"You seem to be worried."

I found this to be an odd sort of statement from our wonderful dayshift nurse, and it led me to wonder whether Joe and I have been so long in their midst that we seem more caregivers, or peers, and less parents. Perhaps our ability to suction is seen as our ability to be in control, or our ability to laugh is sometimes taken as lack of worry. Isaiah today was the most responsive he has been. Yet, even as as I smiled at his smiles, I searched for clues: purple veins under his eyes, redness at his central line insertion site, shaking hands and quivering lips. Sometimes it is frantic, as though if my observations could only paint the perfect portrait, the doctors could have their "ah ha" moment and right his body.
He continues to be with fever, and Tylenol is given around the clock, Motrin being ruled out due to risk of bleeding. Feeding has been attempted again, but he immediately gets sick. He was off the vent for only two hours today instead of four because this afternoon his breathing rate went up to 50-70 breaths per minute on the vent. He is on a narcotic wean, though he continues to have symptoms of - what? A high fever, a neurogenic fever, withdrawal, blood irritation, drug reaction, sepsis...? I find myself wishing for complete ignorance one moment and a medical degree the next. But always, every moment, I wish for my son.