2003 Journal Links

Archie Moore is a flirt. Or maybe "social butterfly" would be a better way to describe how the little man acts towards his visitors. Which ever explanation you prefer, the baby is definitely beginning to develop his own, charming personality.

Today, as Archie's nurse listened to his heart and lungs, he interacted with her, clicking his tongue and contorting his face into all sorts of different expressions. She spoke to him, too. "Is that so?" she asked. "Well, how about that."

She and I talked about the baby's feeding schedule, his wet diapers, the frequency of his bowel movements. And then we talked about Archie's wild hair and how it looks like thin flames leaping from his brow. Sitting on my lap, Archie even balanced his head for a while, turning it from side to side, showing off his company. The baby and I are beginning to look forward to the nurse's weekly visits, as homebound as we are.

Archie gained 2.5 ounces over the past week. Not bad considering yesterday morning's feedings were a wash, interrupted by a visit to the Children's Hospital for a doctor's appointment.

My mother spent the night Tuesday so that she could help me take Archie to the hematologist/oncologist's office Wednesday morning. Because the less-traveled roads were still glazed over with ice, we knew we'd need to allot extra time for the drive into town.

An hour after we left our driveway, my mother guided her car into the parking garage outside Greenville Memorial Hospital's Cancer Treatment Center. She had dropped Archie and me off at the revolving door one hundred yards away. I stood inside, balancing the baby's car seat on the back of an overstuffed chair, holding his oxygen tank in my other hand. As soon as my mother joined us in the lobby, we three made our way to the doctor's office on the second floor.

The woman who greeted us at the receptionist's desk as me if Archie had already had his heart surgery. She wanted to know what it was like as her daughter's firstborn was scheduled for surgery at MUSC sometime this spring. Not wanting to frighten her with details specific to Archie's case, particulars her grandchild may be spared, I edited my comments. "It's was the most difficult day of my life," I offered. "But MUSC is fantastic, and the surgery made such a difference for Archie. He's a brand-new baby."

After we checked in, we were sent downstairs to register and then to have blood drawn for the baby's CBC. During admission, the registrar was unable to find the baby's records on her computer. "And he was born at Greenville Memorial?" she asked.

"Yes," I told her. "He was in the NICU for 41 days."

"Is it John F.?"

"No," I responded. "John A." The registrar shook her head. I think she was getting flustered.

My mother interjected. "You should try Archie." I agreed. During his time in the NICU, the baby was so well known that all of his records were filed in a folder simply titled "Archie."

"Here he is," the registrar reported, smiling. "Archie. Date of birth is ten-twenty-six-oh-three."

After completing the admission's process, we were sent down the hall to the lab. "Second door on the right," the registrar instructed. "Don't go in the lab with the 'Adult' sign. Go in the lab with the 'Pediatrics' sign on the door."

The lab technician was wonderful, explaining each move she made. She worked Archie's heal as he, crying, buried his face in my chest. "Is fine, baby boy," she cooed. "I'll be through soon."

"O.K., Mom and Grandma," the technician said. "Do you see all of those Band-Aid boxes on the counter behind me?"

I nodded my head. "Ummhmm." The counter was lined with Band-Aid boxes filled with cartoon characters and colorful designs.

"Which one would Archie like to wear today?"

"I don't know," I said, laughing. "What's popular among the three-month olds these days?"

She smiled. "I'll give him Elmo."

Back in the doctor's office, the nurse taking the baby's stats asked me what church my husband and I attended. I told her. She smiled. "Me, too. And he's been on my prayer list. I knew, too, that he was one of our patients."

I thanked her and told her about Archie's surgery. "Celestial intervention, they said," I explained. "So thanks for the prayers." We smiled at each other then.

When Dr. Stroud came into the exam room, he seemed genuinely excited to see Archie. He told me about the conversation he had with the hematologist/oncologist at MUSC, about how he educated them on Archie's case. "They were panicked," he reported. "I told them to relax."

"They were worried about the leukemia. No one really knew what would happen during surgery," I offered. "You should have seen them when they finally came to talk to us. Archie's cardiologists seemingly appeared from no where, and listened to them talk with their arms folded."

"I know it," he responded. "I know."

I offered to put Archie on the exam table, but Dr. Stroud said that he'd be happy to exam him as he sat on my lap. "Hello, Archie! How are you?" the doctor asked.

Archie opened his eyes wide.

"Do you remember me? I'm the bone marrow guy."

"Gaaaa!" Archie answered. He clicked his tongue at the doctor. Everyone in the room laughed.

The baby's CBC showed that the white blood cell count is now at 10,000, significantly less that it was when Archie was in the NICU, and less, too, than it was when he was in the PCICU. With his blasts at only four percent, the doctor concluded that the trend seems to indicate that Archie's leukemia is transient. "Come back in April and we'll check again," he said. He gave me a "thumbs up," and I, smiling, returned the gesture.