The Madness Between

One year ago today, Mac and I woke up at 6am and did our routine morning call to the NICU to check on how Tommy did overnight.  I used to hold my breath during these phone calls because we quickly learned how fragile preemies are and how much can change in even just an hour in the NICU.  There were so many times we would make that morning call and hear “well he had a few episodes where he stopped breathing..” or “his oxygen level dipped a few times” or “he had a bradys episode”.  This may sound odd but the times we heard “he had a great night – had a bath, took all of his feedings, and slept well in between” were just as painful.  Whether Tommy had a scary night or spent the night acting like a healthy, newborn baby – it pained me knowing he was 45 minutes away and in the loving arms and care of a stranger.  So good news, bad news – it all felt the same.  All we ever wanted to hear was “today’s the day Tommy is going home!” and on March 8th we finally heard that beautiful, life-changing sentence.

Life in the NICU is incredibly, incredibly difficult.  I used to receive compliments from the nurses / doctors that I seemed so calm, gracious, and patient during our adventure in the NICU and I used to joke that while having a newborn living in intensive care for 8 weeks would be a parents’ worst nightmare.. it seemed like a piece of cake for us.  That statement could not be more false but compared to what our months prior to Tommy’s birth had been like, this was physically – emotionally – mentally easier for me.  Waiting for two babies hearts to stop beating, holding two stillborns in our arms, sending two babies to the morgue was what I was comparing life in the NICU against – so it was an easy win.  But that’s how I survived – I needed to convince myself that something out there could be worse.

On my morning drive to Lutheran General every morning – after saying goodbye to a very confused 3.5 year old as to why I had to leave everyday to go see her brother – I would treat myself to Starbucks, and then calm my emotions by repeating over and over ‘at least Tommy is alive and thriving’.  When I would finally get to the hospital, after an hour in traffic, fight for a spot in a parking lot that was constantly under construction, walk through the hospital (usually in pain following my c-section), take the elevator down, walk to the NICU unit, sign-in, and scrub my fingernails, hands, arms in order to prevent infecting my own child – I would force myself to focus on the fact that the next few hours would be spent with my precious son and this was all worth it.  But no matter what positive message my inner cheerleader chanted that morning – my heart always sank when I entered a bright, sterile room filled with busy nurses, 8 incubators containing teeny, tiny helpless and often times very sick babies, constant alarms and monitors blaring, and more tubes – wires – machines than you would ever want to see.  My stomach hurts even thinking about the anxious walk to Tommy’s incubator..  would he be crying all alone?  Would he be happily asleep, completely unaware that his mom was craving him all night?  Would he have new tubes attached – a sign that he’s regressing?  Would he open his eyes when I spoke his name?  Would he be assigned a nurse who wasn’t as comfortable with me changing his diaper, taking him out of his incubator at free will – would I have to earn someone’s trust in order to handle my own son.  It was always a flood of worries as I entered that room – but unless Tommy was in clear distress (which happened a few mornings), my concerns ceased the second I saw his beautiful face.  He was always so pink and rosy from the warm incubator – usually in a deep sleep with twitching eyes and a random smirk – and dressed in an enormous ‘preemie’ onesie, unbuttoned to allow for his feeding tube, IV, oxygen, heart monitors.  His station was decorated with signs that we had all made for him and there would often be new additions from the nurses – a growth chart, a picture from bath time, or a take-home craft that the child-life specialists dropped off for siblings at home.  I would find a chair to sit in – bring it as close to Tommy’s machines as possible, put up a room divider to give myself some privacy, sanitize one last time, and then begin the process of untangling Tommy’s wires and ever so cautiously laying him on my chest.  I cannot tell you the panic that you feel when handling a 3lb baby that is connected to a ton of wires and machines.. I was convinced that one wrong move would stop him from breathing.

Our days together varied based on how he was progressing – some days were calm and he would lay naked on my chest – and I would spend hours breathing calmly, and slowly and picturing his tiny little body healing.  Other days, my emotions would get the best of me and I would read a few chapters in Amy Poehler’s “Yes Please” to give myself a few laughs and pretend that my environment was something closer to what it would look like at home with him.  Some mornings I would just sit with Tommy and cry.  Other mornings were filled with doctor visits, assessments, updates, new feeding schedules, occupational therapists – and I would spend my short time with him, just watching, waiting, and longing to hold him.  The only common routine we had each day was trying our best to get to know one another in such an unnatural setting.  I would stare at Tommy and try to remember every inch of his face.. I would listen to his breathing and try to understand when his oxygen would dip… I memorized his monitors and became an expert in NICU lingo… I fought for him when I thought he needed to be pushed and spoke up when I thought they were pushing him too hard.  I was desperate for a motherly instinct and to be able to feel that I knew Tommy more than anyone else did – just like I felt when Riley was born.  The truth was – I didn’t know him best, and 50 days later when he was ready to come home – I still had a lot of learning to do but I was ready for the challenge.

The morning we found out about Tommy being discharged was filled with overwhelming emotions.  We had been hearing for a few days prior that Tommy was getting close to being discharged but everyday there would be a set-back that would delay the doctor from approving it.  So while Mac was over the moon about getting to the hospital and picking him up – I was terrified.  I was scared that we would get there, have his car seat in hand, and then be told we had to wait another day.  I didn’t want to get excited until Tommy was buckled in and we were on the road.  I also had the emotions of what I pictured this day to be and how different it was;  we entered this hospital as parents of triplets – and we left 8 weeks later with our one surviving son.  On top of it all – we were finally going to be introducing Riley to her baby brother… the mysterious baby who lived far away.  Lutheran General’s NICU is extremely strict with visitors so she never had the chance to meet him during his stay there.  Pictures, videos, and stories only do so much.. I had no clue what it would look like to bring this baby into our home and watch her understand that he wasn’t leaving.  It was a lot.   A lot heavier, a lot deeper, a lot more emotional that I ever imagined Tommy’s homecoming day to be.

But as I titled this blog post – March 8th is a day to celebrate.  We signed off our discharge papers, unhooked Tommy from his machines, held him freely for the first time, hugged the nurses, cried plenty of tears, took pictures on our way out, strapped Tommy safely into the car and drove home one last time from Lutheran General.  Mac walked Tommy into our house to meet Riley and it could have been a scene out of a movie because she was so sweet and almost nervous to meet him.  We walked around the house with him and I remember getting excited about all the different places I could hold him since my only experience holding him was in a chair next to his incubator.  That night was the first night in 8 weeks that our family of four was in one place and though neither Mac or I (nor Tommy) slept a single second that night… my heart felt fuller than it had in months and months.

Today we celebrate this sweet boy – surviving his 8 week journey, beating all the odds, and gaining his “Tough Tommy” nickname.  I will never take for granted getting to wake up to this boy, or be the only ones kissing him goodnight.