He’s happy and home now. Smiling, cooing, cute in a way I’ve never seen. More active, interactive, and joyful. I’m happy in those moments, when I’m beside him, witnessing just how okay he is, how normal, what a baby. But when I’m driving or in a cafe writing I remember the last time he giggled. He was happier than I’d ever seen him, flirting with the nurses at the doctor’s office, the day before he needed emergency brain surgery. So I don’t know how much comfort I can take in his happy. I’m scared of what’s inside, of all they don’t know.
He’s going back to the hospital this Thursday, where he’ll be sedated for another spinal MRI and lumbar puncture. By Friday morning we’ll have a better idea of where things are. Compare films and fluids. Numbers. Sizes. Cells. Have things stayed the same, settled down, or progressed? To biopsy this obstruction would be very invasive and not without a significant host of risks. They still aren’t sure what we’re dealing with, or what if anything is done about it.
These next few days are a reprieve, my chance to get some writing done. My chance to enjoy my son before I return to full-throttle worry mode. My chance to return all the extraordinary emails I’ve been receiving. My chance to gather all the information and send it for second opinions, hoping someone will know exactly what we’re dealing with.