Adventures in the NICU

My water broke right before the delivery and there was meconium in it. That is the special, technical term for a baby's first bowel movement. But it sounds like a made-up element that we might take over another planet for. ("I don't care that we have to kill millions of aliens, the meconium deposits are priceless!") or maybe something that could kill Superman ("Bwa ha ha! You can't save Lois now! Those bars are coated with meconium!")

You may not be aware of this, but babies are not supposed to poop before they are born. If they do, it means that something is wrong. So the extra special baby nurses were called, and they got a full view of the delivery - which totally killed my "only my husband, midwife, and nurse are invited to the 'party with my pants off'" rule. But, oh well.

She had a kind of greenish tint to her, and the cord was wrapped around her neck twice. They put her on my chest at first but quickly moved her to the side where the docs could work on her better. According to my midwife it had been at least two days since the passing of the meconium, so she HAD been in distress but hadn't shown any signs of it on the monitor while we were in the hospital. In fact, by the fetal monitoring torture device I'd been wearing since we got to the hospital the baby was fine.

They took her away anyway.

Because they had sucked so much fluid out of her and she STILL wasn't breathing well, John went with the doctors to the NICU. He has never left me in the delivery room before. He is very stubborn about this. "The baby won't remember if I was with it or not. You will." He says. But this time there was a problem, and he went with the baby.

It was barely 6:00am and my midwife had to start her day. She finished with everything she needed to do with me, gave the nurse some instructions, said she would be back later and left.

The nurse made sure I had five blankets or so and then had to check on her other patients.

And I was alone.

Shivering and curled up in a cold, dark hospital room by myself.

More alone than I've been in nine months.

I cannot describe to you the feeling of not being pregnant any more than I can describe what it feels like to actually be pregnant. You may think you know what it feels like to not be pregnant because - hey! you're not pregnant right now! you totally get this!

I guess what I mean is that I can't describe the feeling of not being pregnant anymore. Usually, I'm ecstatic. EVERYTHING is better when you're not pregnant. You can breathe, sleep, move. . . the list goes on and on. But always before I've had that tiny person to hold. I've spent those first hours of not pregnant meeting someone I already love. (Except for that one time when I spent it sobbing in my husbands arms because of the miscarriage) But this time everything was fine. "Just a precaution," the nurses said, "just to check and make sure." But everything wasn't fine. Because I was more alone than I've ever felt in my life.

An eternity and a short while later, Husband came back and I was transfered to the maternity ward. After getting settled in and meeting my new nurses John asked me if I wanted to nap first or go down to the NICU. And I was all, "Ummm. . . take me to my baby NOW!"

Editorial note: from here on in I get a bit of an attitude. OK, I always have an attitude, but wacked out on hormones, drugs and no sleep, it becomes a bit more. . . pronounced.

We went through all the security to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. I never did figure out if they were more concerned about people getting in there or germs. And there was my baby. 7 pounds 10 ounces of sweet, beautiful life hooked up to tubes and wires and the machine that goes 'ping'.

John introduced me to the nurse and we asked how the baby was doing. I think that NICU nurses should all go into politics. They are incapable of giving a straight answer. You'd think a simple question like, "Why do you have my baby hooked up to the machine that goes 'ping'?" would get a simple answer like, "I just like the sound it makes when it harmonizes with the oxygen "buzzzzzzzzzzz". My parents never took me to the symphony as a child, you see, so I try to imagine what it would have been like." But I never felt like we got a straight answer from the nurses. The fact that I was exhausted and mildly drugged may have had something to do with it.

The nurse said, "Give me just a second, and you can hold her."

To which I replied, "Excuse me? Did you just tell me I had to wait for YOUR permission to hold MY child? Listen Lady, I don't know who you think you are but I created that body out of my own blood and sweat (and almond joy bars). I vomited for weeks and limped for months and then pushed that gigantic head out. of. my. vagina. You don't get to tell me when I can touch her. Back off!"

No. I didn't. But I wanted to. The audacity of it still bugs me. But I was a good little patient and waited for her to lift the baby into my arms. Probably it was a good thing that I was too tired to yell at her.

I get that they were trying to do what was best for my baby. And I understand that they have experience with this and that I should trust their judgement, which I did - I still do. But every time they started to order me around I found myself wishing that I had on combat boots and not those pansy little hospital socks so I could kick somebody in the keister.

Every three hours was her feeding time. This was the only time I was allowed to hold her. She needed rest, the nurses told me. Don't disturb her, they said. It was so frustrating. Do you know why I had the baby? To hold it. To cuddle her close to my chest and listen to her breathe. The whole reason humans developed the ability to walk upright was so that our hands could be free to carry our helpless little wiggle-worms and smell their heads all day long. Babies were meant to be held. You don't just lay them down. Except that they did. And I did. Because as much as I wanted to give those nurses a piece of my mind (or a taste of my shoe), what I really wanted was to rip all of the wires and needles and tubes out of my baby and take her home and cuddle her for a week. And I was rational enough to know that I needed her to be healthy before I could do that. But just barely.

Can you see the crazy behind my eyes?

Basically she was just taking a little longer to adjust to life outside the womb. She was breathing on her own by the next morning and eating a couple of ounces every feeding by the day after that. She finished a precautionary round of antibiotics and we were able to take her home after four days. The day before Thanksgiving. I have never been more grateful.