speed bumps

*about a year ago*

we had been hearing about the baby all night long. he'd been born at 3:30 that afternoon and gone under oxygen. that happens sometimes-babies need a little extra help transitioning from inside mama to the great big world. after several hours, though, the baby was still having trouble. i imagine someone went to that mother's room to tell her that her arms, aching now with a very present emptiness, would be joined with an aching and fearful heart-"We're going to have to transfer your baby to the NICU."

icu? intensive care? our baby is going to die? i can imagine the fear flashing through her heart, the drop in her stomach like a roller coaster ride, her eyes and throat constricting and welling up as a flood of tears makes itself present and showers her face. her firstborn, the child she has cherished since mid-march--and something is wrong.

we get him when he's about 15 hours old. he hangs on all day and part of the night, but is just not oxygenating as well as we'd like. we have to put him on CPAP about two in the morning, approximately 24 hours after we admit him to nicu. and again, that mother is awoken from sleep-your son is not doing as well as we'd like, so he'll need a little more help.

hand in hand, she and her husband come down the hall and go a floor below where they are, to the place that they know now is not full of death but is still scary. they go to little Jack*, and the plastic tent he was tucked into is gone, replaced with a blue machine standing by his bed. a mask is attached to his little nose and tied up around his head in a cap, a long white tube sticking up from the mask, his own little rhinocerous horn. they reach for his hands, hearts aching to know what's wrong with their son but at the same time wishing only that he was better.

a nurse appears and asks what questions they have. they look at each other, bewildered, not knowing enough to know what questions to ask. she begins to explain, seeming to understand their utter loss for words. softly, simply (but not in a condescending manner) she explains each piece of equipment and its basic purpose. she gives them an idea of what to expect while their son is here, shows them a place to bring toys and put them above his bed, little sentries watching over him when they are not there.

she seems to understand their fears and tells them that being here, touching him, talking quietly to him...these are the best things for him, almost better than anything they as nurses can do. they thank her, a bit more comforted, and she disappears, leaving them alone with their world-their child-and being more reassured that this is merely a speed bump-not the brick wall they'd thought.


that's one of the things i love the most. being able to sit with parents and give them a little reassurance that this precious child of theirs has a 97% chance of walking out of here alive. explaining the odds. reassuring them over and over that they didn't do anything wrong...that there are no stupid questions...and that it's ok to ask them over and over if they don't remember.