Normal x 2: Delhi Day 89

Well, aren't we on a roll this week?

Hayden had his bronchoscopy yesterday, and the results, once again... were Normal!

The day started much like the previous. I initially went in for a discussion of the MRI report. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Can we discuss the MRI results?

Doctor: Yes, they were normal.

Crickets.

Me: Ok, great.

Doctor: (Indian blank stare.)

Me: Well... how about the  bronchoscopy?

Doctor: We can do it.

Me: When?

Doctor: Sometime today.

Me: I'd like to be here.

Doctor: (Confused look.) Well that's fine. But you can't actually be here.

Me: (American eye roll.)

I decide to have a seat for the long haul. Hayden's C-Pap has just been removed and he is looking good.

The nurses start an IV on him and I ask for a timeframe for the procedure. If it's going to be in the evening, I'd like to go back and check on Scarlett.

"Timeframe?" the nurse responds. "Oh, no. No timeframe."

Got it.

Hayden's roomie E is getting ready for discharge and I'm able to chat with E's mommy. The hearing doctor comes in to perform E's hearing test. E's mommy is asked to leave. Mind you, my lawn chair is about 2 feet from E, but alas, I am allowed to stay.

Strangers are ok. Parents are not. Oh, India...

I'm able to survive about 1.47 hours in Hayden's room before I. Must. Get. Out. I do not know how to describe the heat in the NICU, except to say that if you were to add several heat lamps and phototherapy machines to a 110 degree un-airconditioned room packed full of people... it still would not be as hot as this NICU.

I walk out to the waiting room and there are people EVERYWHERE. Lying, sitting, standing, crouching. Ahhh... it's Thursday. No wonder. Thursday is ROP day. Which means that every child in all of India comes to the NICU to have their eyes checked.

Here's the funny thing. The NICU doctors insist that you show up no later than 11 a.m. For 14 Thursdays, I've heard the same instruction. Make sure you are here no later than 11 a.m. But apparently, the NICU doctors are the only ones unaware that the eye doctor is scheduled to show up no earlier than 1 p.m. Which is actually no earlier than 2 p.m. Indian time. (New parents don't say I didn't warn you-- because you will still show up no later than 11 a.m., else we wouldn't be able to refer to you as "new" parents.)

Anyways, I find E's mommy in the waiting room, and desperate to escape the confines of  the NICU, we decide to go for a leisurely stroll around the neighborhood.

See? Told you we were desperate. 

Feeling sufficiently cooled off, we return to the NICU where E's mommy is chastised by the doctor for leaving! No worries-- it was Bernadette's idea. Mmmm that would explain it.

Meanwhile, I flag down Dr. Singh and ask for an ETA on the bronchoscopy. He knows nothing about it. Excellent. Where's Dr. Gupta? Oh, he left. Even better. I resign myself to a lawn chair in a back corner room.

I chat with the locals. I chat with the foreigners. I chat with the staff and the drivers. Another 4 hours pass by until I am the very last person left in the waiting room.

Random picture of Scarlett because this post is getting way too long.

Finally, an unfamiliar man with the air of a doctor walks in. I watch him disappear into the nursery and shortly after, the nurse calls me back.

Initially, the unfamiliar man ignores my presence, which I am completely used to by now. Indeed, I'm so busy internally cheering that I've been invited into the nursery, I hardly seem to notice.

Suddenly, he turns to me, introduces himself, shakes my hand and starts explaining the procedure that he's about to perform-- including the fact that Hayden is going to be sedated with kitamine. I am in total shock. This has never happened before in India and I tell him how grateful I am. He tells me that I am entitled to this type of information. You mean I'd be entitled to this information if I were in America, right? He has a good laugh.

He then asks if I've signed a consent. Now it's my turn to laugh. Seriously?!?

He asks the NICU nurse about a consent and now she has a good laugh. At this point it's turning into one big comedy fest.

The specialist rips off a piece of notepad paper and handwrites: "The procedure has been explained and I understand that the baby could require oxygen or C-Pap." He hands it to me and I sign. 

The NICU doctor suddenly makes an appearance and I am told to leave for the procedure. Darn. I was so close. About 15 minutes later the doctors come out and the specialist explains that everything is fine. "Everything?" the NICU doctor asks. He looks completely perplexed.

"Everything," the specialist says. "Everything looks fine."

Hmmmm... Poor NICU doctor looks incredibly frustrated. I gently suggest that perhaps "we should just have patience" and for once, he too, has a laugh.