—
It was day seven after Zoey was born. Our crash course in being NICU parents was over yet and there would be more to come. For the last ten days Sarah had been a wreck wondering what she had done wrong, why Zoey wouldn’t stay inside like she should, or if there was something she could have done differently. The entire time I was the strong one. Sarah had my hand on her shoulder, my ears to listen to what was happening when she couldn’t, I was the person who ran back to her house to take care of the dogs. I couldn’t complain, I didn’t have the right to complain.
The big change happened when Zoey was stable enough to start receiving tube feeds of breast milk and she could be touched. We kept receiving good news. Her lungs would be able to handle an NIPPV machine to teach her how to breathe. There weren’t any signs of a brain bleed. Her eyes weren’t open yet but she was trying to open them and move them in the direction of the noises she could hear. It was when Sarah said, “Okay, I feel so much better now.” I finally let my guard down.
For two days, I would have random crying fits. I read to Zoey more fearful that there might not be time to finish the book if she took a turn for the worse. The insecurities and questions Sarah had before were now for me to bare. I had played the positive partner, relying on the science and experience of these people to take care of our baby and pretending to have confidence in that, but this was all new to me. I had worked in this same hospital for 14 years until I left two years ago and now I was on the other end of things with a child as the patient. I was told that Zoey already had a 75% survival rate because of where she was at, but because I’m not a gambling kind of guy I worried about the other 25%.
Sarah noticed the change and during that time she comforted me though the stress I was going through. I was already back at work and even there, in the solitude of my own workspace, I would break down and cry. It was good that I was getting it out, but regardless of how well I tried to hide it my coworkers and boss took me aside and different times and told me it was okay to call it and take some time off if I needed. With everything that was going on I didn’t see the difference between crying at home, work, or the hospital. Work had become my safe space to get away and for a few moments, forget that there was a chance my child could die.
Home had become a place I couldn’t tolerate to be in. Dirty and unkept, the laundry was piling up, cat litter always appeared full, the garden had turned into its own version of the Amazon rain forest, and I had not written anything in over a week (difficult to fathom since it was a daily habit). It would be a few weeks before I was able to reclaim some of my time without a sense of guilt to accompany it. I tried to make sure I would wake up early enough to do some writing and take care of the house. That only lasted a few days. Being a NICU parent is time consuming. The desire to be at the hospital for the care times made our schedule revolve around four hour increments and if we missed a care time we felt like horrible parents. This had become increasingly important to me since I was unable to touch Zoey the first week after she was born. I had developed some kind of sinus bug and was paranoid about touching her and giving her some illness she wouldn’t be able to fight off. Preemies don’t have an immune system like children or adults and have to rely on antibiotics in order to survive, Zoey was already on three in case her early labor was caused by one.
The first time I touched Zoey it was after a heavy dose of hand sanitizer and her tiny hand gripped onto the tip of my index finger. She was still wearing a plastic bag over her body to help hold her body heat and moisture in her skin. My first thought when I saw the bag was to check it for the warning label stating it was “not a toy for babies.”
I soon reclaimed my role as the optimistic and supportive father. The balancing act of living a life outside of the NICU and being there as much as possible remains difficult. Sleep is a luxury I have not mastered and I have learned to make do with the webcam available so that I can check on Zoey before I go to bed. At day 43 I still have concerns that pop up, wondering if something will change sending us down some unexpected rabbit hole we never saw coming. These days I hold Zoey as often as I can and hope that one day she will tell me not to hug her so much. The words will still hurt but I will be thankful that we got there.
Photo: Provided by author
Beautifully written.