NICU parenthood is devastating. Your baby is ripped away and hooked up to sterile machines, while you're left alone in a silent, cold hospital room. A nurse shows you how to clean your birthing wounds and hooks you up to a breast pump. It's all so mechanical. Eventually, you meet your fragile baby. Your baby whose vitals are beeping and displayed on flatscreen computers. Your baby that you have to ask permission to touch. They shove a tube down your baby's throat, dropping the meager drops of colostrum directly into your baby's tiny stomach. The nurses inform you that they may need to supplement with formula until your milk comes in--dairy formula. Dairy? But you are vegan; you are raising your child vegan! They look at you like you're a monster--preemies need dairy formula, they say. You pump with a newfound vigor.
Several babies are in a more serious condition than my child. Some only weigh a little over a pound--which I compare in my head. The rats I used to have weighed a pound, and they were so small. Some NICU babies are hooked up to all sorts of wires and monitors. How do those parents handle it? I broke down the moment I saw Tallulah with an IV and the sensor wrapped around her tiny foot, detecting the level of oxygen coursing through her. I wanted her to be with me, but that's not how it is with premature babies.
This goes on for nineteen days. Tallulah has to learn to eat, and we have to learn to feed her. To watch out for blue lips and quick gulps that could affect her vitals. We have to learn to ignore the machines beeping and just look at her for cues. We have to learn to be parents in the organic sense--the sense that we had wanted from day one. She has to grow, too. She impresses doctors with her advances, both with taking a bottle filled with pumped milk and with her ability to act like an average baby. There are setbacks--the tube has to be forced down her throat for a few more feedings. I cry again, even when they say that it doesn't bother them. Tallulah ends up in a hospital crib before she reaches the four pound mark. We are able to bring her clothes, miniature onesies for the tiniest of babies.
Then, one day, they say you are going home. It's been leading up to this. We have brought in our carseat and she eats well, sometimes too well. There's no notice, because once the doctors deem your child ready they contact the insurance company--and they want your baby out immediately; they don't want to pay for thriving babies. In a whirlwind, we make the arrangements for rooming in. Eric has to miss a day of work and rush home halfway through our room-in session to let Gustav out to use the bathroom. That's not a mess you want to bring a new baby home to.
We bundle her up, strap her into the carseat, and walk slowly through the hospital corridors. Another set of NICU parents points to us, leans their heads in to whisper furiously.
"They are going home. Look, they are going home."
It takes all of my composure muscles to not break down. Not in the waiting area. Not while we drive away. Instead, I turn my focus to Tallulah and make sure her head is up--so that she may breathe easily on the ride to her home.
Several babies are in a more serious condition than my child. Some only weigh a little over a pound--which I compare in my head. The rats I used to have weighed a pound, and they were so small. Some NICU babies are hooked up to all sorts of wires and monitors. How do those parents handle it? I broke down the moment I saw Tallulah with an IV and the sensor wrapped around her tiny foot, detecting the level of oxygen coursing through her. I wanted her to be with me, but that's not how it is with premature babies.
This goes on for nineteen days. Tallulah has to learn to eat, and we have to learn to feed her. To watch out for blue lips and quick gulps that could affect her vitals. We have to learn to ignore the machines beeping and just look at her for cues. We have to learn to be parents in the organic sense--the sense that we had wanted from day one. She has to grow, too. She impresses doctors with her advances, both with taking a bottle filled with pumped milk and with her ability to act like an average baby. There are setbacks--the tube has to be forced down her throat for a few more feedings. I cry again, even when they say that it doesn't bother them. Tallulah ends up in a hospital crib before she reaches the four pound mark. We are able to bring her clothes, miniature onesies for the tiniest of babies.
Then, one day, they say you are going home. It's been leading up to this. We have brought in our carseat and she eats well, sometimes too well. There's no notice, because once the doctors deem your child ready they contact the insurance company--and they want your baby out immediately; they don't want to pay for thriving babies. In a whirlwind, we make the arrangements for rooming in. Eric has to miss a day of work and rush home halfway through our room-in session to let Gustav out to use the bathroom. That's not a mess you want to bring a new baby home to.
We bundle her up, strap her into the carseat, and walk slowly through the hospital corridors. Another set of NICU parents points to us, leans their heads in to whisper furiously.
"They are going home. Look, they are going home."
It takes all of my composure muscles to not break down. Not in the waiting area. Not while we drive away. Instead, I turn my focus to Tallulah and make sure her head is up--so that she may breathe easily on the ride to her home.
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