The Boy Gets Sick, Part III

Part III

Homeward Bound

Read Part II here

With the sun not yet up, we drove around the block and entered the on-ramp to the FDR.  It was 6am Saturday morning.  Max fell asleep even before we hit the RFK Bridge (formerly known as the Triborough ).  We'd now been up a full day and we were just setting out on a 3 hour drive.  Linda took a 15 minute power snooze and I listened to the news.  I was acutely aware that I was tired and was mustering every ounce of concentration on driving safely and staying alert.  It was tiring just to focus, but I knew that the coffee rest stop wasn't far.  Traffic was light and the sun began to rise by the time we got to the first Mobil rest area on the Hutchinson River Parkway headed to Connecticut.  The coffee tasted so, so good.  It was a bolt of energy that came as much from caffeine as from the faith that I put in it. We drove quietly up the near empty Merritt Highway, all its luscious trees now bare before winter.  Linda checked on the sleeping Max every quarter hour or so.  He was sound asleep, breathing better and had no fever.  A few times he woke up, took a confused look around and went back to sleep.  His eyes rolled in his head from exhaustion.

As I drove the winding road through the tree lined corridor, I felt relieved to be out of New York and back on our way to Connecticut.  Certainly Max had been having trouble breathing, but I'd had a tight chest since we arrived at the emergency room.  I began to breathe easier, but with each easier breath, I grew weary.  I pulled into a rest stop and Linda and I switched seats.  I dozed hard for 20 minutes and all of a sudden we were at our exit, #69 on I-84.  Max was still resting comfortably and we were just 30 minutes from our doctor's office.  We pulled into the nearly vacant parking lot behind Day Kimball Hospital in Putnam, where our pediatric center is.  We made our way to the waiting room and it had never been as full as it was then.  There were a half dozen kids, but how many of them had just come from an emergency room in Manhattan?

We didn't have to wait long and soon we were in yet another examining room.  Unbelievably, Max was happy to see another doctor.  They listened to our practiced account; we gave them Max's discharge papers from Beth Israel.  They checked Max's breathing and the oxygen in his blood.  They looked in his ears and got the nebulizer ready for another Arbuterol treatment.  The doctor and nurse were fantastic.  They answered all of our questions.  They didn't mumble.  They were appropriately charmed by Max.  Max already knew what to do with the mask and settled right in.  We asked the doctor about the course of action the Beth Israel doctor had taken.  I was both relieved and disappointed.  I was relieved because our doctor thought that the ER doctor had done everything that he would have.  I was disappointed because it meant that the mumbly jerk was a competent physician.

I drove us home from the hospital and dropped off Linda and Max to get settled.  I went to a couple of drug stores to fill prescriptions and buy a home nebulizer machine.  I wasn't tired anymore, though I should have been. When I got home, Max was still awake.  And later when it came time for a nap, he only slept for 20 minutes.  His schedule was completely blown out of the water.  One moment he was going to sleep in Manhattan and the next thing he knows he's back in CT; the last thing he can remember before coming home is being in an emergency room.  That'd be strange for anyone and it must have been somewhat incomprehensible to a newly minted two year-old.

We'd all been awake for a long, long time, but we were also so overtired that it didn't matter anymore.  We passed the day playing in the living room, Linda and I alternating between the couch and time on the floor with Max.  Eventually it was time to put Max to sleep and this time he didn't fight it.  Linda and I were exhausted, but too hungry to go to sleep.  We cooked an easy dinner and talked about what a crazy day we had, or was it two days?  We were watching TV on the couch when I finally fell asleep.  Linda roused me and I immediately said, "Just give me a few minutes to get my bearings," as if that's a phrase I frequently utter.  (Though I think I'll begin answering any question that way.  Try it.  "Would you like anything in your coffee?"  "Just give me a few minutes to get my bearings.")

As I lay in bed, I began to dream, half awake and half asleep.  My eyes were closed and apropos of nothing I said to Linda, "The dessert has fruit in it."  It had been a wild few days for sure.

The Boy Gets Sick, Part II

Part II

The Boy Isn't Himself

Read Part I here

Dawn's light had not yet filtered in from the shadeless window.  Though it was nearing six o'clock in the morning, it was still quite dark.  Max was stirring alongside me and he usually didn't stir long before he commanded us, "Wake up, mommy!  Wake up, daddy!"  In hindsight Linda did notice that Max's heart was beating somewhat faster than normal.  We also thought that his being a bit warm was just that our bedroom was warm and he was wearing those toasty footy pajamas.  It was unusual that we were able to coax Max into staying in bed for a while; we even succeeded in getting him to sleep some more and that doesn't usually happen anymore at all.  By 8am we three were downstairs and soon thereafter joined my sister, brother-in-law, and some friends of theirs at another New York City diner.  It was colder that morning and it was a few more blocks to this diner than the one the day before.  Max didn't want to walk like he had yesterday; he wanted to be carried. I bore his solid 32 pounds down the sidewalk.  When we were seated, Max repeated his breakfast demand, "I want French toast!"  But today instead of putting  the plate back in mere minutes, he only picked at his breakfast.  This was when I thought that he wasn't himself. We chalked it up to a bit of a party hangover; all of us were in a post Birthday/Thanksgiving party haze.

The best part of the day after Thanksgiving for our family is that there is no schedule of events.  Some of us watched TV, others went shopping.  While Max napped, Linda and I took the opportunity to go for a run together along the East River as my family babysat.  After he woke Max said that he wanted to play basketball.  We had a ball and there was a court at the corner that we'd played on a few days earlier.  But when we got there, he just wanted to be held.  His cousin Grace entreated him to play, but he refused.  Even when my nephew and his friend arrived, two boys Max adores, he couldn't be convinced.  I held him and ran around the court taking awful one handed shots while simultaneously trying to protect Max's head from my errant rebounds.  Linda left to get some toddler friendly cough medicine.  After she left, Max whined "Mommy" repeatedly for the entire 20 minutes she was gone.

When we came back inside from the park, Max continued to just want to be held or rest on top of me or Linda.  This was another clear sign to tell us he was sick.  Max only cuddles with us like that when he's not feeling his best.  And as he was lying on Linda, she noticed more easily that his pulse was rapid.  His breathing seemed more rapid as well. In hindsight it's easy to see where this story is going, but at the time, it was almost imperceptibly incremental, as minutes of a day can be.  By late afternoon I was sufficiently concerned and spent some time on the internet investigating his symptoms.  I read how a toddler with a fever will often have a higher heart rate as the body works harder to get the blood cells where they need to be to fight off the infection.  He was sick, but he didn't seem in any great distress.  We watched UConn on TV lose horribly to Duke in mens' basketball. (That might have been the bad omen now that I think of it.)  By the second half, the outcome clear and with Max's condition not improving, I went out to a local Walgreen's and picked up a thermometer and some Infant Tylenol.  And because we didn't want to take any chances we called our pediatrician's office and reached the on-call nurse.

Most of the family were going out to dinner that night along with some good friends - our last get together before people headed home the next day.  My mother agreed to stay home and watch Max and Grace.  On the way out the door, we got the call back from the doctor.  As we walked the 20 blocks north and west, we recounted Max's symptoms and the doctor asked us questions.  He eventually said that some of the symptoms were concerning, especially the rapid breathing.  He said that it would be a good idea to have him looked at, but that if his condition remained the same, it would be okay to wait until the next day.

My mom was checking on Max regularly (i.e. in bed with him) and counting his respirations per minute.  We'd asked her to text us if his condition changed. We arrived at the restaurant, hopeful that he'd rest comfortably and that we weren't making a horrible parenting decision by going out.  Our bodies were at dinner, our minds remained with Max.  Midway through the meal my mom updated me that his breathing was slightly faster.  Linda and I tried to focus on our family and friends.  It was, after all, a special occasion; we wanted to be present for it.  But we did have a sick boy at home and while he was being closely looked after, it wasn't by us.

When we all left the restaurant, Pranna, to walk back to the apartment, Linda, my cousin, Sam, and I strode briskly ahead.  Linda and I walked in the door and immediately climbed the three steep staircases to our guest room.  My mother was lying in bed with Max and told us he was really hot.  Max was groggily sleeping when I took his temperature.  It was 102.6.  His breathing was now clearly labored and his heart rate was still quick.  So instead of turning in for the night we turned on our heels to leave for the emergency room.  We gathered up Max and a few of his things.  Just before midnight, we arrived at Beth Israel Medical Center at the corner of 16th St. and 1st Ave.

The Boy Gets Sick, Part I

Part I

The Birthday Boy Travels to NYC for Thanksgiving

A few days before Thanksgiving Max and I took the train to New York City.  Linda drove us to the New London train station early that morning.  I had told Max about the train and even though he didn't really know what to expect, he seemed to be looking forward to it.  Aside from the loud horn scaring Max as the train pulled into the station he thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  My sister, Elise, and family had rented a townhouse in NYC for the Thanksgiving holiday week.  Max and I went down early to spend some extra time with them.  It was supposed to be an auspicious start to the long holiday weekend.

In addition to it being Thanksgiving that Thursday it also marked Max's second birthday.  Max had been hearing about the big day for weeks.  He knew he was going to be two, that he was going to eat cake, and that he was getting presents.  He knew, and had been practicing, the Happy Birthday to Max song.  We were all excited.

I spent Tuesday and Wednesday hanging around with family and friends.  Max got some good time in with his cousins, aunts, uncle, and grandma.  He loves playing with the older kids and I love it when the older kids play with Max.  Kids have so much more patience for the antics of a toddler.  They don't seem to mind when a boy nears the stairs or pretends to hit them.  It's a lot more fun for Max to play with kids because they don't say "no" as much.  Linda drove in late Wednesday night, arriving around 11pm.  The three of us slept together in our third floor guest room.  What fun it was for Max to go to sleep in a portable crib and then wake up in the morning in the cozy comfort between his daddy and mommy.  Having not seen Linda in a couple of days, Max was eager to wake us up.  The fact that it was still dark and not quite six in the morning didn't deter him the least bit. This was, after all, his second birthday, which though a big deal to Max, felt like a much bigger deal to me. What were we doing two years ago?

We were in a hospital, with Max's birth mom and her parents.  Two years ago we weren't even sure that we'd be adopting Max for sure.  Birthdays are a perfect marker of time.  It seems obvious, and it is, but no less significant. How often do we use a birthday to pause and reflect?  Every year, it seems.  What was I doing last year?  5 years ago?  And as we get older we can now say things like 20 years ago and remember it.  30 years ago and still remember what you were doing at that time in your life?  Where did you live?  What was your family like then?  What were your hopes?  And remember back then how you'd wonder what you would be doing when you turned 40.  And now you are.  Or will be soon.  Or were.


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I have no recollection of my second birthday.  None whatsoever.  It's very likely that Max won't have any recollection of his either. I am, however, quite certain that Linda and I won't soon forget it.  The day itself swept by like a whirlwind.  Linda and I took Max out of the house early so as to not wake everyone up.  We walked around the block in the cool morning air to a local diner.  A New York City diner.  It was Thanksgiving Day and so early that Cooper Town Diner on 1st Avenue wasn't very busy.  We sat ourselves in a booth and Max ordered, or rather commanded, his favorite breakfast:  "I want French toast!"  As per usual Max ate ravenously.  We often have to ration his bites so that he doesn't overstuff his mouth.  If he likes it and is hungry, he just shoves bite after bite in his mouth and his chewing rate can't keep up.  This trait can only be amusing as exhibited by a toddler such as Max.  This is not an attractive habit in adults.

After breakfast, a group of us took a taxi to the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  The weather was perfect.  It was dry, a bit overcast, with little wind.  The temperature was mild for late November and hats were unnecessary.  We'd tried to get Max excited about the balloons and band and he was, but it wasn't like the parade knocked his socks off.  He said hello to the balloons (sometimes repeatedly) and liked seeing the horses and the marching bands.  He was sitting on my shoulders and soon I could feel his head was resting on mine.  The boy was tired. After around forty five minutes at the parade, Linda, Max, and I headed back to the townhouse.  With both his birthday party and a raucous Thanksgiving festivity still yet to come, we hoped he'd get a good nap in to rest up for the action.  And Max did.

As he slept, my family and I all attended to various tasks.  There were birthday presents still to wrap, cakes to be frosted, balloons to be blown up, and last minute Thanksgiving shopping, too.  And while we all did this, Max slept unaware.  When he awoke that afternoon, Linda and I both went upstairs to fetch him.

He was still quite groggy as we descended to the living room where all our family and friends waited.  "Happy Birthday, Max!" we all cheered.  We spent the next hours as one does at these affairs.  We brought out a cake, sang, blew out candles, ate, and opened presents.  We all sat on the floor encircling Max as he opened his gifts.  He even used a new toy screwdriver to help him tear the wrapping paper. From that party we rolled right into Thanksgiving.  More people arrived and as some worked in the kitchen and others cavorted in the living room, Max happily ran around, hit balloons in the air, played with toys, ate food, and had the kind of rip roaring good time that only a two year-old can.  Aside from a niggling cough there was nothing to foretell what was on the horizon.  By the time we put him to sleep for the night around 7:30, he immediately sacked out.  Linda and I couldn't help but remark to each other what a great day it had been, for Max, and for us as his parents.  We couldn't have imagined what a difference 24 hours would make.

The next few hours were spent sprawled out on couches and chairs in a post Thanksgiving meal haze.  I don't want to give our enemies any ideas, but America must truly be at its weakest about 8:30pm Thanksgiving night:  300 million Americans in a tryptophan, alcohol, pie and ice cream induced coma.

But interrupting our hazy food fog plaintive sounds from Max were heard through the monitor.  It wasn't even 10pm and he'd woken up.  This would be unusual at home, but with all the activity and the little cough that he developed during the day, it seemed understandable.  Linda went upstairs to soothe him and it worked for a bit but a short time later he was awake again.  Since we were basically just laying on the floor anyway, Linda and I opted to go upstairs to sleep in a bed.  It had been a full day and with Max's inner alarm clock set to 5:30am, we knew we would all be well served by an early bedtime.  We all slept hard.

When I woke up just before 6am the next day, I didn't have any reason to know that there was a hospital emergency room just a few blocks from where we were staying.  I'd never heard of Albuterol and I certainly didn't know when I awoke that morning, the next time I would go back to sleep would be nearly 40 hours later and some 165 miles away.

To Be Continued

A Gift Named Max

Linda and I got married in June of 2004.  At the time we were both 34 years old and eager to start a family.  We were living in Long Beach, California, but were readying for a move back to New England.  There were many reasons why we thought moving back east made sense, but the primary one was that we thought that with a baby being closer to our family would be a benefit to all.  It is; we just didn't realize at the time that it would be years until we found that out.

We ceased using contraception even before the wedding and wondered aloud about what would happen if we conceived on our honeymoon.  It seems so laughable a thought now since months and months of good loving passed without pregnancies.  We eventually consulted fertility doctors.  Without going into the details of the many, many explanations, tests, and information to which we availed ourselves, you'll just have to take my word that it was not a simple or swift process.  The good news is that the doctors couldn't point to a reason why we weren't conceiving.  The bad news is that the doctor's couldn't point to a reason why weren't conceiving.  They call it "Unexplained Infertility."

We went through several cycles of IUI and eventually moved onto IVF.  With the exception of one 'chemical pregnancy' (which basically means that there was a pregnancy but it was so weak other than chemical indications it wasn't really viable), each effort failed.  Between all the procedures, we probably did at least 6 fertility treatments.  (Of course Linda knows exactly how many, when they happened, and what we had for dinner those nights.)  You can imagine the hope and fear that accompanies each treatment.  Will it work?  When will we know?  What happens next if it doesn't work?  It's an emotional roller coaster no doubt well documented in countless blogs.  'It' never happened for us.  We were more than disappointed.

We eventually sought a second opinion of our medical situation from a fertility doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital.  He reviewed the reams of medical information we provided - all our tests, the history of each of our fertility cycles, the way Linda's body responded to medication, my sperm counts.  He basically said what our previous doctor said (though in a manner far less brusque).  We did some additional genetic testing which only confirmed that genetic issues were also not clearly to blame.  He then asked us to ask ourselves a question which was this:  What does it mean to be a parent?

The question cut right to the heart of the matter.  If we wanted to start a family, have a baby, conceiving was not the only option.  We'd discussed adoption in a cursory manner before, always saying that we'd be open to the idea.  Now, however, it might be the only choice for us to grow our family.  We'd already spent years trying to conceive and we were no closer to being a mom or a dad.  We weren't getting younger either.  Thankfully much of our fertility expenses were covered by health insurance (something required by the state of Massachusetts.  Had we stayed in California the costs for diagnostics and treatments might have been prohibitively expensive), it was beginning to make little sense to continue them.  After all those treatments are generally used to bypass some failing part of the reproductive process and there was nothing that those treatments were doing to address our unknown issues.  We decided to forego any further fertility treatments and to look closer at adoption.  We also believed that because there was no infertility diagnosis that there might still be a chance we'd get pregnant on our own (and certainly we are not going to stop trying for that).

I'll again spare you the many details of the long process by which we deliberated adopting.  Suffice it to say we did a lot of research.  International or Domestic?  Private or Public?  Open or Closed?  Newborn or somewhat older?  Caucasian or other?  And exactly how much is this going to cost?!  We went to adoption agencies' information sessions.  We spent the day at an Adoption Community of New England Conference going to several workshops.  There was so much information to be heard we left before the day was over, our heads already exploding with adoption information overload.  We looked at books and spent countless hours on the internet.  We talked to other people who went through the adoption process.  When we felt that we'd done our fair share of information gathering we settled on an adoption course.  We knew that we wanted an infant, a newborn.  And really the only way accomplish that was to adopt domestically.  We selected an agency that a friend recommended, Adoption Resources.  We'd gone to their information session and felt a connection to the woman who ran the workshop as well as headed the agency.

As you might expect there's a lengthly process through which one has to go to get approved to adopt a baby (ironically far more difficult than that of two teens in the back of a car seat).  We filled out dozens of forms, applications, and releases, were met several times by a social worker who completes what's called a home study (which is required for all adoptions).  We also had to make an album of our family that would be viewed by birth families to consider adoptive families.  The album was the most bizarre part of the process for me as it's essentially a marketing brochure of you!  We included a letter to the birth mother/parents and a lot of pictures of us and our family.  By the time we'd completed our home study and gotten all our background checks done and finished the album, basically marking the point at which we could be shown to birth parents, it was late summer 2007.

Then we waited.  The adoption agency said a match can take anywhere from 6 to 16 months - on average, sometimes shorter and sometimes longer.

Adoption Resources, like many agencies, doesn't necessarily tell adoptive parents when their albums are being shown.  No sense in getting us all excited before a birth mother selects a family.  It makes sense, but to not know at all when you might get a call is hard.  It was something somewhere on our minds from the moment we were ready to be presented until we got 'the call.'  In our application we listed some of the criteria that we'd accept in a birth mother.  There's a comprehensive list of things to consider - so many in fact we consulted a pediatrician to help us determine which medical items were inconsequential and which things might be more worrisome.   In the final analysis, we were interested in what would give us the best chance of a healthy baby.  And because we were open to a baby of any racial/cultural background we were in the 'non-traditional' pool.  In theory this meant we might be matched sooner rather than later.

Sometime around the middle to end of October, Linda got a call from our agency.  A match between a woman and an adoptive family had fallen through and they wanted to know if we would consider this woman.  The birth mom was past her due date and the agency was looking to find a new match quickly.  The match had fallen through because the birth mom wanted to have an open adoption specified in the adoption agreement (something she'd failed to make clear beforehand to the adoptive family).   Because Linda and I said we were amenable to an open adoption, they called us.  There were some medical items we were concerned about but after consulting with our doctor and a long weekend's private deliberation, we said we would like to be considered.

We met the birth parents at a 99 Restaurant in Billerica (Great Meal, Great Deal, Great Babies?!).  In what was no doubt the strangest gathering I'd been to, we met the birth parents (mid to late 30s, unmarried, poor, hard luck cases) along with our Adoption Resources social worker.  We stuffed ourselves in a small booth and I was convinced that every other patron there was aware of the nature of this gathering.  The birth mom was bursting at the seams, now several days past her due date.  As awkward as it was for Linda and me, it seemed equally so for them.  How could it not be?  Only the the social worker seemed accustomed to the bizarre scene.  After discussing the nature of the open adoption and getting to know each other over a small meal they left, later confirming that they decided that we were a match for them.  Apparently the relief of having found adoptive parents was what she was waiting for.  She gave birth to a boy at Winchester Hospital later that same night.

Birth parents must wait four full days after delivery before they can sign surrender documents.  Linda and I spent several hours the first day in the hospital, as we were advised and as we desired.  We got to know the birth parents a bit better and while we didn't have anything in common, we found common ground.  We could sense the pain they were going through in electing to give their baby up for adoption (they each already had children).  Our social worker told us that she saw some red flags and was leery that they'd actually go through with the adoption.  (It's not uncommon at all for birth parents to change their mind after giving birth.  It's a trying time for both birth and adoptive parents.)  And while Linda and I tried to steel ourselves in the event they did change their minds, we had to proceed with the hope that they wouldn't.  We spend several hours at the hospital everyday.  We ran to Babies 'R Us to get supplies.  We confided the news to friends who unloaded their attic of a car seat, bassinet, and other assorted things newborns need.

The day before the fateful day we were to bring the baby home, I installed the car seat; I even had the local fire station inspect it for safety.  The next day we nervously drove to the hospital and met with the birth parents, for what would be the last time.  We talked candidly with them and shared our concerns with the social worker.  She in turn spent many, many hours with the birth family.  It was late afternoon, almost evening by the time we were told what we now expected:  they were leaning toward parenting the baby.  They wanted the weekend to think it over carefully.  Instead of the baby coming home to us, it would spend the weekend in temporary foster care.  (We offered to be that foster care, but said we only wanted to do it if they felt there was a reasonable chance that they were going to give the baby up for adoption, something that was not the case.)  We left the hospital with an empty car seat and heavy hearts.  We'd been warned that this could happen, even before we met this family.  By a few days after that boy was born, we were fairly certain that the birth parents would keep him.  None of that quelled our hurt in that moment.  It was not meant to be.  That boy was not meant to be our boy.

It was then that fate interceded (or perhaps it had already).  It turned out that prior to this birth parent seeing our booklet, it had been shown to another woman.  That woman liked us, but by the time she'd conveyed that to Adoption Resources, our booklet had been shown to the other birth parents who'd selected us.  When they decided to parent their baby, we were then 'free' to be considered by this new woman.  In the matter of little more than a week we went to being matched with a baby, not actually getting to adopt that baby, and then being matched again.  We learned on a Monday that the first birth parents had definitely decided to parent.  The next day we learned that we were going to meet with the new birth mom.  We met the following week and felt a much stronger connection to this woman.  We were to meet again sometime after Thanksgiving which was the following week.  The baby boy was due on December 15th (my birthday, no less)!

I went to work on the Monday after Thanksgiving and was just settling into my desk when I got a call from Linda.  The birth mother's water just broke.  "What does that mean, exactly?"  I asked.  "It means you're leaving work soon."  We drove out to Newton Wellesley Hospital later that day and met the birth mom and her parents (all lovely, lovely people).  By that evening, November 26th, 2007, Max was born via C-section.  We spent many hours over the next four days with Max and with the birth family at the hospital.  We were sensitive to their feelings and they to ours.  We gave each other space when needed, but also made sure to get better acquainted. We were doing our best to contain our anticipation, knowing that as close as we were, we were really no closer than we'd been before.  Given our recent previous experience, Linda and I were far more cognizant that nothing was certain until it was certain.

On the day we were to bring Max home we arrived at the hospital at the appointed hour, the birth mom and family having already said their sad goodbyes and departed.  The nurses were expecting us.  We entered the room previously occupied by the birth mom.  The bed covers were displaced from where she'd been just an hour earlier.  There were some flowers for us and a teddy bear for Max.  We spent some time in that room with Max and with the social worker.  Finally, we gathered our things and felt the heft of the little boy in the infant carrier.  We loaded him into the back of the car where Linda sat close.  We drove cautiously.  It was a sunny day as we drove north on Rt. 128 home to Salem.  Linda let tears of relief, joy, and happiness flow.  I snuck careful peeks in the rearview mirror while I quietly reflected on the enormity of this long awaited day.

It's been almost two years since that day and much has happened.  Max has become the center of our lives (much to the displeasure of our two cats).  We became parents, pretty good ones, too.  We keep in touch with Max's birth mom (and her parents) regularly.  In the two years since his birth we've met up with them several times and welcome the fact that Max is as loved by them as he is by us.  We've finally moved our family closer to our families in Connecticut.  Without the aid of fertility treatments we got pregnant last December.  Regular readers of this blog sadly know that in the 8th month, Leo was stillborn.  The only thing that served to console us was knowing that we had Max.  The immenseness of the blessing he is to us is immeasurable - just as any child is to any parent.  We still hope to grow our family, however it may happen, but we also know that if for whatever reason we only had Max he would still be more than we could ever have hoped.