Surprise homecomings
are sweet. When it’s your premature baby who's making the surprise trip, “sweet”
doesn’t even begin to describe the jubilation.
Cory continued making daily strength
gains, and I gave more thought to his homecoming. So, on the morning of March
7—Cory’s 8th day of life—I decided to do a little shopping for
preemie coming-home clothes.
And another car seat.
The night before, I’d scanned
through the directions for my new, super Cadillac car seat and learned that
premature infants were NOT to be placed in the seat because they usually fell
short of the length/height requirements. That meant the new plush car seat
would need to wait a while for an occupant. So I called the NICU to inform them
I’d be arriving late.
When I gave that information to the
man answering the phone, he abruptly announced Cory was scheduled for release.
Today.
What do you mean…released?” I sputtered into the phone.
“I just spoke with Dr. Shaw yesterday, and he said Cory would be getting ready
to go home soon, not today…nobody
said anything about a specific day!”
My words scuttled over one another as my self-control unraveled. My heart
pounded and my hand quivered as I clutched the phone.
Well, this is Dr. Shaw, and I’ve already signed the release papers. Cory’s
ready to go home.”
“But he doesn’t even weigh five
pounds yet…I thought he had to weigh five
pounds. You didn’t say anything
about today! I’m not ready…I need a
car seat…and clothes…and my husband’s at work…and I don’t know what time I’ll
be able to get there!” I nearly sobbed in nonsensical panic. “What time am I
supposed to pick him up?”
I balanced on the threshold of
hysteria. What had happened to all of Dr. Shaw’s “we need to be cautious” and
“don’t expect too much too soon” talk?
“He doesn’t have to weigh five pounds; that’s just a guideline. He’s very
strong and he’s going to be fine. He’s ready to go home. You should try to be
here before twelve, because I’d like to talk to you before he leaves. I’ll be
here until then.”
“Well, I’ll have to call my husband—he’s
almost an hour away from home—and we’ll have to run out and buy a car seat before
we get there and…I don’t know exactly what
time we’ll be able to arrive at the hospital,” I finished in a defensive
clip.
“I’ll see you when you get here.”
Dr. Shaw ended the conversation in a firm, doctorial tone, and my shaky hand
hung up the phone.
“You have to come home right
now…they’re releasing Cory and we’re supposed to be there before noon!” I
shouted into the phone when Chris returned my page.
“What!?”
he shouted back. “What do you mean they’re going to release him today? We’re
not ready for him to come home!” After explaining the situation to him, and
briefly reiterating Dr. Shaw’s comments, he promised to come home immediately,
then hung up. There was nothing for me to do but stand numbly in the kitchen,
feeling helpless and overwhelmed, awaiting Chris’s arrival. There we were,
hoping, praying, and fighting for this moment for nearly two years, and neither
of us was prepared for the reality. But this was it.
Chris arrived home in record time,
flying through the door donning an expression of supreme happiness mingled with
uneasiness and doubt. I insisted he contact Dr. Shaw before going to the
hospital, while I paced around the kitchen, chewing my lip, nervously and rudely
directing questions to fire at Dr. Shaw. Toward the end of the conversation,
Chris barked out in an exasperated tone, “But we’re afraid to bring him home…we feel inadequate to care for him.”
To which Dr. Shaw replied with a snicker, “I can tell!”
After the call, Chris and I stood in
the kitchen, momentarily gaping at one another before rushing to the car and
speeding away to purchase the necessary car seat and special homecoming
clothes. It was a relatively warm day, but I carried Cory’s crocheted,
infant-sized afghan—the carefully folded afghan that had, for more than two
months, lain waiting on my bed for its tiny recipient.
Giddily, we scoured the baby section
of the store and found a beautiful car seat at a specially reduced price.
Selecting two outfits—including a special one for the inaugural trip home—we
paid for our purchases while announcing to everyone who inquired the specifics
about the new baby awaiting our arrival at the hospital. Then we sped off to
locate newborn diapers. Loaded down with several bags of nappies and boxes of
baby wipes, we goofily informed everyone interested about our new,
soon-to-be-coming-home baby. We must have displayed the wide-eyed new parent
look because everyone we encountered asked. Then we ran through the parking lot
to the car, tossed the diapers in the back and drove to the hospital.
After walking hurriedly through the
hospital parking lot and jogging down various corridors, we stopped abruptly
and breathless at the door to his room, then slowly, cautiously approached the
bed. In unison, we leaned over the rails and stared at our oblivious, bundled
baby. Gee, he still looked so tiny and fragile in that gargantuan bed! Dr. Shaw
was gone—it was after 1:00—but he left instructions and papers for us to sign,
along with an infant choking and CPR video we were required to watch before
taking Cory home.
With those items taken care of,
Chris carefully applied himself to preparing Cory for his trip home, while I
snapped the mandatory photos. With trembling hands and beads of sweat
materializing on his brow, Chris managed to complete the arduous dressing
process of his sleepy, limp son, then buttoned the long row of tiny buttons on
the back of the blue and white knit outfit. Then we carefully arranged him in
his new car seat. We gathered up the doll clothes-sized t-shirts he’d worn, the
daily weight and length record, the head warming knit caps, NICU graduate
t-shirt, stuffed NICU panda bear, the gray elephant Parker had given him, and
went in search of his nurses to say goodbye.
What do you say to the people who
work so selflessly to give your baby a chance at life? Who appear so sacrificially
devoted to the care of their miniature patients? Thank you hardly seemed
adequate. Maybe the joy of seeing those special babies finally go home keeps
them going. Maybe it’s the daily miracles in their midst that motivate them to
continue even when the fight seems impossible and they sometimes lose. Whatever
it is, Chris and I were deeply, eternally grateful for their answering God’s
call and for their love, patience and selfless dedication. There were tears and
hugs and thank you’s all around.
We were going home at last. Parker
didn’t know it yet, but we would soon arrive at his preschool to pick him up,
with his baby brother perched in the reserved seat next to his. He’d have a
backseat car buddy now.
And there would be no special
monitoring devices to schlep home with us. On the phone with Chris, Dr. Shaw
had expressed his amazement that Cory had not experienced a single episode of
sleep apnea during his weeklong stay in the unit, something unheard of in
preemies. All of the other preemies parading out of the unit the last several
days had one in tow. Even though I wanted one, we wouldn’t get it. Cory didn’t
need it. I’d need to learn to live without it.
Beaming jubilantly and victoriously,
Chris and I carried our tiny package and his meager belongings through the
hospital, passing smiling, inquiring people who stopped us to peer at our
package. We promenaded triumphantly into the lobby, through the front doors,
out into the warm, glowing March sunshine. Once outside, we stopped to look at
each other and acknowledge the significance of the moment, barely able to
believe—or comprehend—how far the Lord had brought us, and the wealth of our
blessings.
I could finally relinquish my firm
grasp on the verse I’d considered so applicable to the horror in my life almost
two years earlier, and ascribe to seven more verses of the sixty-third Psalm:
So I have looked upon
thee in the sanctuary,
beholding thy power and glory.
Because thy steadfast
love is better than life,
my lips will praise thee.
So I will bless thee as
long as I live,
I will lift up my hands and call on thy
name.
My soul is feasted as
with marrow and fat,
and my mouth praises thee with joyful lips,
when I think of thee
upon my bed,
and meditate on thee in the watches of the
night;
for thou hast been my
help,
and in the shadow of thy wings I sing for
joy.
My soul clings to thee,
thy right hand upholds me (Psalm 63: 2-8 RSV).
King David’s words say it all.
Nothing could be added. We had learned that, indeed, without His steadfast
love, there is no life. Not true life, anyway.
Our arms were full and our hearts
awash with God’s miraculous gift and love. His praise was on our lips. In the
plentitude of His benevolent mercy and grace, our family—together, with its
precious new member—made a triumphant journey home.
Only God could have orchestrated
such a victory after such resounding defeat. Our broken hearts had been
redeemed in so many ways.
Against all human reason and
actuarial odds, we traversed the darkest and deepest valleys then soared to the
mountaintop. All on the wings of His grace.
The wings of grace that gave me the
strength, the hope, the courage and the purpose…to try again.
___________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Epilogue…life with a preemie, and more
___________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings, and
Happy New Year!!!
Andrea
photo credit:
<a
href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/davesoldano/8568509763/">JusDaFax</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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