For Now...

It is fascinating how the purpose for what we do changes over time, even though it might not be our initial intent that it will.  Writing started out for me as a way to work through some difficult emotions during a period of my life when I could think of no other way.  Then, I gradually transformed my words into a style that was telling a story, informing and connecting with the many out there who chose to care so much about Oliver and our family.  In recent days, it has become clear to me that my purpose for writing is no longer identifiable.  I feel that my energy is better directed towards my son, Oliver, who has blessed all of our lives so much throughout his short but influential time here on earth.  Today marks the day where my writing will come to an end.  I am sad, yet at the same time relieved.  There may be an occasional weekly update or picture, but my consistent daily posts will cease…. for now.

Yesterday, I was sitting in the NICU surrounded by nothing but silence.  I had just spent 64 of the last 72 hours next to my only child’s crib, supporting him with my presence, the only way I knew how.  The young warrior had previously received three vaccinations in three straight days, quite a challenge for a child in his relatively difficult situation.  Having not left his side for fear that he would follow suit with the many other preemies who struggle through immunizations, I was exhausted yet reassured.  He handled them like a champ.  The lights surrounding us were off, Oliver’s alarms hadn’t made a sound in quite some time, and as I sat there, a thought suddenly struck me.  “This” particular moment was the first time since June 8^th of this year that I actually “believed”. 

During the past 72 days, my wife and I have witnessed some horrific events as well as experienced some unnerving feelings that will forever be burned deep into my being.  Throughout this seemingly endless period of time, no matter how hard I tried to talk myself out of it, I was living in constant worry that my child would never get an opportunity to come home with us.  Even though I don’t believe that we are completely out of the water yet, deep inside me, without a doubt, I now know that Oliver has crested the peak of the mountain.  I am not saying it will be an easy next month, but I am proud to say that Oliver Moses Book is on the homeward stretch.

Oliver is officially four pounds now, which still places him well below the 3rd percentile mark in nearly every category of size.  Even so, he has proven his strength through his survival of 65 difficult days in a neonatal intensive care unit.  Recently, his crib was moved to a different area of the NICU, and while the battle is far from over, it is quite clear that this simple move signifies that our son is considered by everyone here in the hospital to be stable.  As he grows and matures, his mother and I are getting more and more opportunities to interact with him on a more personal and humanistic level.  He is consistently going to bottle and breast at least once a day, and in addition to this, showing many appropriate developmental cues for a baby of his gestation.

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I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has participated in this journey with us so far, in whatever capacity it may have been.  In humble return for your perpetual thoughts, prayers, and love, I am confident that young Oliver has found a way to impart upon you some lesson of value during the course of the last few months.  I have no doubt that if you are reading this today, this extraordinary child has earned himself a special place in your heart.  And Annie, a beautiful mother in every sense of the word, you will always remain in my mind the soul reason for our son’s existence today.  I thank you for continued strength... from the bottom of my heart.  I will forever be in your debt.

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As a final gift, I wish to leave with you the knowledge that one day soon, my son, Oliver Moses Book, will be sitting next to me in a field in the Willamette Valley of Oregon, experiencing a spectacle of nature that my father and I have shared together for as long as I can remember.  I look forward to passing along the heritage, passion, and love of the outdoors that my family holds dear to our heart.  As generation gives way to generation, we as humans will continue our existence.  Thank you all.  I truly believe that it does take a village.