June 17 - celebration day

There's a little baby in an incubator somewhere in this hospital and he's mine. But it doesn't feel like it yet. Those two seconds of him placed in front of me wrapped like a taco in the operating room didn't cement the bond that we had been developing as I chased his feet across my belly from the outside. He's definitely gone from inside me, no fetal monitor connected to ensure his heart is stable, no kicks or bumps or jabs as he shifts to find a comfy spot inside me. But I'm not sad because I feel better. The pressure on my body has been relieved. I don't know how to describe it really but I think this sums it up: I don't feel like I am dying anymore. I feel full of life and more healthy than I have in a long time which makes me wonder when I really first knew something was wrong.

When the doctor pulled the little guy from me he said he thought the issues had probably been going on for some time. I agree, I just didn't want to believe it myself.

As the day progresses I just feel better and better. The catheter inserted for the surgery was now serving a different purpose - providing a pathway of escape. Bucket after bucket is emptied and slowly I am detoxified. Like feeling poison flow from my body. My hands feel normal again, my arms smaller, the bones in my feet beginning to be visible again, my ankles reappeared. Two nurses commented on the difference in my face - the swollen bee stung look starting to subside.

I had an awesome nurse today that let me get up and go to the washroom to clean up and then she wheeled me to the NICU to see my little man. Never seeing an NICU before I was overwhelmed for a second, but confident. We pulled up to our little incubator just as the nurse was working on our tiny boy. "Does mom want to hold him" My first thought... who's this mom person you are referring to, my second thought, no way, I do not want to hold him. I was scared but, yes, mom wants to. So she wrapped him up and handed him to me. "Do you have him?" "Yes, yes" I reply. "I am sure." She releases her grip and for the first time he is ours, he is real and he exists not only in pictures in my camera playback screen. I couldn't stop staring at him breathing on his own in my arms. He was warm and pink, all cleaned up. His arm strapped to a board keeping his IV in, his head so tiny, a full head of dark hair. His skin softer than anything I have ever felt in my life. Like velvet and silk and wrapped up together. He opened his eyes when I talked. "Oh recognizes mom's voice!" the nurse proclaims.

I looked up at David so proud to be a dad and back at our boy. This is us. I talked to him but I don't know what I said. We took pictures but I don't know if I smiled. I held him for what seemed like a long time - but it was probably only a few minutes frozen into an eternity. I worried he was getting cold and then we had to give him back and had to leave. But it was ok because he's just a tiny taco that needs to be calm and warm and safe and I have all the confidence that he is in the best place he can be right now.

First family photo (Leuk and Mins missing of course)

I can't wait for David to hold him. I can't wait to take him home, but not yet, not yet. He looks really cosy and peaceful in his incubator and he can stay there for a long time, until he is ready.

And now the big decision, a name. We'd been going through the baby name book someone lent us only yesterday. We're not ready for this yet, but we had a few options. Funny when we saw him for the first time he didn't fit the name we thought we'd name him. Max had been one of our favorite names, but this little boy is no Max. He's too pretty, too different, too special and too strong. He's my baby lion who wasn't allowed to grow until the month of August. He's my Leo.

On an unrelated note. This our first day as parents is truly a day to be celebrated. It's June 17th. David's two year bone marrow transplant anniversary. Two and a half years ago I was walking in the main hallway of Vancouver General Hospital in a daze. David resting uncomfortably in a hospital bed 15 floors above me, a newly accepted patient in the leukemia ward. A Dr. Nantel saw my confusion, stopped me and asked me to sit down. He put his hand on my shoulder, offered no reassurances, and told me that it was going to be a long road. His eyes telling a story I wasn't sure I wanted to hear.

And to Dr. Nantel, you were right. A long road it is, but the farther we travel down it the more I realize the battle to continue forward is worth fighting for. Every second counts. Especially when you add up all the seconds and they make days, and then the days make years, and before you know it a lifetime of memories is being created. Thank you for that moment and for all the experiences that have followed. Also today thank you to Katherine. David's unrelated bone marrow donor. Without you there would be no story to tell and no baby to hold. We'll never forget the choice you made to help us without even knowing who we are.