Dear Sloan,
I'm sitting in the hallway outside the NiCU as your mother and my mother prepare to feed you. I have a bad sore throat and cannot come near you right now without a face mask and plenty of extra hand washing.
So far, you are doing everything you need to do in order to come home. You are finishing all your meals. You are gaining weight. And for three days in a row you haven't stopped breathing even once. Two more days of progress and your doctors might let us take you home. Almost seven weeks have passed since you were born, and we are excited to have you finally with us for a night.
Except for brief moments, you haven't traveled more than a couple feet from your isolette or been free from the wires that monitor your heart rate, oxygen saturation or respiratory rate. You've been weighed daily, had blood drawn regularly and been watched over viligently by some of the best nurses in the world.
All that will soon change. At first I couldn't wait for all the monitoring and testing to end. Now I have to prepare for the time when we won't have machines to tell us how you are doing.
We've been told that "Everything will fall into place" and "You'll know what to do when the time comes." Perhaps. But so little about your arrival has been expected, and I've been on guard for so long, that it may not be easy for me to believe things will settle into a routine.
But, you know what? I'm watchIng you through the glass. Your mom is changing you diaper. I can hear my mom telling any nurse who walks by how wonderful you are. You are squirming around, making faces, and -- well, here is your mom picking you up to show me a big, beautiful girl who looks very ready to come home.
You make everything better, Sloan. Thank you.
Love,
Dad
