The medical team conferred this morning, and CMO Mom is saying that journey to home-world could be as soon as this weekend if I continue to complete missions at the current breakneck pace.
After hearing this news, Admiral Dad sent a long-range transmission from home-world as follows: “My brain feels like scrambled eggs right now”. He still thinks these estimates are optimistic, but no one can seem to agree on a real ETA.
Stay Calm.
Cap’n B
The Admiral was away on important work in the Biblio System today, but I received a report that a new shuttle is being prepared for my trip to the home-world. Admiral Dad was joined by my First Officer, Ezra, who was crucial to these preparations.
Reports from command are confusing as to when I will journey home and rendez-vous with my First Officer, with some estimates looking at 4 weeks out still. The Chief Medical Officer claims it could be in as little as one week. The reason I love the CMO so much is that she is already thinking I’m much more advanced than my peers.
Stay Calm.
Cap’n B
Just a small update because I (read: Admiral Dad) am quite tired. Medical team extremely pleased with my overall progress, though unfortunately my weight training test dropped back down when I was almost to goal weight. So medical has advised fortifying my milk intake to give me some extra calories, but consider it mostly a minor issue that bears watching. Unfortunately, the CMO has some unspecified medical issues herself which is making things extra tough for everyone on board the ship. I have decided to severely restrict visitors to the ship in the meantime, in order to giver her a break, and also give me some rest so I can focus on some serious missions over the next week or so.
Stay Calm.
Cap’n B
A weird and strange alien named Jek, also identifying himself as “Red Six” appeared on the bridge from an alternate universe. He was somehow familiar with Admiral (Ret.) Jeannie who was also present and had smuggled foreign delicacies aboard the ship. Jek spoke of strange tales about ships and personnel from his universe and suddenly vanished after we began discussing art.
The medical team is very pleased with my overall progress. As it stands, the ship is still scheduled for decommission in about 4 weeks, assuming current missions continue to completed at the current pace. Admiral Dad is very pleased with overall progress.
The Admiral did some literacy lessons today, and to my surprise, I discovered Chief Medical Officer Mom has a beautiful singing voice. Looking to target today’s weight stress testing at 2170 grams, which is where we began on Stardate 0525.16.
At approximately 1900 hours, I completed my first full breastfeeding. My medical team was very surprised that I accomplished this mission so quickly. So astonished, in fact, that this wasn’t even a scheduled mission. They should know that The Captain may be calm, but he doesn’t mess around.
Stay Calm.
Cap’n B
Weight Stress Test Mission Successful.
There was an accident on the bridge today, and projectiles were hurled at Chief Medical Officer Mom, but I’m happy to report that no one was harmed. Later, I took some time out at the spa with Admiral Dad and the CMO.
Captain Chad from the USS Clasemann came aboard today, accompanied by his First Officer, Heidi, to receive special training for his young crew members Ensign Abby and Ensign Ellie. The CMO briefed them on recent activities in the ISCN and NICU systems, with a full discussion of their respective stations and current faulty operational procedures. Additionally, Captain Chad brought me a new comm badge, which I will wear with honor.
One final mission to complete today, with final weight stress testing scheduled for 1900 hours with the medical team.
Stay calm.
Cap’n B
Since I’ve been reviewing the Admiral and Chief Medical Officer Reports, I didn’t have time to devote to an official log from Stardate 0602.16, but we have mostly been cruising at impulse without any significant activity, which is a good thing.
Of note, yesterday the Admiral returned to the ship late from his mission to Planet Biblio. As he was arriving, I was being attended to by my medical team and was quicker than one of the nurses attending me, and decided to cause a little mischief. I submit the following photograph of my bedding being changed and will let you draw your own conclusions:
Chief Medical Officer Mom was called off today for important work in the Greater Regional Biblio System, so the Admiral and I spent some time “working” in my ready room near the bridge.
Around 18:00 CDT, I granted Chief Engineer Angie and Chief Morale Officer Trevor permission to board the ship, where they went immediately to Ten Forward to hang out for a while. Imagine that. After they were cleared by medical and security, they came to the bridge where a long debriefing was held by the CMO, and a tour of the ship by the Admiral himself.
I’m happy to report that all of today’s missions were completed successfully. The Admiral and CMO are looking a bit rugged from all the activity, so I hope they get some rest tonight.
Stay calm.
Cap’n B
Admiral Dad reporting the events of Captain Brennan’s birth.
I wanted to spend some time thinking back on the events of Stardate 0525.16, so Brennan can read about his birth someday and I can remember it more clearly. Mom has already covered events pretty well in her report, so I will not duplicate things, but wanted to write a little more about the emotional side of things.
After the Captain was born, the neonatal nurse practitioner told us that he was borderline for being sent to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) instead of the level II special nursery. I did not want to go back to the NICU again with another child. However, initial x-rays of his lungs after receiving the curosurf showed they were still not clear for him to stay in Level II. So he was intubated (a breathing tube placed into his lung) and sent to the NICU.
I had remained mostly calm throughout Brennan’s birth, beginning at Mom’s initial signs of labor. I knew that the Captain was much further along than his brother Finn was, and even if there were complications, it was extremely unlikely that he would have the same devastating complications that Finn did. I left Chief Medical Officer Mom back at the hospital so I could be with the Captain over in the NICU. I remember standing in front of those NICU doors again, and I started shaking. I really did not want to go into that place again and it brought back all the feelings of being with Finn while he was dying.
The NICU is set up so that there are several large open rooms, each containing multiple stations that can be monitored from a centralized desk. You can see a portion of the large room in the pictures below, with the centralized desk behind the sink, and a baby isolette in the back a bit at one of the stations.
We were in a large room adjacent to the large room where Finn had passed away, and it brought back a lot of memories, and worry about losing the Captain too.
I knew, however, from looking at the Captain, that he was already healthier than Finn at birth. His color was good, and he was (in Doctor’s words) “vigorous”. We requested a head ultrasound, which they have to wait for 3 days to do. Those days were very tough. Finn’s ultrasound had shown bilateral grade IV hemorrhages, which is the most severe bleeding that can occur in the brain. B’s scans, however, were fine. Finn’s progress was mostly downhill, while Brennan’s was mostly uphill.
On the same day the Captain’s ultrasound came back clear, he had also been breathing on his own for 24 hours. He had rapidly transitioned from intubation for 8 hours to CPAP for a day or so, to no breathing mechanisms by day 3. The neonatologists said he was clear to be moved to the Level II Intermediate Care facility that same evening. Everything was going to be fine with baby B.
While waiting for transport, Chief Medical Officer Mom and I went over to the adjoining room where Finn had passed away. His corner of the room was unoccupied, and the isolette was empty, so Mom and I stood for several moments, and pulled up pictures on my phone, remembering Finn and crying our hearts out. Weeping for our son who was gone, and weeping for our son who was going to make it.
Enduring those fateful 72 hours in the NICU was difficult. I hated being there. Looking back, however, I am grateful for the chance to say goodbye to our son, Finnegan, once more. I felt him alive again. I remember holding him, touching him. I remember how hard it was to say goodbye the first time. I remember his scrawny body, his long face. I remember his little eyes. I remember placing my fingertips inside his palms, which could barely contain them, and resting my own palm on his chest. I remember wondering what he would grow up to be like. And I remember most of all, looking at him as he passed peacefully in his mother’s arms, and feeling so broken that I didn’t know how I could go on living. But I did.
I know that Finn watched over his little brother in the NICU, and while my arms still ache for my first son, I received closure I didn’t know I needed. It feels good to hold the Captain close to my heart and listen to him breathe. As I exited the NICU for the last time, it was late at night and quiet. Still. No babies cried out, and nothing stirred.
I will always remember these empty halls.
These are the halls where one son died.
These are the halls where one son lived.
Admiral Dad has finally posted his report of the events on 0525.16, and can be accessed from the menu above.
Captain Brennan 