Stone Buddies

We sleep... we eat... we poop. (Then we sleep some more.)

Finally free from the tyranny of the NICU doctors, Oliver now spends the majority of his days lounging in his co-sleeper in the middle of our living room, the center of attention for his recently re-energized family. Bundled like an early Christmas present, the only visible remnant of his exceptional start in life is the Respironics SmartMonitor2 that stands on the ready to alert us when his heart rate drops or his breathing stops. So far, the only alerts (which sound like fire alarms) have been to tell us that the sticky electrode sensors have been pulled loose. (Duct tape solved that problem!)

The cats are confused but generally unmoved. Black Kitty seems relieved that the new arrival remains largely stationary and appears to be a fellow pacifist. White Kitty wonders why the other cats fail to grasp the obvious: this little creature is actually a puppy brought in to replace them. LaFarge is resigned to living out his remaining days in solitude, on a pillow in the corner, snoring.

...

In my quiet moments -- and contrary to conventional wisdom, there have been many these last few days -- I catch a momentary glimpse of what it must be like to have a "normal" baby. Our stay in the hospital was an experience impossible to forget and, yet, it has already begun to fade into long-term memory. In the future, with a healthy and happy Oliver to entertain/distract us, the recollection of our experience at NYU will serve merely as a source of strength when we face our next "insurmountable" challenge.

...

It is late in morning on lazy fall Saturday and Mom and Oliver are snuggling on the couch, making up for lost time. Oliver grunts; Mom giggles. Oliver [how do I explain this? - he sounds like a baby goat]; Mom coos. They have what my friend Ed calls the primordial bond between mother and child.


I sit here at the computer, pecking away at the keyboard, pausing to smile or to sigh or to rub my stinging eyes. Occasionally my eyes lose focus as I stare into the blinking green lights of the SmartMonitor2 and wonder what twist of fate grants me the pleasure of having this wonderful wife and this perfect child.

I could get used to this...

Ready to Go!

Homeward Bound!!!

KING OLIVER, CHAMPION OF PREEMIES, IS COMING HOME TODAY!

Did any doubt the Little Bloke's third try would be a success? Certainly not the Big Bloke!!! I knew it all along, never an iota of doubt, no sir, no way!

Photos of his last hours in the NICU and his introduction to his Brooklyn home and kitties will be forthcoming later today... stay tuned...

There's Only One Oliver Gibson

It's no secret that Oliver has been tipped to make his World Cup debut in 2026. Like his hero, the great Dutchman Dennis Bergkamp, he will be exulted by delirious fans who sing his song*:

There's only one Oliver Gibson,
And he's our Oliver Gibson,
Walking along,
Singing this song,
Walking in an Oliver Wonderland!

It doesn't completely roll off the tongue, but then again what football (soccer) song really does? All that really matters is that Oliver's training may well begin tomorrow, on the mean streets of Brooklyn.

...

We've been here before: waking early (like children on Christmas morning), anxiously calling the NICU for an update, impatiently waiting for the results of a sleep test to tell us if Oliver can come home. Afraid of being too optimistic but unwilling to let pessimism win. As Yogi would say, it's like deja vu all over again.

It may have been Charlie Brown that saved Christmas, but it's Oliver Gibson Speight that has a chance to save Thanksgiving. If he gets his discharge papers today or tomorrow, the Thanksgiving Turkey will be pardoned and the day of the Pilgrim's feast will be, oh I dunno, THE BEST HOLIDAY IN THE HISTORY OF HOLIDAYS! Otherwise it's going to be:

Holidays That Are Dead To Me

1. Thanksgiving
   

No pressure, young man, but, unless you want to be known as the Preemie that Stole Thanksgiving, I suggest you get your act together... and now!

...

* You are probably wondering, thoughtful reader, if the the Big Bloke has been spotted in the NICU singing Oliver Gibson's song. The answer, of course, is "of course!" It has confused some nurses, to say nothing of the other parents.

There is another song, popularly sung in the NYC pubs where the Big Bloke can often be found on Arsenal match days, which goes something like:

Ar-sen-al! Arsenal, Arsenal, Arsenal! Arsenal, Arsenal, Arsenal! Ar-sen-al... AR-SEN-AL!

This song, too, has been modified for the Little Bloke. I will leave it to you, clever reader, to figure out the specific lyrics of this adaptation. No doubt, it will be heard in the NICU all day today.

Go, Oliver, Go!

A Tar Heel Born...

New Blood!

Will King Oliver become The Thanksgiving Turkey? It looks like it is going to come right down to the wire...

The results of his second sleep test were decidedly mixed -- better than the first, but still not good enough to signal a prompt discharge. However, the Brooklyn Kid will be given one more chance to avoid Thanksgiving in the NICU. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!)

The course of action has been adjusted somewhat. In particular, Oliver was given a blood transfusion yesterday to correct his low hematocrit levels. He will be switched to his home monitor kit today and will be closely watched for the next two days. If he does OK and his levels look good, it is going to come down to how his cool-as-a-cucumber parents deal with having him on the home monitor. If we can avoid, oh I don't know, totally freaking out whenever an alarm goes off, then we just might be able to slip the boy out late on Wednesday.

Let me just say right now that my mind is completely blown by the concept of having your blood replaced. I was not in a good place yesterday, not by a long shot. When I saw the Little Bloke just after having his IV removed, I went to jelly again. Oh Little Bloke, you're killing the Big Bloke!

...

In 1925, Carolina's head cheerleader, Vic Huggins, penned the words (and presumably the music) to "Here comes Carolina", a song that most people assume is the Carolina fight song. The words (which have almost nothing to do with premature babies, fathers who would tear their heart out of their chest for their son, or the NICU) are:

Here comes Car'lina lina
Here comes Car'lina lina
We hail from NCU (Go Tarheels!)

We've got the team to win it,
We've got the spirit in it,
We wear the colors white and blue.

So it's fight, fight, fight for old Carolina
As Davie did in days of old;
As we rally round the Well,
Cheer that Tar Heel team like hell,
For the glory of NCU.

I can't really explain the psychology behind it, but whenever I sing it to the Little Bloke, which is often, I break down in tears... usually somewhere between "Cheer" and "hell." It's weird, really weird, and I don't know why I'm telling the whole world about it. Most people sing, you know, something sweet like "Rockabye Baby" to their children... I sing a college fight song that isn't even the real fight song! (Nevermind the fact that "Rockabye Baby" is not exactly sweet, with all the talk of babies falling out of trees...)

Oh yea, I forgot one important point: sometimes I change the lyrics. It's mostly the same, but the next to last line is "Cheer for Oliver like hell", which maybe explains a few things.

Thanksgiving Turkey

In the NICU, Oliver has been widely known as "Baby Slack" and "The Slacker." In no particular hurry to leave his worshipful team of doctors and nurses, Oliver has put himself at risk of earning another nickname: Thanksgiving Turkey.

After another week of steady growth (he's one ounce short of 6 pounds) and solid progress (episodes of Apnea and Bradycardia have been almost non-existent), he has one more chance to avoid the new moniker. He starts his second sleep study today and, should he pass, would be a candidate for discharge on Monday. Should he fail the test, the Thanksgiving Turkey will be drinking Thanksgiving breast milk while the unlucky-to-be-working-on-a-holiday Nurses will be sharing a pot luck and snickering at the little boy who doesn't want to leave the NICU.

Oliver, you don't want that!

No doubt you can imagine his loving parents on this Sunday morning, calmly drinking their coffee and tea, not particularly worried about the outcome, totally relaxed. Would you like some oatmeal, dear? He's having another sleep test? Oh, that's nice. If he passes, great. If he fails, no big deal. Thanksgiving in the NICU? Oh sure, why not!? It's not like if he fails we're going to jump off a bridge or anything!!! Yea, OK, whatever, seriously, we're not freaking out or anything! WHAT MAKES YOU THINK WE'RE FREAKING OUT?!?! WE ARE TOTALLY RELAXED, OK!!!!???

Yes, the loving-parents-who-are-totally-ready-for-this-are-you-kidding are going to the hospital this morning and they will feed Oliver and he will have great feedings and, don't be silly, he's not going to have any episodes and you can forget about any curveballs because they know how to give him his medicine and they can tell when he needs to take a break because his acid reflux is acting up and they are total studs when it comes to burping they know exactly when he needs to burp, thank you, and when he's full, that's fine, they stop feeding him and give him time to settle his stomach before putting him back down and today is going to be a piece of cake and if he doesn't pass his sleep test that will be fine but it won't be his loving parents' fault that he doesn't pass.

Nobody is freaking out. Obviously.

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

As he has made abundantly clear so many times already, Oliver calls the shots around here. When it comes to discharge, the story is the same: The Brooklyn Kid will come home when The Brooklyn Kid decides it is time.

His largely incident-free run came to an end this morning with his parents buzzing around him, counting chickens and bouncing off walls. A meltdown during his mid-morning snack was followed up by a double-Bradycardia before lunch.

Hey, you two, wait just a minute... I'm still not even supposed to be born yet! And besides, I like it here with all these ladies floating around me, attending to my every need...

Oliver will be given four or five days to recalibrate before undergoing another sleep study. If things go well, the soonest we will see Oliver at home is early on Thanksgiving week.

...

As I sit at home listening to the clicking of the keyboard and the snoring of an obese cat, I am desperate for the day when Oliver's din spoils the peace. No matter that he has never been here, the house feels lonely without him. I want him home, and I want it NOW.

Most of all, though, I want him safe and well and stable. I want his mother to be able to exhale. I want what is raw to be merely tender. I want the pain in her heart -- in our hearts -- to be relieved by the carefree laughter and spontaneous smiles of a family that is whole and happy.

...

Through the disappointment, we must keep perspective on Oliver's journey. The little fighter has scored some stunning knockouts, but that doesn't mean he's ready to turn pro. He did not so much as "fail" his sleep test as we failed to predict when he would be ready to pass. He'll let us know when he's good and ready.

Meanwhile, he begs your pardon, but some nurses need his attention...

The Champ!

"Hi, this is Oliver Slack's dad calling to check-in and see how he's doing..." (He's listed under his mother's last name and it's easier not to explain...)

"Hi, Mr. Slack. Oliver had a great night! Feeding like a champ, no incidents or anything."

"So his sleep test is going well?"

"Yea, everything is great so far."

...

Excuse me while I go jump up and down on the bed to wake Michele up with the news. Hopefully I won't hit my head on the ceiling fan!

The Brooklyn Kid

He gained a pound, learned to breathe, found his voice and made more than a few friends... and now he may finally be ready to come home.

If he passes his "sleep test" tonight, tomorrow will be the most eventful day of Oliver Gibson Speight's young life. He will be circumcised in the morning, take his first car ride in the evening and sleep at home for the first time that night with his adoring parents. (Well, he might sleep but his parents are unlikely to catch more than few winks!)

You are well-advised not to bet against the Brooklyn Kid taking a victory ride across his namesake bridge, fists clinched. A fighting pose, always. Show 'em what you got, Oliver.

He's gonna be somebody, Charlie. He's gonna be a contender!

Take me home already!

Little Big Man

Down the Stretch He Comes...

Nine weeks after his mother was admitted to the hospital, five weeks before he was due and almost four weeks since he was born, Oliver Gibson Speight has hit his stride. On a weekend when thousands ran the NYC Marathon, Oliver set the pace for NICU babies by sprinting towards discharge.

Around midnight on Friday, Oliver pulled his nasal cannula out of his nose and ripped it almost completely off his face. His nurses, convinced by his conviction, decided to let the boy decide that he'd had enough. They turned off his oxygen and Oliver has thrived.

His feedings (all by bottle) are steady and improving. His night nurse just told me that he finished most of his overnight bottles in 10 minutes and has shown no signs of trouble. He is gaining weight (5 pounds now) and regulating his temperature just fine. The King of the NICU is looking more like a regular baby with each passing day.

Many of you have been praying for Oliver and his fighting spirit to prevail. With those prayers answered, you might consider turning your prayers to his nervous parents because the real challenge is about to begin. Baby Oliver is coming home soon!

Barring the unforeseen, Oliver will move to Brooklyn some time later this week. Mom and Dad, totally not ready but as ready as they will ever be, are finally allowing themselves to believe it.

It's happening, Oliver, you did it. Don't stop now...

Look Mom, No More Tubes!

More Photos of the King

Give 'em Hell, Oliver!

Yesterday was a big day. Huge, even!

Oliver (World Champion of Preemies, King of the NICU, Apple of His Daddy's Eye, Mommy's Little Baby Bird) staged a prison break and is now back in the bassinet! After a solid week of gaining weight, he is now taking about half of his feedings from a bottle and (surprise!) was able to breast feed for the first time. He even spent a good part of the day breathing completely on his own with no oxygen support. In his boldest declaration of intent yet, he managed to pee on both Mommy and Daddy in the same day.

After a weekend of increased anxiety, these were all welcome developments... yes, even the pee showers. The last week has been marked by minimal progress on breathing and feeding and increased frequency of Bradycardia. (A 'Brady' is when Oliver's heartbeat dips suddenly and dramatically.) Oliver was given blood work-up on Sunday which showed no indication of infection (the most important thing) but did show a modest dip in his hematocrit. He may be heading for another blood transfusion, but for now he is simply on an iron supplement. A precautionary x-ray of his lungs came back clear, so the most like cause of the Bradycardias is acid reflux. (I told those nurses to cut back on his hot pastrami sandwiches!) Like about half of America, he will probably start taking Pepcid.

The one thing on the mind of every baby girl in Carroll Gardens is: when does Oliver finally come home? The only thing we know for sure is that we don't really know anything. There is reason to believe that he could be homeward bound in a week or even sooner, but we have proven unreliable predictors. Oliver will decide and the rest of us will go along for the ride...

...

It was exactly two months ago that Michele called me at work to tell me her water broke and that I needed to take her to the hospital. In these two months, the world has changed fundamentally. We have just begun to make sense of it all.

In July, we went to Ireland for two weeks and our trip concluded with a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, where Ireland swan dives into the Atlantic. The guidebooks will tell you to go to the end of the tourist walk and jump over the fence to walk even closer to the edge.

"I can do it," Michele said, "let's go."

(You don't actually think I agreed to let my pregnant wife do this, do you?)

"No, I don't think so."

In Ireland, we had a choice to go to the edge and peer over, but we declined. A few weeks later, back in New York, life did not grant us a choice. For two months, we have been on the edge. We have lost our balance a few times, but we have not slipped over. Little Oliver is far too strong and far too real for that.

...

Certain words, phrases, sounds, songs and images are burned in my emotional memory from these past two months. These are things I cannot think or say or hear without feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. "Come on Oliver, let's do this," I have said many, many times... first to Michele's belly and now to Oliver's wrinkled little ear. It gets me everytime.

Well, you know, he is. He's doing it, alright. And he's punching hard the whole time, giving hell to his doctors, his nurses and his parents. For all the inspiration he has shown us, we must promise the little titan that we will rise to his challenge.

There are no limits, little man. Keep giving 'em hell and we'll be right there with you, all the way.