How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not "the thing with feathers". The thing with feathers has turned to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.Dickinson claimed that hope "never asked a crumb of me." But the hope that Max might resolve his CSF imbalance on his own, without major surgical intervention, has Carolyn and me giving in to every superstitious impulse. Personally, I live in fear of karmic retribution in this life, so I'm practicing random acts of kindness at a frenzied pace. I may even stop calling the neurologists "phrenologists", because it could be bad karma to make even gentle fun of the guys who might have to operate on your son's brain. And that's worth far more than a crumb to me.
In other news, Nurse B. (who reminds you of your high school class valedictorian) reports that finding Max in his new crib is like a game of "Where's Waldo". Carolyn agreed that, indeed, Max's crib is now pretty "tricked out". I'll grant that it's not the typical utilitarian box that Max inhabited for most of his life (so far). But it's easy to find Max even in his fancy new crib: just follow all the wires.
But judge for yourself. Can you find Max in this picture? (Click on picture for the surprise answer.)
