broken symmetry: Driving the car into the garage

Google Maps estimated that the trip would take less than 7 hours, but the trip to Newport, Rhode Island to bring P and his family home yesterday took 13.5 hours.

Crystal had the new baby on Tuesday. They named him after the doctor who had saved their other son's life. Friday, everyone checked out of the hospital and spent Friday night in the Ronald MacDonald house. Eve and I met them there yesterday morning and loaded them into two cars. Eve took Crystal and the new baby. I took P and his two sons.

It was difficult going. I drove the lead vehicle and navigated, and everyone suffered. We stopped for picnics on the lawn of the rest-stops and we stopped for potty breaks when the situation required it (as it often did), but these were never enough to stop the pain. Poor Crystal suffered with breasts full of milk and a tiny baby she couldn't get out of the carseat to feed. In my car, the 2-year-old, miserable after nearly two months in the hospital and plugged into respirators, feeding tubes, catheters, shunts, and undergoing three cranial surgeries, and now lashed down in a car-seat for an impossibly long journey, began to scream.

Until last week, we thought he would be shipped out on a medical evacuation flight. Now, this fragile little guy was reliant on my good driving skills and awareness of other drivers' stupidity to keep him safe. This was nerve-wracking, but I didn't want his dad to see how worried I was. His brother, in a toddler seat beside him, was as patient as he could be. I'd loaded up coloring books and crayons, puzzles, cards, stickers, and as many toys as I could find on the dollar rack of Target during my late-night run the night before.

P did parenting from the front seat, trying hard to keep the two boys comfortable and happy.

The screaming and thrashing-about seemed dangerous to me. I worried that this little guy would whack his head or induce swelling in the brain again from his obviously elevated blood pressure. I pulled the car over several times, but we found that he wasn't hurt - he just wanted out of the seat. We couldn't do that.

After nearly two hours of howling rage, I risked to pull out my i-phone and use the application my brother had downloaded, Spotify. It allowed me to find the song I knew the boys liked: Paradise by Coldplay.

It worked. He calmed down and, though he still can't speak, he vocalized with the music: "Para...para...paradise". I was so relieved and grateful, I could kiss Chris Martin. We listened over and over and over.

I can't begin to express how grateful I am that we got everyone to Rhode Island safely. It was no sure thing. But it needed to happen. When Eve told me what needed to be done, she said: "It's like we've done the Dakar rally through the Saharan Desert, and all that's left is to pull the car into the garage. We need to pull the fucking car into the garage."

She's right. This has been a marathon. At any point along the way, things could have taken a turn for the worse. When they brought the two little boys into the hospital last month, one was dead. They worked a miracle. Everyone is alive. And our little guy is doing well. He's starting to talk at last. And, when we finally brought him into his new home and he saw the books and toys he recognized, and realized that he was home at last, he walked around the place like a madman, holding onto Eve's hands for balance as he wobbled about. He jumped and squealed with joy.

My little 4-year-old friend snuggled up against me last night, relieved to be at home at last. He sucked his thumb and reached up with his other hand to thread his fingers through my hair and pull at the fleshy bit of skin at my jawline.

This morning, he came into my room first thing and declared to me: "Je ne veux pas que tu partes"

The first part I heard and understood: "I don't want..."

"Je ne comprends pas," I said.

"Je ne veux pas que tu partes" he said again.

"Je ne comprends pas partes," I said. "qu'Est-ce que c'est partes?"

"Partir," he said. I understood. Partir is to leave. To depart.

"I don't want to leave you either, buddy," I said. I wanted to snuggle him on my lap but his pants were wet where he peed the bed last night.

I tried to use my French to tell him I didn't want to leave either, but the broad grin on his face made me feel like I'd missed the mark. Had I told him that I wasn't going to leave?

Eve and I fixed breakfast for the two little boys (Eggs and grapes cut in half so as not to be a choking hazard.)

As it came time to go, he lingered by my side. He reached up for me to hold him, and I'm grateful for the months of weight lifting that make this an easy task. Then, we sat together on the couch, and he climbed into my lap and I held him like a baby. This seems to comfort him, make him feel that he is cared for, even as his little brothers need the attention of infants. He looked angry at me as I left. It's probably best that he get pissed at me and . I would take him home with me if I could.