctor kept talking to us as though his behavior was not an annoying topper to end his already very long day. (He said he had been in NICU all day)
"What's wrong with him?" I asked.
The doctor didn't even ask what I meant.
"Oh, that's just the steroids. They can make them a little hyper."
Understatement. But the doctor was classy. And kind. And not praising what a good little steroid-induced tornado my child was, so I had to be grateful.
We have such high hopes that we won't have any chance to write a "Day 3" post.
I wouldn't mind another chai latte from their onsite coffee cart, though. Surprisingly good; it seemed out of place.
But then, aren't we all?
Out of place, I mean. Probably not surprisingly good.
At least, I haven't surprised myself here yet. I'm working on a functional goodness that doesn't get too sharp with the man whose sleep was as interrupted as mine, whose eardrums have been equally pained, and whose nerves are undoubtedly as frayed as mine.
Actually, I better go to sleep now (since both my boys already are) or I might let myself off the hook with it tomorrow. I can just hear me now: "I got even less sleep than you so please don't mess with me!"
Yeah, less sleep because I was up blogging about how little sleep I got. That's classic.
Then again, spending a few minutes to process this day on paper does more to relax me than if I simply replayed it over and over in my head.