NICU

I really didn’t know much about the NICU before September 5th. All I knew was that they try to keep babies alive so when mine began her life in one, my heart started hurting from the very beginning.

I never thought I would think of the NICU as a second home. No one does, I think. One thing is clear: I don’t know how they do what they do. Basically it’s like trusting a parachute that you didn’t pack yourself. You trust that when you need it, that chute knows what to do and open. You trust that when a red light starts flashing or when the respirator numbers are failing, they know what to do. You have to put all your trust in them simply because you don’t know what to do. I can’t emphasis that enough. Scary is one way to describe it.

Helpless is another.

One good thing about your new second home is that you begin to know routines. You see familiar faces. You know when to move out of the way and when to ask questions. The best thing is you learn what all those beeps mean so you don’t have a panic attack when a feeding cycle has completed.

Walking down the NICU hallway daily is always good and bad. To the left and the right you see many rooms with isolettes and families surrounding them. You see smiles and joy. A new mom rejuvenated with a positive day her baby had. You also see the opposite. You see the broken spirit of a family that is having to watch their baby become hooked up to a new and scary monitor. It’s tough to focus only on your child when there are so many others in the same boat as you, just looking to stay above water. Which I think is a good thing. Compassion and empathy are good things to have.

That’s why you smile at everyone. You watch your wife grab the hand of the mother in tears who just found out her baby will need a spinal tap.

Sometimes I wonder if caring for the baby is easier for the nurses than enduring the parents. They are having to interact with people who for the most part, are at their worst. I believe that takes a special kind of patience.

Each day I drive up to the hospital. I ride up to the 5th floor. I wash my hands up to my elbows. Each day I have a small panic attack fearing that when I walk into the room, a team of nurses and doctors are huddled around our baby, trying to keep her alive. Each time though, I’ve walked in and she’s laying there. Perfectly snug and content. It’s my prayer everyday.

We still have some time left at the NICU before we get to take her home. While we are biting at the bit to do that, we understand that where she’s at right now, is where she needs to be. Our time is coming. Now it’s her time with Callie, Liz, Sheri, Jen, Sarah, Whitney, Emily, Samantha, Mary, Laney, Nicole, Bonnie, Brooke and so many more who are tending to our daughter around the clock. I’m so thankful for their knowledge and expertise.

I’m grateful that they all are my daughter’s parachute.

Next: Dear Baby Girl

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2 thoughts on “NICU

  1. Helpless is the scariest feeling a parent will have. We feel it time and time again as they grow, but you and Courtney have been forced to feel it all at once, right from the start. I haven’t seen it in person, but from what I’ve gathered, you two have been handling it as well as anyone could expect. Like champs.

  2. You worded this beautifully. Everyday on the drive back to the hospital you can only wonder what kind of night did the baby have? What will the nurse tell me today? Will we ever bring him home? It’s good knowing that there are others in the same fight, at the same time that you pray no one else has to suffer the life of a NCIU parent.

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