We’ve checked out of the maternity ward. It’s a relief being away from all the happy parents holding baby bundles. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t begrudge them. Not at all, I have my own bundle, even if I can’t hold him as much. Especially not with his VonRosen splint. It’s a bit like carrying a small box. A lumpy and unsteady little box. With a needle in his scalp, a tube up his nose and an assortment of wires connected to his hands and feet. But it’s nice, still, to be away from all the looks in the maternity ward. The knowing looks, head tilted, from the staff and the questioning looks from the other parents, eyes nervously searching for the baby we’re meant to be wheeling around.
We live just fifteen minutes from The Queen Silvia Children´s Hospital. Thank God. So now we sleep at home and spend our days in the hospital. But imagine coming from another part of the country, having to move your whole family here for the length of the hospitalization period. Maybe having to spend weeks, or months, in the Ronald McDonald house. What a bother. Good that it’s there, though. The house is great and welcoming in every way. And I’ll never eat at Mc Donald’s again without leaving my change in the little plastic box by the cash registers. But there’s no place like home.