Facing Loss While Staring at the Tree of Life

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“She isn’t growing as fast as we would like,” was the statement made by the doctor. Zoey was reaching 70 days old and her growth had come to a standstill. A fortifier was added to her breast milk to increase the amount of fat and protein she was ingesting, think of it as a baby protein shake. At three and a half pounds, she had decided to stop growing.

All other signs showed that she was doing well. Zoey had her first bath, started wearing clothes, and had her plastic world of the isolette replaced with a crib. My baby girl was growing up. The downside was that the numbers on the board weren’t changing and she would have to become bigger if she was going to no longer need caffeine to breathe and maintain her own body heat.

The next trick up the doctor’s sleeve came from an old farming practice. When a farmer creates butter, they have to separate the fat from the rest of the milk. The fat is then collected from the top of the milk and used to make cheese and butter. The doctor’s plan was to use the same process on donor milk to increase the fat and protein content of Zoey’s food. The question you might have is where does donor milk come from?

In the lobby of the hospital, outside of the chapel, is a tile mural in the image of a tree. I had seen this several times my first few days after Zoey was born and never stopped to see what it really was. On the trunk of the tree was a plaque stating it was in memory of all the babies who died after birth and their mother’s continued to donate breast milk to the milk bank to help other babies survive. Half of the leaves on the tree had either a name (John Smith III) or simply read, baby boy Smith. There were a lot of baby boy or baby girl names listed. The more difficult names on the tree to see where the named babies who didn’t make it, and when one looked closely you could find the twins that didn’t survive. The birthdates are included on the tree and the leaves of siblings are next to one another. John and Jane Smith will have the same birthdate, hovering on the tree to show that while they didn’t make it home, their mother continued to donate their milk so that others could.

The first week in the NICU, I stood in front of the tree waiting for Sarah after lunch. It was the first time I really looked at the tree and saw the names and dates, piecing everything together. With the lunch rush happening and the staff in the building flooding to the cafeteria, I tried to keep my emotions to myself. Sarah walked up behind me and held my hand, that was when the tears flooded out. She had noticed the tree earlier and was trying to ignore it. Zoey was still under two pounds and was struggling to gain weight. At that time, she was living off of IV fluids and was still wearing a plastic bag to hold her body heat. I kept telling myself that I never wanted to see Zoey’s name listed on the tree, I wanted to take her home and watch her grow and become the beautiful person I pictured her to be. The names on the tree reminded me that others had hoped for the same thing and didn’t have their dreams come true.

Standing there, reading the names, we asked each other which was better, not naming the child or having it named to never forget? We could see both sides of the stories. Leaving the child nameless could make it easier to move on and try again. On the other hand, maybe John Smith III was the last of a tradition to carry a name to the first-born son. Some parents don’t pick a name until birth while others like us had Zoey picked out the week before.

Even though Zoey was struggling, her odds were favorable and the doctors were optimistic she would one day go home with us. Just in case there was a turn for the worse, Sarah decided that if something did happen, and Zoey was no longer with us, she would donate as long as she could. Her name would be added to the tree and we would have someplace to go to remember the daughter we had. Today, Zoey is still with us. She is working towards gaining weight and the donor milk the bank receives is helping her gain the weight she needs to continue her journey.

Milk isn’t the only thing she received after she was born, Zoey had four blood transfusions. At one pound five ounces she wasn’t big enough to create her own blood. The test she was receiving included blood sugar levels and blood gases. Each poke and blood draw took a small amount from a resource she could not replenish on her own. Her platelet count would be checked and she would receive a few milliliters of blood from the blood bank. These days, at three and a half pounds she is receiving Iron in her food to help her bone marrow produce her own blood cells. We tend to think of donating blood as a way to help the emergency room or patients in surgery, but in the NICU it is the only way a micro preemie can survive when its body is too small to work on its own.

I still see that tree every day. Most days I don’t stop to look at it. The pain is too real and I almost feel a level of guilt that my child is doing well and working towards going home. I think about the scream I heard in the first week in the NICU, the heartbroken woman who had to carry her child’s things home without her child leaving with her. Earlier this week, a 23-week baby moved into the room next to Zoey’s and memories flooded back of her being under the plastic bag and the blue light pressed against her body. Later, Sarah learned that it was the second half of twins and the sibling didn’t survive. I have trouble walking past that room. The fear, stress, anxiety, pain, guilt, and terror floods back and for a moment I relive those first days in the NICU.

I’m stopping by the tree today. Zoey is growing again, adding a few ounces per day and I have to pay my respects to those that didn’t make it. As a man, I have come to accept the fact there is little I can do to help Zoey move towards coming home. Her mother makes her food, the doctors write the orders and plan her care, the nurses make sure the orders are taken care of, as for me I will read to her today like I have every day and visit that tree. It is the least I can do to say thank you.
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