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Now, several years ago, when my boy was born, there was a problem.

I've told you part of the story before, a tiny family sucked into the bowels of the medical

industrial complex, the neonatal, intensive care unit, the NICU.

I place I pray no parent ever has occasion to enter a land of monitors, and tools, and

instruments of all sorts but shooting from our tiny baby boy.

Worry, fear, we sit near his bedside wedged into these almost medieval seating contraptions.

And quickly notice the mistakes, the wrong medicine, and incorrect formulation,

a medical miscommunication.

Mistakes are often made as one shift of nurses and doctors pass off their duties to the next shift.

And a watchful parental eye can be the difference between hope and tragedy.

We can't afford any mistakes, and vow to be there 24-7, monitoring the monitors.

Often sit next to him at night in the hospital gloom, the only light, the fluorescent

reflection from the hallway, or the blinks and flashes of various machines, look down at my son struggling,

fighting so hard, so early.

Eyes squeezed, shut, fist holding tight to my finger, waiting for the shift change.

To make sure that in that space there is no information loss, no monitors left unchecked,

no accidental mishaps, because it is in the in between space.

The things, things often go awry.

Today on Snap Judgment, our unholy tradition we proudly present stories,

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