As I mentioned previously, Zoey underwent an alternative ROP treatment Wednesday morning, during which her eyes were injected with an antibody called Avastin (it has a medical name, but damned if I can pronounce it), which basically inhibits the growth of capillaries in the eyes to prevent them from growing out of control and causing damage such as detached retinas.
The procedure went well enough, but Zoey has been slow to recover from anethesia, so she's been back on a ventilator the last couple days and she's been resistant to attempts to bring her back up entirely--including using Tylenol, oddly enough. Until she's recovered enough to remember to breathe on her own, she'll remain on the vent, which really sucks because it feels like we're back to square one all over again when I see her. That ventilator does not bring back pleasant memories.
Also, feedings have been suspended until she recovers, so obviously that inhibits her ability to continue putting on ounces. It's all just another in a long list of setbacks we were warned about but hate to experience nevertheless.
Zoey was only the second preemie to undergo this innovative treatment at this particular medical establishment, which is both weirdly unnerving but hopeful.
One more month, and she'll be home.
Hopefully.
Let me get this straight: in the 1950s, people visiting Las Vegas could go outside and see actual mushroom clouds from atomic bomb testing taking place less than 70 miles away, yet today we're supposed to get the fainting vapors about possible radiation wafting in from hobbled nuclear reactors thousands of miles away in Japan? I'm. . . skeptical.
Reading up on the ROP injection treatment performed on Zoey today, I saw "intravitreal injection of Avastin (bevacizumab)." "Bevacizumab" would have been the best Dungeons & Dragons fighter character name EVAR. "Avastin" would have been Bevacizumab's sexually ambiguous minstrel side-kick.
It is not part of a healthy business model to have a wildly popular Internet communications tool that experiences downtime and hiccups for nearly a full day. It would be like Microsoft unveiling an operating system so chock full of usability and security holes that. . . never mind, that's a bad analogy.
Regardless, Twitter, I look forward to your eventual return to full functionality and availability. Until then, I'll continue to use "Ole' Reliable," here at mu.nu to produce my random musings and updates.
About a half hour prior to Zoey's eye surgery, a doctor asked if we'd be interested in pursuing a trial ROP alternative that calls for an injection rather than laser surgery.
With only a half hour to decide, and no Web access to research the procedure, we deferred to the doctor, who assured us it was the latest ROP advancement that features less risk than laser surgery.
We'll know if the procedure worked within a week or so, although studies haven't yet determined the longer term risks or complications.
At some point, you just get the feeling everyone is winging it.
As expected, today's ROP eye exam indicated laser surgery is necessary. Zoey goes under the laser early tomorrow morning. Doctors and nurses assure us it's a routine procedure, but we live under the mantra "There's nothing routine about the preemie routine when it's your child."
Lost amid all the preemie drama of the unfolding year, I completely forgot: February marked my ninth year of blogging.
Nine freakin' years. I was 26 when I started blogging, which is hard to wrap my head around.
I started this blog as an experiment--prodded by my then-office mate, Jen--to hopefully improve my writing skills in general. . . and it's just kind of taken on a meandering life of its own in the ensuing years. It's definitely been an interesting ride, and it's a ride I almost abandoned a couple of times but soldiered on regardless.
And it's a good thing I kept at it, because having this blog to turn to in these dark--yet steadily improving--months has provided some of the strongest therapy imaginable.
Thanks again to all of you who have taken the time to comment, e-mail and share your own preemie experiences, well wishes and prayers. You've provided a source of strength during a seriously necessary time.
And, at this point, I see no reason why I shouldn't keep blogging, if for no other reason but to acknowledge a tenth year next February.
