A Surprise Homecoming: When Your Preemie Comes Home At Last

           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 8^th 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.

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NEXT WEEK: Epilogue…life with a preemie, and more

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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>

The Reality of God: Seeing Creation for the First Time

But the basic reality of God is plain enough. Open your eyes and there it is! By taking a long and thoughtful look at what God has created, people have always been able to see what their eyes can’t see: eternal power, for instance, and the mystery of his divine being. So nobody has a good excuse.

                                                                                    Romans 1:20, The Message

           

           

            For three more days I arrived at the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit early in the morning and stayed into the evening, watching monitor numbers and lights, feeding and holding, singing and rocking. For diversion, I walked around the large medical center, visited the gift shop and obstetrics nurses, and occasionally napped in the parent’s lounge just around the corner from Cory’s room.

           

            Southern California’s normally mild spring weather turned vengeful and the first week of March brought rain and flooding to the area. I observed nature’s spectacle from the large window plates next to Cory’s bed. Actually, I not so much observed as absorbed, sitting and watching in wide-eyed rapture as immense puddles formed in the parking lot and the wind bent the thin, towering eucalyptus trees. Rain and wind performed in concert as they obscured the street and blurred traffic lights. Accompanying water droplets cascaded rapidly in vertical patterns down the slick, immense windows, looking at times like frantic, speeding motorists on a California freeway. At other times they looked like vehicles in a pileup.

           

            It was all so fascinating. Beautiful. And I kept asking myself: Why haven’t I observed it in such a way before? Or taken the time to observe it? The performance captured my attention as though I’d never before witnessed anything like its simple, mesmerizing choreography.

           

            I experienced the same potent emotion my first drive home from the hospital and on every morning’s return trip. The hills were so graceful and alluring, the vegetation so fresh and verdant. The wild lilacs were in prolific bloom due to the unusually abundant moisture, and the plants produced brilliant, purple clumps of showy exhibition for miles along the freeway. Our own bright yellow, orange and shock-pink ice plant had exploded into a spectacular botanical carpet attracting an assortment of iridescent butterflies and honeybees by the thousands.   

           

            And I continued to experience it all as though I’d never seen it before, like a child seeing and studying the wonder of God’s creation for the first time. I wanted to grab it, inhale it. Capture it! I found it impossible to be satiated by the display of beauty and life bursting forth in awakening after weeks of quiescent rest.

           

            I prayed fervently that I might never lose that feeling; that I might never again look complacently or indifferently upon a tree, a sunset, a quiet flurry of snowflakes or a single grass blade. I wanted to stop, deliberately drink in God’s creation, and be compelled to stand silent—to ponder Him and really know the One responsible for all of that stunning creation.

           

            It was such a perfect time to have a baby. A baby to celebrate the renewal of life! A baby to remind me of God’s promise: that as long as the earth remains, seedtime and harvest shall not fail.

           

            A reminder that God Himself forever remains the same.

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NEXT WEEK: Homecoming…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

Bee on rosea ice plant photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/napdsp/4869835181/">nate2b</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

Orange and red ice plant photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/parksdh/13373523955/">D.H. Parks</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/">cc</a>

Being a NICU Mom: Life Day-to-Day With Your Preemie

            I was about to be initiated into the mothers of premature infants society and learn what it was like to have a baby in the NICU. I'll be honest: it stinks having to stare at your fragile new baby through plexiglass and poke your hands through portals in order to caress a cheek or hold a delicate pinky. 

           

           

            For the next week, I rose early and packed snacks and frozen bottles of breast milk in the little diaper bag provided by the hospital. Then I took Parker to school and drove to the hospital. Once there, I maintained a daylong vigil in the NICU and returned home later in the evening. The hospital continued to provide three meals a day for breastfeeding mothers, so I stopped bringing a lunch after the first day and enjoyed the bountiful trays of food delivered to the unit. I read, listened to music, chatted with nurses and doctors, and observed—with awe—the dedication and love that permeated that special room.

           

            The nurses taught me how to open the isolette and extend Cory’s bed, maneuver the wires and change his diapers, carefully monitor his urine output, and recognize signs of stress (hiccupping being a prime indicator of system overload). I became proficient at removing him from his little clear plastic home for holding and feeding, first using the nasogastric tube held aloft, then the tube and bottle, then a bottle alone after he yanked the tube from his nose five days into his stay. Two days prior to that incident, they had removed his IV feeding and started relying only on what he would ingest from the tube and bottle. It was still too early to attempt breastfeeding, so I asked the nurse for a preemie pacifier, hoping it might help strengthen his sucking reflex.  I was determined to make a breast-feeder out of my baby, so he could get the best possible start on life, even if the odds were against us. (Preemies typically have weak sucking reflexes, so, once they get used to the ease of bottle-feeding, they resist having to work at breastfeeding.) I thought I’d won a major victory when he sucked viciously on the pacifier for several minutes. But within minutes he tired from the effort and was snoozing so deeply we couldn’t arouse him.

           

            On March 3, four days following his birth, one of the doctors announced that he was doing so well we would let him take the lead at breastfeeding. With much rejoicing on my part, we were successful for three feedings that day. I was ecstatic! 

           

            To compound the sucking reflex problem, the energy requirements it takes to breastfeed can deter preemies from sucking for the amount of time necessary to obtain adequate nourishment. Taking him out of the isolette to nurse was risky, since he still had difficulty maintaining his body temperature and keeping warm. Chris, Parker and I discovered that fact the hard way one night when we kept him out of his warm environment too long, causing him to lose a considerable amount of weight. We were firmly exhorted (chewed out) about it after the staff discovered his extreme weight loss.

           

            Quite simply, we had to look more and hold less. After that episode, when I did remove him for feedings, I pressed his little body next my warm skin and enveloped his exposed parts (which was just about all of him) in blankets. This arrangement almost seemed too comfortable for him, since he’d fall asleep and refuse to waken to continue feeding even when the nurse pinched the bottom of his foot in attempts to “pinch him awake.” That never worked, though. “Boy, he’s a laid back one!” they’d laughed. “You’re lucky; he’s going to be calm.” Little did they know…

           

            Then there was the blare of monitors signaling a potential problem with hear rate, oxygen saturation levels or sleep apnea. The machines monitored breathing, heart rate and other vital statistics every second of the day. Occasionally, a baby’s mere wiggle or position change dislodged a sensor, causing the alarm to sound. The first time Cory’s monitor made a shrill announcement of something awry, I gripped the seat and frantically looked around the room for someone to come running to his aid. Much too calmly for my satisfaction, a nurse calmly checked the leads and turned to offer me a smile. “Whenever that goes off, I always first look to see if they’re moving or breathing. If they are, I don’t get too excited. The machines are very sensitive; they go off all of the time.”

           

            Indeed, they did.  I never quite managed to get used to it, although I no longer felt compelled to bolt from the chair and roughly steer a nurse to his side.

           

            Since things seemed to be moving along so well, Chris and I decided we should shop for a car seat, although we still didn’t have a clue about when Cory would be coming home. I wanted the new super fancy model that allowed infants to recline and then reverted automatically to a more upright position if the car was involved in a collision. Our special baby required the top-of-the-line equipment, so we hunted for the right model and brought home the pricey- high-tech car seat. It looked so monolithic, though, too big for a baby to be comfortable. But then, car seats weren’t designed for comfort.

           

            I continued my daily trips to the hospital, gaining strength each day I was up and walking around. The first day I arrived, however, laden with breast milk and meals, I made the mistake of parking some distance form the door I needed to enter to get to Cory’s unit. This poor planning required me to hike uphill before arriving at the desire location. At one point, I had to stop and lean against a wall, unsure whether I could go farther, breathing heavily and feeling dangerously weak and dizzy from the exertion.  My heart pounded fiercely in retaliation to the stress it was no longer prepared to handle. How embarrassing! I thought. I need a wheelchair just to get to the front door! Without one, I’m probably going to faint right here on the sidewalk, (pant), within visibility of the Life Flight helicopter!

           

            Three months of confinement to bed had taken a tremendous toll on my physical condition. The muscular deterioration and calcium depletion were so considerable that I wasn’t convinced someone my age could fully recover. I was only too aware of how difficult it could be for a woman—technically approaching middle age—to reverse the rapidly declining exponential curve. But at that moment, my goal was just to make it—paraphernalia and all—to the NICU. By taking slow, shuffling steps and frequent breaks, and praying, I arrived, panting heavily and exhausted, but happily at my son’s side.

           

            Chris and I were stunned, but elated, at Cory’s rapid progress. By the fourth evening after his birth, they moved Cory into a real crib in another room—out of the isolette. The final step before releasing him to go home. He looked so diminutive in the cavernous hospital crib, bundled like a bean encased firmly in a blanket pod; tiny knit cap adorning his barely visible head. He looked even more fragile and vulnerable in this setting, particularly because it began to register in our minds that he was going to be coming home with us. Coming home very soon.

           

            And that scared me. I’d begun to rely on the security of those annoying machines; rely on the information they continuously emitted. Without them we were unable to tell what was going on with Cory’s body. The machines that had so scared and repelled me now gave me peace of mind. And I needed them!

           

            Were Chris and I up to the task of caring for a premature infant, in our home? Alone?

           

            One way or the other, when the doctors felt he was ready—which they had told us would be when he weighed five pounds or met his gestational age—we would find out. Right now, he was neither, so I relaxed and dismissed the thought of preemie care happening any time soon.

           

            I shouldn’t have been so complacent…

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NEXT WEEK: Seeing life for the first time after confinement. What I had so taken for granted…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

May all of you be tremendously blessed this Christmas season. I know for many of you, this will be a year full of broken dreams, pain and melancholy memories. I do pray that you find hope and peace in the promise this season brings us and reminds us of, and that you look to the One who is the reason behind and for all of it!

He came to pay a debt He didn’t owe.

Because you owe a debt you cannot pay.

                                                Unknown

Thank God for His tremendous grace toward the world!!!

Merry Christmas!        

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