Having a baby is
exciting. Having a premature baby can be exciting…and a bit overwhelming and frightening especially when you’ve been bedridden for the last three months of the
pregnancy.
Thirty hours post-delivery passed in
a whirlwind. We called relatives and friends. Friends and relatives called us.
My cousin’s wife arrived bearing gifts and balloons. This time around there
were congratulatory balloons just for me,
and a beautiful pink and blue basket of plants from my aunt. My pastor drove
down for a long visit, and between the celebratory socializing, I busied myself
by learning how to effectively use an electric breast pump. The
industrial-sized, hospital type. (That’s a comedy story all its own!)
And the most important activities
were the frequent escorts to the NICU in my wheelchair.
Parker was thrilled, hardly
containing his enthusiasm and childhood curiosity when we took him into
the NICU to see his brother for the first time. A baby brother had arrived just
for him, and Mommy was coming home! Everything was soon going to be back to
normal and right-with-the-world as far as his four-year-old imagination could
discern.
By the afternoon of his arrival,
Cory was doing so well that they removed the oxygen hood, providing us with a
clear view of his perfect head and face. Parker wanted to caress and play with
his little toes and fingers, repeatedly touching Cory as though unsure of his
existence.
Dr. Landry returned several times
during the day for visits and to relay orders to the nurses concerning my care.
He expressed his shock at how quickly it had all happened, how the stitches
simply ruptured and everything happened so swiftly. He was also amazed that the
amniotic sac had remained intact, even with all of the pressure being exerted
upon it. He just couldn’t seem to get over the event. I told him the pediatric
nurse practitioner had asked Chris if I’d been sick, since Cory’s blood test
indicated he was beginning to manufacture extra white blood cells, indicating
the possibility of an impending infection. His eyes widened. God’s natural
forces and design had been functioning perfectly when labor started, and would
not be stopped. An ensuing infection, with Cory sealed securely in my uterus,
could have been disastrous for both of us. So I wasn’t the hypochondriac
everyone thought I was.
I felt vindicated!
Until the moment I left the
hospital, I enjoyed bounteous amounts of food— especially provided to nursing
mothers— and several more wonderful long, steamy showers—except when the
hospital’s hot water supply was turned off for repair. I managed to rise and
walk without assistance to see Cory, slowly navigating my worn body and
frequently finding it necessary to use the wall for support. My lungs heaved
and my limbs wobbled, but I remained determined to complete my journey. I
couldn’t stay away long. And every time I ventured to the NICU, Cory seemed to
be making process.
First the oxygen hood came off. The
following day he was moved to an isolette (incubator) and managed to consume
special preemie formula. A nasogastric tube was inserted to provide additional
nourishment, and I kept stocking the NICU refrigerator with meager amounts of
breast milk to add to the nasogastric feedings.
The quick move to the isolette was
cause for celebration, but since Chris and I were unaware of Cory’s ‘travel’
plans, we were more than a bit unnerved when we entered the unit and
encountered a different baby positioned in Cory’s spot.
My heart zipped to my throat and
pounded in my ears. “Where is he?” we asked anxiously, in unison, after first
turning to look at one another questioningly.
“Oh, he’s right here!” came the
smiling reply from the nurse positioned near his new home. “He’s been moved to
an isolette.”
Startled, we walked hesitantly
across the floor to view our son now occupying a special, warm plastic
environment, surrounded by blankets to keep him snuggly in position. Blankets
also draped the outside to keep the light glare from his face and eyes.
As we rounded his new habitat, we
stooped simultaneously to peer through the clear structure. There he was, his
miniature frame now encased in the tiniest diapers we had ever seen!
Special receptacles allowed the
myriad of wires and tubes to run from his body to their respective monitors and
machines. Reaching my hand through one of the portholes, I pressed a finger to
his left palm. Immediately, he tried to raise his head and turn to the source
of the stimulation and accompanying voice. Parker, who had arrived with Chris
for an afternoon visit, wanted to take him out of the incubator to hold, touch
and play with those adorably diminutive fingers and toes.
Parker had personally selected Cory’s
first stuffed animal to deliver to his new brother on his second visit. Now he
proudly stationed the small grey elephant in a corner of the isolette when
Chris lifted him to a better vantage point. We were such a proud, gushing
family. A proud, gushing threesome who had to go home, since it was late in the
afternoon and time for me to be released. It was time to pack up and leave.
Without my new son. Without Cory. I wasn’t worried about leaving him behind—he
was much better off in his new compartment than in his cradle at our home. I was
saddened we would be going home without the new addition.
I was simultaneously distressed and
relieved. I knew I wasn’t entirely prepared for him to come home. After three
months of focusing on nothing else but getting my baby safely into the world—and
adding another life to our family—I seriously doubted if I were up to the
challenge of caring for a premature newborn. Abruptly, we all found it
necessary to change psychological gears.
We were physically and emotionally
drained, unprepared for his arrival, without proper preemie clothing or
designated cradle location, or all of those essential items a mother wants arranged
and waiting for her newborn to receive upon his arrival home.
Then there was the hovering issue of
crib death. Premature infants have a higher risk of Sudden Infant Death
Syndrome, and I was terrified of that possibility. I also wondered how I was
going to carry a baby around, with all of the necessary paraphernalia, when I
was having difficulty straightening up and moving myself around.
Frankly, Chris and I were alarmed about
having Cory come home; we needed to gird ourselves up emotionally for it. Not
only did Chris and I need the time to prepare our house, as well as our minds
and bodies; but Parker needed time. Time alone with me, with his mother back to
normal, standing erect on her feet and meeting his basic physical and emotional
needs.
So after I enjoyed another long, hot
shower and managed to tear ourselves away from Cory’s side, a volunteer was
summoned to give me my bon voyage wheelchair ride to the front door.
A ride that seemed like a dream. It
had all happened so fast, and now I was going home. We had our beautiful new
baby, but because he wasn’t accompanying us, the drive home was a melancholy
one.
And when I finally walked into our
house, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d been in bed so long, living in it had
become a habit. My body and mind were habituated to bed rest. I stood somewhat
disoriented in the entryway for several minutes before Chris suggested that I
lie down.
Lie
down? Again? But his suggestion made me realize how exhausted I was.
It had, indeed, been a very long,
exhausting three days.
And I was about to find out just how
long, exhausting and painful it had been for my tender four-year-old son.
____________________________________
NEXT WEEK: The unexpected: When your four-year-old
has a breakdown…
____________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
photo credit:
<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/cellardoorfilms/7620377636/">cellar_door_films</a>
via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a
href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>
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