Life in the NICU with your premature
baby is one thing; bringing him home and living with him day-to-day, without
medical help or relief, is quite another. If you’ve ever wanted to learn how to
die-to-self, having a preemie will take you down that path!
Soon after our arrival home from the
hospital, our laid-back NICU baby turned Mr. Hyde on us. He tried our patience,
nerves and resolve for nearly seventeen months.
As many high-stressed preemie babies
are, he was hypersensitive to light, sound, activity and tactile stimulation.
Quiet entrances into the bedroom brought fearful screams; covering his sleeping
body with a light blanket brought kicking anger and cries of terror. Unable to
maintain eye-to-eye contact with any of us, I feared my new baby had some kind
of affection disorder, like autism, and I waited nervously for the time when he
would search my face with his eyes or treat me with a smile. How I longed for
the slightest up-curling of his lips!
He had his nights and days
completely reversed, unable to go to sleep without the lights illuminated in
his bedroom. He’d taken up residence in a cradle next to our bed, so that meant
the lights were on when we were trying to sleep. If we sneaked around his bed
to extinguish them, he awoke with a start and holler, refusing to return to
sleep unless they were again turned on. If strangers ventured toward him or
tried to snag him for a hold, he’d cry, then succumb to fits of gagging and
choking. Within minutes, he’d assume a catatonic appearance, then fall
irrevocably asleep in my arms or baby seat, his body limp from the exhausting
stress.
Clearly, Cory was agoraphobic, so I
remained fairly confined to the house—and content to be so—for several months.
Miraculously, I was able to nurse him, and nursing continued every
hour-and-a-half, with feedings no less than five times a night, well into June
of 1996, sixteen months after his birth. He nursed for twenty-four months. Initially
unable to produce substantial amounts of milk for him during night feedings, I
had ot p supplement him with occasional bottle supplements of formula. Attempts
to let him “cry it out” were fruitless, as he could—and would—scream defiantly
for periods of time that sometimes extended into an hour-and-a-half range or
longer.
Well-meaning friends insisted it
would be good for Cory if we exposed him more to the outside world and other
people. “He needs it,” they’d admonish me. But all of the books we read on the
subject of hypersensitive babies instructed us to maintain a specific routine—a
quiet, peaceful routine—without surprises, loud noises, or copious amounts of
touching or playing. We always watched for the tell tale signs of hiccups
indicating stress overload. The hiccups came often and lingered, but we
persevered with quiet surroundings, consistent behavior, and tender, careful
touching (I was fairly successful with baby massage), and a miraculous dose of
patience. The books warned us that it sometimes took close to two years for
hypersensitive babies to relax and become comfortable with their surroundings.
Cory didn’t improve those percentages.
Our love and patience paid off. He
bloomed into a bright, energetic and exhausting toddler and child, who regarded
the world as a tremendously exciting place. A place to be experienced and conquered; a proving ground for the
imposition of his steely determination and will. His first goal included
overpowering the rest of the family—mother, father, and especially his older brother. He became loving and playful, as well
as sensitive and volatile, a Tasmanian Devil with a temper to rival the Warner
Brothers cartoon character. He bore the nickname “Hurricane Cory” for the
second and third year of his life. And he elevated the art of manipulation and
argumentation to a science.
He grew from my baby to my little
boy, bursting forth to establish his autonomous identity in our family, and in
the world. Almost daily I stared at him, and wondered how he got here. But I
know how he got here, and I continuously thank God for His precious gift to us.
For better or for worse, Chris and I now love a little harder and hang on a
little tighter—to both of our miracles. Too soon they are gone, and I did
wonder, in melancholy anticipation, about life in a quiet house, without
colorful toys, endless questions, expert argumentation, pattering feet and
squealing voices. (What does a home schooling mother do once she’s forced into
retirement?)
Then there was that name thing that
I talked about in one of my posts, when the name Joshua popped into my head as
a name for Cory before he was born. A name I hadn’t even considered. A name I
set aside because I couldn’t imagine God doing something as “simple” as giving
me a specific name for my child.
Within weeks of Cory’s arrival, I
learned the meaning of Joshua. I was stunned when I learned it means “God
saves.” Once again I considered the possibility that the “voice” I heard had
been God, and that I had brushed it aside too quickly. If only I had taken the
time to look up the definition; it would have been a perfect name for our baby.
(And it may have stilled my anxious heart.) God truly did save him, when all
the actuarial tables were stacked against us. Fearful of being disobedient, I
seriously contemplated changing his name, but Chris said he really “looked more
like a Cory,” and wanted to stick with that. Sometimes I looked at him and
thought: “my little salvation from God.” But it doesn’t matter what his name is
to think that; he is my salvation from God. Nothing can change that fact. And
Cory has turned out to be a perfect name for him.
And I still think of that mysterious
nurse who “materialized” in my room at Cory’s birth, the one who could not be
identified by other hospital workers and who I never saw again. Several years
after Cory’s birth, while I was doing a study on angels, her memory snapped
into my thoughts. Could it be? Had it
been? I was almost afraid to consider the possibility, so awesome to me was
the suggestion or thought of angelic intervention. Sometimes I think of the time
when I will meet “her” again, and I am filled with excitement and awe at that
opportunity. Will I reminisce with an angelic host about the day they fulfilled
their responsibility to minister to one of God’s children? While I am aware
that biblical angelic visits were always of the male gender, and many Bible
scholars say that an angel would not appear in the form of a woman, I do not
dismiss any possibility of entertaining an angel unaware, and the thought
causes me to shake my head in wide-eyed wonder. And smile.
Through that stunning two years, through
ugly, dark valleys and soaring, verdant mountaintops, I had learned well that
with God, anything is possible.
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NEXT WEEK: Epilogue Part 2…
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Until next week,
Thanks for
joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
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