11 Weeks, Part 1

At first they tell you that the baby will be in the NICU for 6 weeks-it’s just a ballpark based on the average stay of a baby born between 30 and 31 weeks gestation.  So for 6 weeks you are glued to that isolette.  I wasn’t permitted to drive for a while, so chauffeur mommy drove me everywhere, especially after the hubby went back to work.

After two days Lily went from intubated to something resembling a nasal cannula, which meant we got to hold her.  I wasn’t prepared for that.  The hubby snapped a photo right as the nurse handed me the baby, and in it I look like one of those real sex dolls-mouth agape, eyes frozen in surprise, boobs jutting out all over the place, body completely stiff in terror.  The hubby calls it a look of “sheer joy.”  I call it a joy and dread hybrid.  She was so tiny-how could I be allowed to hold something that was so breakable?  And the way the nurse handed her to me-just lifted her featherweight, wrapped body out of the isolette and plopped her in my arms without warning-eventually I would learn to pick up Lily the same way, without fear and with total authority, but at that moment I was awash in trepidation.  And then there she was, asleep, resting her nothingness in my beefy arms, and it finally felt right, it finally felt like I was a mother, albeit a pretty screwed up one.  This was my baby.  It is important to note that I still didn’t feel like I “had” a baby, like I gave birth to the vomit inducing terror that kicked me awake at night.  Quite the opposite-to this day I still don’t feel like I gave birth.  I just knew that this beautiful little girl belonged to me.

In the beginning, I was there every day.  Some days I was there all day long, only leaving the NICU to get lunch when they closed for shift changes and sterilization procedures.  Or to pump in the adjoining pumping room (more on that to follow).  Or to calm myself down in the discharge lounge and eat the single serving sized Jack & Jill ice cream cups that the hospital kept stocked in all its fridges.  I tried to kangaroo every day-kangaroo is when you lay the baby on your chest, skin to skin, and cover yourself in warm blankets to keep the baby warm.  I wasn’t very good at it-it’s hard enough for me to sit still under normal circumstances, but every couple of minutes I would doze off and then shake myself awake.  I was petrified that I would drop the baby.  And then there were all the wires and the IV lines snaking out from Lily’s tiny body-I knew if I moved just one inch in the wrong direction I could accidentally pull something and hurt her.  Did I mention the crippling anxiety about Lily’s situation that caused me to weep uncontrollably if I was near her for too long?  You’re supposed to kangaroo for an hour, and I could barely make it 20 minutes without staring into the void and willing a nurse (with my mind) to check on me because I couldn’t handle it, I just couldn’t handle being there at that moment holding her nothingness and knowing that there was nothing that I could do to make her better or bigger or stronger, that only time could do that and I was useless.  I was meaningless as a mother because that’s what mothers are supposed to do-they’re supposed to care for their children-and I couldn’t do that.  I had failed.  It was my placenta that failed and this was all my fault.  Did I mention the guilt?  Even though the doctors kept trying to assuage it, kept reminding me that nothing was actually wrong with Lily (she wasn’t sick and she wasn’t in any danger), that she just needed to get bigger, and that as she got bigger, everything would resolve itself (lung growth and development, etc…), I couldn’t help but be overcome with the sense that I had done something wrong.

See, the reason this all happened, the reason Lily was born early, the reason for the IUGR (intra uterine growth restriction) was because ¼ of my placenta had died.  The OBGYN showed it to the hubby when he removed it during the C-section.  It was coated in this white, filmy stuff that I’m guessing looked like tripe but since I didn’t see it, and since my hubby isn’t so great at describing things, who knows if that image is correct.  It was my fault-my body had failed my child-and there wasn’t an answer as to why.  I need to have some tests done to find out if it will happen again, but it could also have been a random virus.  “Woo-hoo” I shout, sarcastically.

What we learned early on-babies born at Lily’s gestation:

·         Are often treated for chronic lung disease-it doesn’t mean that they have lung disease, but their lungs aren’t fully developed, and it turns out that the treatment is the same.  By the time she was discharged, it was gone.

·         Do not like to be rubbed or touched-their skin is very sensitive. Instead, they like to be contained-so you should cup your hand and provide a little pressure to her body instead of instinctually rubbing or patting her.

·         Develop acid reflux-it’s pretty much the plague of the NICU.  She would only sleep on her belly (prone) because it was the only way that she was comfortable.  This is true to this day-I can not get her to sleep on her back, despite all the ‘back to sleep’ warnings.

·         Have apnea, and not just sleep apnea.  They literally forget to breathe at any point in the day.  You have to remind them, gently shake or bounce them, to get them to breathe again.  The gentle reminder always works, but it’s scary as fuck when it happens and the alarms all go off and then she turns blue and you don’t know what to do.

·         Are a lot bigger than she was-Lily had a long road ahead of her.

Lily didn’t go home after 6 weeks-it took 11 weeks and then a second stay of 2 days before she was really home for good.