Out of left field

When I walked into Cora's room this morning, both of the other kids in tow, I was informed that the team at Stanford is considering discharging her as early as Monday. As in this coming, two days from now, Monday.

Surprised? I was too.

Their feeling is that Cora is stable "enough" to be at home with us managing all the elements of her care, as opposed to a hospital staff doing it.

I am happy that a group of people, medical professionals, consider Cora to be healthy enough to be at home. But as with most experiences on this journey, my emotions are very mixed. The first one is my usual: utter frustration. Why do they need to discharge her three days before her cath procedure, just so that we can come all the way back and admit her again on Thursday? It seems completely asinine. We will voice our opinion that it makes far more sense to wait until after the cath, to see the numbers, before discharging her and taking our chances. But I have no idea if we'll get the final say. Likely not.

My second emotion: fear. Jason and I are by now very comfortable with tubes, cords, machines, and monitors. We won't have any trouble administering her medications correctly and on-time, or keeping her feeds going continuously. We know how to operate the oxygen concentrator. But as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, it's no fun. I had secretly hoped that we would be bringing home a Cora who didn't require any, or at least all, of these things. That we could be a tube-less, cord-less household. And on top of that there is always that lingering fear that she will get worse on our watch, and we'll be back to the hospital.

But then there is the third emotion: hope. The idea starts to creep in that soon, if not Monday, Cora might be living under the same roof with us. That she could finally occupy her co-sleeper that has patiently been waiting in a corner of our bedroom for the past five months for someone to live in it. Just like the shiny new swing Jason bought one powerless night in the ICU back in November; just like the ultra posh bouncy seat our close friends gave us the week before Cora arrived. They've all been vigilantly waiting to sleep, swing and bounce our baby -- and now it appears they are close to getting their chance.

It's complicated. As usual.

In the morning I'll surprise Dominic and Cosette on our way to the airport. They will be thrilled. So will I. But there is still a bit of heaviness that I'll unfortunately carry with me. The feeling that we should all five of us be there together. The worry about whether or not they will discharge Cora while I'm 500 miles away. The sadness about what Cora has already endured, about what our family has gone through, and the uncertainty of the path that lies in the years ahead.

That is a bit of luggage I always have. But I'm also packing a light saber and a Darth Vader costume, for a certain little someone obsessed with the beautiful world of make believe.