And then you remember where you are

Last night as I was finally settling in for "sleep," things started to buzz and whir outside our room and through the wall next door. Heavy footsteps shot out, growing louder and quicker with each passing second. Adrenaline-laced voices barked commands in Medicalese as machines rang out with alarms screaming for attention. Doctors and nurses, covered in light blue from head to sole, piled into and poured out of the room next to us.

Then the baby screamed out with all its life.

Though I had not forgotten, I was forced to remember where we are.

I'm not sure what happened to the kiddo next to us, but things eventually calmed down and I know without a doubt that he or she is in the best possible place for their situation. Just like Shaney.

Shane's general swelling (facial, hands, feet) has gone down significantly. This is great as it signals that his body is saying "hey, things are getting better, I don't really need all this extra fluid I'm holding on to." He can open his eyes wider (he's watching Imagination Movers right now), but he's still not okay with the fact that he can't run, ninja kick, dance, sing, yell, and go crazy in general.

It's really easy to let the Miracle of Modern Medicine slip into the complacent pocket of life's mundanity—even with my son on what amounts to life support—so I'm trying to keep a child's wide-eyed perspective with everything happening, not taking anything for granted. That said, it's still difficult not to wonder why the inventors of the feeding tube machine made it sound exactly like a kid coughing his lungs' cruddy contents into a breathing tube. I shot up out of bed every three minutes last night when that machine kicked into gear. Given everything else going on around us, however, I'm pretty sure we can deal with the gurggling decoy.

We're going to go grab breakfast and then we'll hopefully be back in time to listen to the doctors' rounds. More later.