Musings from Palo Alto

The Consent

So far we are still on the schedule for tomorrow. We should be meeting with the surgeon some time today to sign the consent form.  I’m suddenly getting nervous as I write this.  I wonder why.  Perhaps the magnitude of the consent is hitting me:  “Here you go, Doc; her life is completely in your hands.  Please don’t play any sports tonight, stay up too late, or take one too many drinks.  And please measure twice before you cut.  If you’d like, I’d be happy to pay for a hand massage sometime tonight.  And thank you for not cracking your knuckles like I have for 30 years (isn’t that supposed to give you arthritis?).”

We know we’re in great hands--physically and spiritually--and it will be a pleasure to sign the consent.

Is there anything better than a cacooned  infant?

A Tribute to a NICU Mom

Ok, I’ve said it before, and I‘ve thought I’ve mean it before, but I had no idea what love meant until I’ve witnessed how Lisa has handled this whole deal.  Perhaps it’s the fact that such an experience forces you to break life down to its simplest elements.  The periphery disappears, and the meat and potatoes of life emerges.  As I have focused my thoughts, faith, and prayers on this baby, on our four children at home, and on dear friends that are enduring their own trials, I have learned to appreciate Lisa with such greater depth.  Our talks are more free, more open, more contemplative, more patient.

We went to Walmart today, and for the first time that I can ever remember, I enjoyed being at Walmart.  At this moment I am out in the hallway typing this post, and she is in the NICU with Abby, and I miss her.

Let me give you an idea of what it’s like to be a NICU Mom.  You have just endured 9 months of discomfort, and pushed a 7 pound baby from the womb, only to have 30 seconds (if that) of time to hold the fruit of your labor (pun intended).  You don’t get to hold your baby because there is an IV and another tube inserted into her belly.  In fact, despite your motherly instincts, and even though you have manhandled four other infants, you are somewhat hesitant to touch her, and for the first while you always look to the nurse for approval.

Every three hours you  head into a cubicle, and hook both breasts up to a machine that pumps your milk into little plastic bottles, which you then label by date and time and stick into a freezer.  You do this eight times a day, and through the night, setting your cell phone timer at three hour intervals.  During the night you try to do all of this in the dark so that you don’t wake your snoring, slumbering husband, who has worked half as hard as you have.

Despite the fact that you have been up two or three times during the night (depending on whether you went to bed before or after midnight) for periods of 30 minutes at a time, you wake up your husband early so that you can get to the hospital in time for the doctors to make their rounds.  You want the doctors to know that you’re anxiously awaiting their care, and you want them to know that you care.

During the day--when you should be lounging at home in bed or on the couch--you sit at your baby’s bedside, while your ankles remain swollen from childbirth and from the lack of having your feet appropriately raised.  You sing that baby lullabies, whisper baby talk into her hears, place your hand firmly on her head, and kiss her belly every now and then.  When the baby cries, your instincts tell you to pick her up, hold her close, and nurse her.  But for now, you follow the nurse’s lead in sitting her up, patting her bare back, and feeding her the “appropriate amount” of your milk only at certain intervals.   At times, you wander over to other parents across the room to strike up a conversation, to learn about their child, and to make sure they’re doing okay.


During the day you sneak in a nap at the hospital or back at the lovely home of your hostess, but the naps are not totally restful because your baby is ten minutes away.

Late at night your husband pulls you away, telling you that the best thing you can do for your baby is to get the appropriate rest and nutrition.  Your heart sinks because this baby is a night owl, and she has always--from the time she first started kicking the inside of your tummy--woken up at about 10:00.  It kills you to leave your baby while she’s awake with her blue eyes searching for her Mommy.  You know she’ll be hungry soon, and you wish you could calm her cry.

And yet somehow, despite all of this, your body seems to miraculously heal itself, and your post-delivery condition continues to improve, methodically day by day.  You count this as yet another blessing of this life-altering experience, and you express even more gratitude to your heavenly father.

There you go--a day in the life of a NICU Mom.  How do I love her?  I can’t possibly count the ways--there are too many.

The best sale I ever made

I Could Live in Palo Alto

Yes, I could live here.  I’m sure I couldn’t afford it, but I wouldn’t mind living here.  Where else can you get a salad from a salad bar at Safeway that is better than what you will find at any restaurant in Utah.  I suspect that it’s never too hot here, and thought it may get chilly, most jackets would provide ample warmth.  The trees and greenery are thick, the homes beautiful, and the streets are windy.

Where else can you get a ready-made meal at a supermarket that actually tastes good and healthy.  One of the treats that we’ve discovered is a supermarket called Andronico’s, just a minute from the hospital.  It has a cheese assortment that would rival anything you would find in Paris--there must have been a hundred different kinds of fresh cheese on display.  Then there’s the olive bar--yes, a bar devoted specifically to many different kinds of fresh olives.  Then there’s the pastry section that would compete with any good European bakery.  For the last three days, I’ve had the delightful fruit tart at Andronico‘s--which has the perfect cream (not too sweet and not to bland).  Beyond all that, there is a soup bar with six different homemade soups, a deli with a dozen different kinds of Paninis, and a plethora of cheeses and meats from which they will create your own custom sandwich (which puts Subway to shame).  None of this is cheap, but it sure beats Mcdonalds.

Though most of my time in Palo Alto has been spent within the walls of Lucile Packard Children’sHosptial, we’ve had enough of a taste of the area that we decided we’ve like to spend more time down there.  So kids, keep studying, or working out at the track (Stanford may be a great place to go to school).

The Pastry Bar at Andronico's.  With this place in town, 

how do you expect me to drop the 20 pounds I'm trying to lose?

The Man in Charge

Lisa’s Dad emailed me the following picture this morning.  In light of tomorrow’s surgery, I thought it would be appropriate to give credit where credit is due: