The past several weeks have probably been the most grueling, emotionally-charged weeks of my entire life; and as I write this, it shows no signs of ending.

It seems that I have been living at the hospital, where my infant son, Markku Guillaume', has been putting up a valiant struggle to survive. My wife, Arnelle, has since gone home, but she is busy trying to keep family members and friends informed about the status of our son's chances of survival, trying to keep some semblance of order, while I remain behind, uncertain of our little guy's chances.

I never dreamed that we would be in the position we are currently at, but Arnelle's water broke, and she went into premature labor. That morning, we went to the hospital; a few hours later, we were the parents of a little boy who resembled a rat more than a human child: he was red all over, it looked as though he had been chewed up in spots, and when he cried, it sounded like a cross between a mouse or a very young baby kitten. It was nothing like I had ever heard before. He was appallingly tiny, and he was soon whisked off to the NICU (Nick-you), or Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

The next time we saw our baby, we were even more dismayed at the sight of him. He lay on his back in an Isolette, or open bed, specially designed for small, or sick, newborns, a respirator tube snaking from his face, his eyes fused shut, and wires and tubes coming from and going into his little body. He was totally naked, save from a diaper underneath his legs and bottom, and he lay there, looking more dead than alive. It was terrifying, absolutely terrifying!

Yet the doctors and nurses took awfully good care of him, and they reassured us that little Markku was now in the best possible place, and if anything were to go wrong (God forbid!!), they'd see to it immediately. But this brought very little comfort: our son still had a very good chance of having something go wrong because he was so very small in the first place.

When born, Markku weighed just one pund. That was three weeks ago. He now weighs l pound and five ounces. A little bigger, perhaps, but still definitely not out of the woods just yet.

The first of his medical crises occurred when he tried to quit breathing. His color changed from red to a sickly grey/blue/green color, and alarms sounded; soon nurses and doctors surrounded Markku's bedside, gently yet ferverently prodding him to start breathing again. A few moments later (but what seemed like an eternity for me), Markku took a few gasping breaths, and he soon began to breathe on his own. The second event occurred when Markku developed an infection in his bowels and once again, he turned that awful blue/grey/green color as his belly swelled up like a toad's, and the alarms again started to sound. Again, the medical team sprang into action, trying to get his high fever under control, and trying to figure out exactly what was causing the infection. All feedings were immediately stopped, and they rushed him into surgery, where they did an emergency colostomy on him. He had an overwhelming bacterial infection common in premature infants called "necrotizing enterocolitis", and sometimes surgery was necessary in the more severe cases. Diseased portions of the bowels were surgically removed, and if this did not happen, he could very easily die. He also had several rounds of jaundice, and he would have to lie under special lights to lower the levels of "bilirubin" in his delicate little system. He looked just like a little pumpkin.

Now, three-and-a-half weeks later, I am happy to say that Mark's first round of medical crises are now overwith, but he is still a very sick little boy. His survival is still in doubt, and his little body has been abused, and it is now covered with puncture marks and bruises; and his arms and legs have been tied to the bed, so he doesn't dislodge the tubes invading his small body or the colostomy bag. He is still in pretty critical condition, but he is fighting hard, and to see his still-fighting spirit gives me a sense of hope, even during these uncertain times.

~To be continued.~