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The Sink
Francis Linardo, Knoxville, TN
From Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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One of the first things any good golf teacher will tell you: develop a routine. Get a pre-shot ritual and do it the same way every time. The theory being, consistency breeds success. The more you do it, the more you are comfortable doing it. If things start to fall apart, your routine is there to fall back on to steady the ship.
I am not consistent with it, which is one of the myriad reasons I am no good at golf. But this is one of those areas where golf has a life lesson to teach. I am referring to our time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and the University of Tennessee Medical Center.
It gets pretty crazy in there as you might imagine. The first time you see it is on the mandatory tour before the birth of your child or in our case, children. They poured Tracy into a wheelchair, and we rolled over from her hospital room where she had been on bed-rest for about three weeks, across the hall to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit or NICU, pronounced “Nick U.” It might as well get certified as its own University; it has been a college-level education every minute we’ve been in there.
After rolling through the secured double doors, the first thing you see that requires your attention is The Sink; two of them actually: the silent sentinels of the NICU. If you don’t visit The Sink and pay the proper homage, your journey ends, immediately.
No place can be completely germ-free, but the NICU has to be as germ-free as possible because the little babies who couldn’t wait the full forty weeks and left behind their coat of immunity on their dash to freedom. If you want admittance to a true Magic Kingdom, you must appease The Sink.
Here is how it works: you go to The Sink, step on the two pedals on the floor to start the water, bare your arms to your elbows (although I have learned that if you want your sleeves to be dry at the cuffs you need to push them well past your elbow), get your arms wet from elbow to fingertip and start soaping. If there is a chance you still have some pulled pork or curly fry remains under your fingernails, there is a cup with what I call miniature Punji Sticks, but is conveniently marked “Finger Nail Cleaners.” Let’s just say, if the NICU is ever attacked or a particular doctor is not giving me the info I want, that cup will come in handy. Dull they ain’t.
After sufficient soaping of the hands and arms from the fingertips up to and including the elbow, you rinse, completely. Then repeat. And then again, until you have done this for three minutes.
After the three minutes is up, you dry completely. No medical reason for this, just function. If your hands are a little wet, the next step is not pleasant. After washing and drying, you apply an alcohol-based sanitizer to your hands. The sanitizer is so strong it takes several minutes to get it rubbed into a point that will allow you to separate your fingers. If your hands are even a little moist, you can forget doing anything but Spock’s “Live Long and Prosper” gesture for at least an hour. I’m talking about the real Spock now, Science Officer of the Enterprise, not that fake Dr. dude who wrote all those ludicrous children’s books.
Once the sanitizer is applied, your identity has been transformed. You are now recognized as a member of the NICU and are free to pretty much wander and do as you please.
Tracy is a rule follower. She followed this procedure without complaint because she was afraid of getting in trouble and didn’t want to be accused of bringing in a microbe that might wipe out the entire preemie population. My three-minute commitment was much deeper.
The Sink, once viewed as a three-minute burden that felt more like an hour, became a safe haven for me, much like the pre-shot routine is supposed to offer to my golf swing.
Things can get crazy in the NICU and over a three-week period in June, they were probably at their craziest. Babies we came to know passed away, others clung to life. Anne Marie, on two separate occasions over those weeks, had such major setbacks we thought it was the end of the line. We thought we would be burying her right next to her sister Linda Claire, who we had buried not three months prior. When things are appearing to be falling apart, you need something to anchor to; something routine, something you know will not be different as all other circumstances change at a blinding pace.
The Sink was consistent. I knew what to do when I got there, doing it every day for five months. It gave me three minutes to gather whatever mental clarity I may need to make decisions for Anne Marie when I got to her room, after having to walk past other rooms where other babies were fighting the fight, and other parents were making life and death decisions.
When a call comes early in the morning, and a doctor is on the line, you know it is not good. The normal crazy will be ramped up on your visit that day.
There may be a new nurse in your baby’s room; your uneasiness starts to rise. No matter that she is the best at what she does, highly trained, abundantly qualified in technical and personal skill and will probably save the life of a baby that very day; maybe your baby. She is new to you.
There are ten doctors in the group of physicians that handle the NICU. Today might be the day you meet a Doc you have never seen before; anxiety comes now. Will she change the medication or feeding plan? Who knows? All these things occurred on a daily basis, each one knocking you off your pins just a little bit more than the last thing did.
But The Sink, The Sink became invaluable. The Sink never changed, the routine never changed. There was solid ground there. It really was the only solid ground in the place.
My hands have never been cleaner.
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Francis Linardo, originally born and raised in Mays Landing, NJ with his five sisters and two brothers, now lives in Knoxville TN with his wife Tracy, son Frank and daughter Anne Marie. He retired from the United States Air Force in 2009 to be a stay-at-home dad. Find more of his writing at www.franknfran.com.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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Photo credit: Getty Images
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