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"Ok," I tell my wife, Christine.
She grimaces in anticipation.
"This really hurts," she says pragmatically.
The second baby is far less scary, but Christine assures me it's just as painful. I tell her that's because of that apple fiasco in the garden. She laughs, but only briefly as another wave makes it's way down the axis. I wonder what the units are on the graph. The horizontal axis is clearly time. The vertical is probably "misery."
When our first was born I was scared, tired and relieved in that order. Christine was the usual shambles a woman is after giving birth. She had a bunch of people tending to her. As they wheeled Baby #1 out of the birthing room, a nurse said,
"Hey dumb ass. You go with him."
My loyalty was still with my wife. I had to be told to follow the new addition. I don't think she really said, "dumb ass," but that's what I heard. The nurse person in her goofy, mismatched clothes brought the two of us to a quiet, dimly lit room with a rocking chair. I held Baby #1, minutes old, and told him about his room, our John Deere tractor, the horses that graze around the fields in front of our house. I even told him his name, "Aidan." He opened his eyes and stared at length into mine. I was sure he was putting a face to the muffled voice he heard over the past months.
I'm in the delivery room with Christine who clearly would like to get this over with. Baby #2 is moments away. A few weeks early which raised some concern, Baby #2 is big so he must be ready otherwise he would've stayed put. That makes sense. I'm prepping for my repeat performance. This time I know the drill. I'm experienced. I see him for the first time. He looks identical to the first. It all unfolds on script even though we were off schedule.
They measure and weigh him and assess his Apgar score then everything abruptly changes. There's a distinct distress when a newborn is struggling to breath that reflects in the Apgar and scrambles the medical professionals. Baby #2 is swaddled, briefly shown to Christine, who is told he needs to be transferred to the "Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." NICU for short. I inform the nurse making all the decisions that I am going with him. She's surprised then hesitant. I insist.
I'm on my way to the NICU when in the hospital hallway I suddenly feel very cold. I wasn't going to sit in a chair and rock Baby #2 in a dimly lit space. I wasn't going to tell him the color of his room or about his brother. As I watched him convulse with tiny gasps of air, I thought that he doesn't know his name. The nurse uses her badge to get us into the NICU.
A swarm of medical personnel surround Baby #2, hooking him up to monitors, an IV, tubes in his nose to help him breath. I'm standing up against the wall, out of the way. A nurse shows me a new screen for me to stare at. She points to a number, telling me what it represents, pulse oxygen which is too low. I'm transfixed on the display as the number rises and falls.
How could this happen? He was four weeks early but seven pounds, eight ounces, bigger than the first. Not your idea of a preemie. We were at my best friend's house for dinner which was luckily near the hospital. Christine felt something coming on so she wisely chose not to eat. Woman have instincts especially when it comes to life. Men, we're all about basic things like mowing the grass and keeping the furnace running. Women ensure the species flourishes while men ensure the lawn looks good. Back in the NICU, I convince a nurse to let me hold him.
"Look, I watch a lot of Lifetime. I know he knows my voice. If I put my hands on him, his stats will all go up," I say authoritatively.
She is reluctant to let me get my man mitts in there but eventually agrees. After scrubbing my hands, I surround Baby #2 then check the monitors. Surely all his vitals will soar. Nothing happens.
"He's struggling to breath," the young medical professional says.
"What about the power of touch?"
"Look dumbass. You should go check on your wife."
That's a good idea. By now it's late into the night, and most of the hospital is dark and quiet. I'm making my way through the dimly lit hallways as the lights pop on. I'm following in reverse the yellow line path I noticed earlier to get back to Christine. She had jettisoned her contact lenses before delivery so she couldn't see past the end of her bed, but when I finally find her, she somehow knows it's me.
"He's doing fine," I say.
"Don't lie to me Robert!"
I should've known she'd have an instinct for that too.
"He's having trouble breathing."
It's comforting to be with her. In Baby #2's room I was helpless, in the way. At least here I could hold her hand and reassure her. After a while I went back to the NICU. I'm walking the long walk down the dark hallways which are eerily quiet. I'm buzzed into the NICU. As I near Baby #2's space, a nurse intercepts me.
"We're taking blood, and your presence upsets the nurses so wait here."
I dutifully wait for the blood draw to be over. Now I'm pretty sure I look like an unshaven zombie, and the medical staff just wants me to find a place to sleep it off so they can do their job. I sit in a comfortable chair, but I can't sleep. The nurse returns,
"There's no change."
"I want to see him."
She escorts me to Baby #2. He's laying on his back with tubes and wires emanating from his body. I sit at the edge of a chair and watch the pulse ox wave up and down. On the way up, I'm elated. Down, I worry. I want to rid him of the tiny convulsions, but this was something that I could not do. An hour passed before I make my way back to Christine.
"Still no change."
The crushing weight of my words is evident on her face. She's attempting to express milk so that her baby will have something to eat. There is nothing more comforting than seeing a baby taking his mother's milk. I know some people are squeamish about breastfeeding in public, but you have to understand that's what those things are made for, and if that bothers you, get a warm glass of bovine milk and a fig newton, sit in the corner and shut your garbage chute.
Christine is tired and falls asleep. I'm talking to her quietly as she rests. I whisper to her that he will be fine and will be ready for her when she wakes. He will give his mother a big hug, and ask her what his name is. After sometime, I returned to the NICU. I don't pay attention to the yellow line on the floor and get lost in the dark hospital. Alone and tired, I wander about looking for a sign or the yellow path. Eventually I regain my bearings and am buzzed into the NICU. I'm met by the the nurse who brought him here from the delivery room. She's smiling as she ushers me to Baby #2.
"Look!" she says
He is sleeping on his side, breathing normally. They backed down on the oxygen as his lungs cleared. He's calm and content. I sit next to him and just watch his tiny chest move rhythmically up then down. I check the monitor. His pulse ox is nearly normal. My senses are heightened to everything around me. Although tired, I can't sleep until I know this state is permanent. A long time passes before I have the sense to return to Christine.
I'm entering her room. Christine is awake and being attended to by a nurse. I'm smiling broadly.
"He's sleeping comfortably."
"Really!" she exclaims.
"Yes."
"I want to go see him, but there's no one who can push a wheelchair on duty this early."
"There's one in the hallway. I'll go get it."
"You can't do that, dumbass. You're not qualified to push a wheelchair," the nurse says.
"I'm going now," Christine declares.
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| Aidan Meets his Brother |
"You coming?"
I nod hesitatingly.
"Well get over here and help me."
Truth is, I'm waiting for the nurse person in her silly, conflicting flower pattern outfit to tell her to get back into bed, but no one stops a mother on a mission to feed her baby. I help her to her feet, and Christine begins shuffling along. We follow the yellow line to the NICU and are buzzed in. We pass several abandoned wheelchairs which I'm incapable of properly operating so my wife, who had recently birthed another human being, walks instead. I'm sure the hospital's insurance company, the authors of this bureaucratic nonsense, is unaware that any of this is taking place.
The medical professionals in the NICU treat an appearance by a birthmother like a sacred event. There's none of this "hang ten while we finish our sharp needle procedure." A nurse guides Christine to her child. She sees him for the second time. All the tubes and wires are upsetting. I immediately start my TEDx explanation of the data monitor, and how he is actually doing way better.
"Look, his pulse ox is spot on," I note.
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| Christine and William |
"He knew just what to do," she says.
I'm relieved. That was the toughest five hours of my life. I don't know how parents soldier through extended stays in the NICU. It was exhausting.
"They're talking like he'll be out of here tomorrow," Christine continues.
When he finishes, I ask,
"Can I hold him?"
Christine hands off the awkward mess of tubes, wires and baby. My arms surround him, them I softly say.
"Hey little boy. We have a room all ready for you. It's green. We have lots of trains. You have a big brother. I think you'll like living with us."
Christine smiles.
"Oh, yeah, one other thing. Your name is William."
Editor's Note: Originally posted on May 16, 2017, one day after William's sixth birthday and three quarters through the year of the blog.
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