Warning: Whining Ahead

Elijah's room has a crib, 4 different monitors, a rocking chair, a recliner, a fridge, and a sink. It has no windows, but it does have a digital clock that marks hours, minutes, and seconds in large green numbers. I have come to think of it as the time box, the coffin where my day goes to die. Time loses all meaning in Elijah's room. The time box doesn't mean where the sun is outside, or when I should eat, or how long I've been there. The time box only means that if the first number hits 8, 11, 2, or 5, we must do something to the baby: change his diaper, check his ostomy, or, if he's really lucky, give him a bottle.

If I happen to emerge from Elijah's room and turn left, I can see out the window. I am always surprised by what I see, namely The Outdoors. If the sun's shining, I'm surprised that there is a sun. If it is night, I am surprised that the day is gone. Anything that happens in The Outdoors is novel to me because I forgot for a while that there was any such thing. When I am in Elijah's room, there is only that room and a box that sucks time up.

We are caught in a groove of waiting. There are no exciting reports or changes. He must get bigger, and that is all. Once he is bigger, it's time for his second operation, the one that puts his intestines back together. After the operation, we start over with his feedings until he lives off of the bottle again. I wish his operation was the magic threshold and we could take him home after that. It's just the first step in a new phase of waiting. It's been seven weeks today, with no projected release date.

On a lighter note, my husband made my first Mother's Day very special. He bought me flowers, made me breakfast, and took me to dinner. Elijah slept through our whole visit, which is good because it helps him gain weight. It was a nice break from the routine, and I really enjoyed having the opportunity to have a sane day.