Not out of the woods yet pt. 2 (Conclusion)

((SPOILER ALERT:  Sorry to ruin any suspense, but Dorian is scheduled to come home this Friday April 27th, 2012!!!))

Monday March, 5th (Early)

I left Dorian, Lindsay, and the hospital that morning to go to an interview back in Bloomington for a position with Indiana University.  The staff at IU were gracious enough to reschedule my interview from the original March 2nd date (the day that Lindsay was admitted to the hospital).  I promised Lindsay that I would be back as soon as the interview was finished.

I walked out of the hospital and into the parking lot which was adrift with accumulating snow flurries.  The weather was truly living up to Dorian's namesake ("Tempestuous Weather").  It felt like I hadn't breathed fresh air in weeks.  I was hoping to just hop in our car and make this departure as quick and painless as possible.  Mother nature had other plans apparently.  I started the car and scraped the ice off the windshield.  I pulled out of the hospital and made my way to Bloomington.

I listened to the radio on the way down.  I heard updates about the tornadoes that wreaked havoc across southern Indiana and the surrounding states. There were "slide off's" reported throughout the Indianapolis area, and I also heard that there was a fatal accident on I-69 (just two exits away from the hospital's exit).  My thoughts immediately turned to Lindsay and Dorian.  It's strange how an everyday task such as driving can take on new meaning after an event such as having a child.  This new perspective was a bit unnerving and completely surprising how easily it consumed any previous ideas, thoughts, and notions of my previous existence before Dorian.  Even Axl Rose sounded different when he came on the radio singing "Sweet Child of Mine"--thank you synchronicity.

I arrived home, gave Momo some lovin', got cleaned up (see below), and went to my interview.

The interview went really well.  They always do.  One of the benefits of having a B.F.A in Performance Theatre is that I know how to sell myself.

Upon leaving IU, I had one final stop at a friend's house who had agreed to take care of Momo while we were gone.  When I arrived at her place she gave me a much needed cup of coffee.  I gave her the update on Dorian and Lindsay.  "Speaking of Lindsay," I said as I sat in my hostess's living room sipping my coffee, "let me give her a call real quick."  I was excited to tell Lindsay all about the interview.  When I reached her on the telephone, she did not sound well.

"Where are you?" she asked weakly.

"I'm in Bloomington," I told her.

"I need you here," she said.  She sounded very shaky and on the verge of tears.  "My platelets have crashed.  I'm bleeding out.  I feel horrible."

"I'm on my way."  I told her that I loved her, I said goodbye to my friend, and I made my way back to the hospital.

This was unexpected.  We were told that Lindsay would be fine after she delivered the baby.  The only cure for pre-eclampsia is to deliver the baby.  What was going on?

Lindsay's low platelet count was the final symptom of HELLP Syndrome.  As per the article from Wikipedia, it occurs in less than 1% of all pregnancies and only 10-20% of women who have been diagnosed with pre-eclampsia.  I'm sure that no one--including Lindsay--diagnosed with this consider themselves "lucky".


[I've come to a crossroads with this blog.  Again, I don't mean to ruin the "end" of the story, although in all reality, we are no where near the end.  "It is the end of the beginning." (Kudo points to anyone who can name the movie from which I snagged that quote)  I don't mean to speed the story along, but the NICU chapter of Dorian's life is--thankfully--coming to an end.  I could write volumes of our experiences with the numerous nurses, doctors, and specialists at St. Vincent's Women's Hospital, but Dorian is coming home and I think that if I'm going to spend any time writing, I will focus on our new memories forged at home.  As for the incredible staff at St. Vincent's, I cannot begin to thank them enough.  I will sing their praises to everyone whenever they come up in conversation.  One criticisms I will give, however, is the fact that there is no support group for parents at St. Vincent's.  If this is incorrect, I hope that a reader will speak up.  Lindsay and I made many acquaintances in the NICU.  We spoke to many parents, shared our story, and lent an ear when needed.  One parent actually asked us if we were public relations people for the hospital.  Having a child in the NICU makes you a part of a club.  No one asks to join, but you wouldn't be there unless it was necessary.  There is a picnic scheduled for August for all of the NICU "graduates".  Lindsay and I plan on attending with Dorian.  A doctor told us, "It's amazing.  We won't even recognize the babies, but we will remember you two."

So in summary:
Lindsay got better and got to see Dorian the following Wednesday (3 days after he was born).  Dorian continued to grow...and grow...and grow.  The latest report as of last night (4/25/12) he was up to 5lbs 15oz.  We tracked all of his progress and milestones in a binder given to us by the NICU staff.


A big thank you to everyone for supporting us with your thoughts, prayers, love, phone calls, facebook comments, gifts, hugs, kisses, and stories.  Look for a new blog about the trials and tribulations of being a daddy--if I can find time.

Safe travels,
Dorian's Father  ]

Not out of the woods yet pt. 1

Sunday March 4th, 2012 (Later that evening)

After we had visited Dorian, Lindsay and I were escorted back to her room again.  The nurses informed us that a lactation specialist had been scheduled to see us since Lindsay had planned to breastfeed.  I found it to be, and still do, amazing that anyone wouldn't at least consider breastfeeding their child if it is at all feasible.  The nutrients and health benefits that are passed in the initial milk (colostrum) and the subsequent milk to follow are incredible.  I won't bother to fill this blog with all of the advantages of breastfeeding (I figure that my readers are intelligent enough to do some research if they have questions), but I will mention this one simple fact:  It's FREE!  The best part of the breastfeeding process for me was that every time Lindsay pumped out some of her "magic milk" (as she would come to call it), I got to deliver it up to the NICU and see Dorian.  Unfortunately, as foretold by the nurses, Lindsay could not accompany me until she was stronger.  However, her body had kicked in to "mother" mode instantly, and she started producing colostrum with her first pumping.

We quickly fell into a routine of pump and deliver.  Lindsay would pump, and I would measure the amount, track and document it on the provided forms, clean the equipment, and take the delivery to Dorian.  Part of me felt a little silly carrying a plastic syringe of colostrum through the hospital and up to the third floor NICU.  However, I was elated to feel useful.  I had a job--something to do other than worry.  Plus there was the added bonus of seeing my son with every delivery.

Late that evening, I was beginning a delivery run up to Dorian.  Lindsay and I had agreed that after I returned from the NICU, we would order room service, watch some television, complete one more pumping session, and settle in for our 5-hour block of sleep.  I kissed Lindsay and told her that I would be right back.

I carried the syringe of colostrum through the double doors of the NICU.  I had to pass many pods on my way to Dorian's.  I have always been a positive person--it's literally in my blood (I'm type "B positive").  I can't help but smile a lot.  Even though I was exhausted from lack of sleep and the emotional marathon from the entire ordeal of the last couple days, I still had a grin from ear to ear as I neared my son's bed.  I caught the eyes of a couple of the parents who were visiting their child in the NICU.  A small part of me felt guilty for seeming so upbeat, but I was genuinely happy.  When I arrived at his bedside, the nurse was across the way feeding another baby.

"Hello," she said with the babe in her arms.  She was wearing a yellow gown and gloves.  "Hospital regulation," I was told later.  None of the nurses were allowed direct skin-to-skin contact with the babies in NICU.  Obviously this is to help contain any possible spread of infection or germs, but at the same time, how unfortunate to deny these sincere caregivers and their patients the comfort that comes with a loving touch.

"Another delivery from Mom," I informed the nurse.  I placed the syringe on the counter as I had been instructed to do from previous trips up to the NICU.  "I'm just gonna peak in at him and say good night," I informed the nurse who nodded at me.  Dorian's isolette was covered with a thick, white blanket which muffled the sounds of the NICU and kept out the light.  I pulled up one side of the blanket and peered through the plastic window.  I was allowed to touch him all that I wanted, and I had at previous deliveries.  This time, however, I was simply dropping off Lindsay's hard work and then returning to her room as planned.  "I love you, Dorian," I said in a soft voice.  He looked so peaceful lying in his bed.  I looked at his head covered in his white cap.  His eyelids were shiny due to an ointment that was applied to help keep them moist.  He had monitors and wires attached to his small, delicate chest and stomach.  I smiled down at my son.  I watched his chest rise and fall with his breaths.  It rose and fell.  It rose and fell slower.  It rose and fell even slower.  Then there was a pause.  I looked up at his monitor.  His breathing was definitely slowing.  I looked at Dorian again.  His chest was not rising.  I shot my head back to the monitor.  The numbers continued to drop.  The yellow number indicating Dorian's breaths per minute was still dropping and suddenly turned a blinking red.  I looked back at Dorian.  Then I turned my attention to his nurse sitting 8 feet away.

"I'm watching him," she assured me.  More alarms sounded.  Another nurse arrived suddenly at Dorian's bedside, and she was followed by two more.  I immediately took a step back to allow them room.  The feeling that I was underwater returned--it was as if everything was happening slowly and all the sounds became muffled.

Another woman approached Dorian's pod wearing navy blue scrubs.  From my observations I assumed--and would still assume--that she was a doctor. "What's happening?" she asked taking the words right out of my mouth.

Dorian's nurse had placed the baby she was feeding back in his crib and joined the others who were closely observing Dorian.  "He was doing fine just a minute ago," she answered.  She washed hurriedly washed her hands, put on a fresh pair of gloves, and opened the isolette's side access portals.  She picked up Dorian and rubbed his back in a circular motion.  "Come on, Dorian," she said as she held him.  She massaged Dorian a little more and laid him back down.  The doctor adjusted a dial which controlled Dorian's oxygen flow, and we all watched the monitor.

Dorian's numbers continued to drop.  More alarms went off.  The nurse reached back into the isolette.  Another nurse arrived and harshly barked, "Somebody 'stim' him!"  Dorian's nurse immediately started compressions.  The neonatologist arrived also wearing navy blue scrubs.  We had met before.  I never forget a face--especially a face that told me that Dorian's survival rate was "somewhere in the low 90 percentile."  He washed his hands and looked in at Dorian.  His numbers started to rise slowly.  One by one the alarms silenced.  Dorian's nurse, who had stopped her compressions, tucked my son back into a resting position, took her hands out of the isolette, and closed the access portals.  The neonatologist went over to the counter in Dorian's pod, retrieved his chart, and started reading.  The other nurses began to disperse.  Some were whispering to each other.  The nurse who barked the "stim" order said, "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Oh, don't worry about it," the nurse replied.

I found that I suddenly regained my power of speech.  "IS HE ALL RIGHT??"  The nurses and doctor looked up at me.  It almost seemed as if they had forgotten that I was there, which sat well enough with me.  I wasn't the most important person there anyway.  I was just the milk man making a delivery.

"He's fine," the neonatologist finally said.  "I was reviewing his charts.  We're going to start Dorian on a caffeine regiment to help stimulate his breathing."  I gave the doctor a look which he probably gets a lot, and he assured me, "It's perfectly normal.  The first 72-hours are the most critical."

I took a deep breath--the first in days it felt like.  I think my heart also started to beat again.  I stepped beside Dorian's isolette and looked in at him.  He seemed just the same as when I first arrived in the NICU a few long moments ago.  "Is he okay?"  I asked the doctor again.  "I mean," the words were difficult to say, "was there any permanent damage?"

"Oh no," the doctor replied.  "This is very typical behavior of a preterm baby.  He will grow out of it.  If his numbers were to stay down for an extended time, it would be cause for concern, but he's fine."

I took another deep breath.  I looked at my son through the plastic barrier.  "I love you, Dorian," I said.  "You keep breathing.  You hear me?"  I reached in and touched his hand.  "I love you," I said again softly.

As I left the NICU I was already thinking about how to tell Lindsay.  A clock I passed informed me that 30 minutes had passed.  I had to tell her--there was no question of that.  I would start with, "Dorian's fine."

And I did.

Because he was.

(I finished writing this section just as Dorian celebrated his 1-month birthday.  While I am appreciative that my memory has served me well enough to bestow a remarkable account--if I do say so myself--of the days leading up to his birthday, the days that followed his birth seem to be clouded, or even overshadowed, by the memories I now have with my son.  I would venture to say that Lindsay would agree with me that the true star of this story is Dorian, who continues to surprise everyone with his daily progress.  However, before he totally eclipses all, I believe that Lindsay still has a major "plot twist" to interject in this tale.)

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 4

I rejoined Lindsay in time to see the doctors and nurses transfer her from the operating table to the a new clean hospital bed.  Lindsay was partially alert throughout the move.  I told her that I took some pictures of Dorian. I filled her in on the instructions given to me by the doctor in the other room.

"Do you feel any pain?" the doctor asked Lindsay.

"No," she told him calmly.  "It's all gone."

"That's preeclampsia," he said with a shrug and a shake of his head.

Lindsay was wheeled through the hospital on the same path that I had taken just minutes before.  As we passed through the doors leading to the High Risk Unit, I glanced over to the lobby and saw my uncle in baseball cap sitting on one of the couches.  I gave him a thumbs up, which he returned with a wave, and we were escorted with Lindsay back to her room.

I called family members who had not yet arrived to tell them briefly about Dorian's arrival and give them an update about Lindsay.  The first time someone said the words, "Congratulations, Papa!" it struck a chord.  I had spent the last 3 days reliving, retelling, and reevaluating the anxiety and fear of the events leading up to this moment.  It was as if a switch had been flipped.  Yes, there were those difficult emotions still very close to the surface, but they were easily overpowered by the pure joy, happiness, and love given to me by Dorian.  Dorian made me realize what a joyous occasion this truly was.

Family filtered into the hospital to see me and Lindsay while we all waited to be told when we could see our son.  Those hours were difficult for me, but I cannot imagine how they must have been for Lindsay.  I felt that I had somewhat of an unfair advantage.  While Lindsay had spent the last 208 days with Dorian inside her, I had already spent more time with him face to face.

The nurses informed Lindsay that it was very important for her to see him when he is ready because it may be a couple days before she saw him again.  Just as Dorian needed time to adjust to being in our world outside of his mother, Lindsay would need time to adjust and heal as well.

When word finally came back that it was time to see Dorian, Lindsay's whole bed was on the move again--only this time I was walking right beside her.  The nurses carted her entire bed through the hospital and into a elevator taking us upstairs to the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit).  We passed through the first of two automatic double doors which lead to a hallway, with which I would come to know quite well.  As we continued our journey, we passed the NICU lounge which had couches, a refrigerator, television, and a full bathroom.  Further down to our right were two hand washing stations.  Guests, visitors, and parents were instructed to wash their hands thoroughly ("20 seconds or as long as it takes to hum 'Happy birthday' twice" a pamphlet stated).  Directly next to that was a nurses' station.  They greeted us with a smile and pressed a button on their desk which opened the next and final set of double doors.  Normally they look for identification badges and a hospital bracelet, but I think Lindsay's mode of transportation was identification enough.

I noticed a mural on the wall to our left just before we went through the doors.  The wall is covered with colorful birds, butterflies, and trees, and inscribed above it all were the words "The miracle is that one little life can change so many others."

The NICU itself can be a rather daunting and unnerving environment for anyone.  When you walk in, you see a large room dominated by a sea of large cubicles--"pods" I'm told they're called.  A large artificial tree rises out of each pod to the ceiling, and its branches and leaves spread out in a pattern providing unneeded artificial shade to the four pods beneath it.  The leaves alternate from tree to tree--green leaves on one tree; pink leaves on the next.  Some pods are empty.  Some are inhabited. The inhabited pods were decorated at varying levels.  Some had a banner with the baby's name.  Some had balloons with "It's a boy!" or "Twins!" printed on them.  Along the wall to the left of the entrance are rooms designated for babies in isolation, or for babies that have extended stays (I asked a nurse once what "extended" meant in that context.  She said, "One baby was here over a year once.").  Some of the rooms and the pods had parents and visitors with the babies.  Some rooms and pods simply had a baby--closely monitored and comfortable, of course (the incredible nurses are everywhere).  The worst part of the NICU are the sounds.  I don't mean the babies crying, which they do.  I'm referring to the ever present sound of the medical equipment.  There are buzzers, alarms, beeps, lights, klaxons, bells and whistles going off somewhere in the NICU at all times.  Although I am accustomed to them now, and I've become very educated about what each of them mean, it doesn't mean that my head doesn't turn to Dorian's monitor when I'm with him and I hear one nearby.

Looking back, I don't remember the sights and sounds deeply affecting me at any one specific moment.  I believe that I was immune to the NICU's overwhelming setting because I was a man on a mission:  I was going to see my son.  In my head, it was simple:  This is where Dorian is.  This is where I have to be to see him.

I get to see him!

My excitement grew with each step as we drew closer to Pod 15, where Dorian was.  His pod was in the far back corner of the room ("A prime spot," the nurse told me later.  "Less traffic than by the entrance.").  He was in an isolette incubator.  He was wearing a tiny white cap that was strapped underneath his chin.  The cap was merely superficial.  It's purpose was to hold the CPAP in place to assist Dorian's breathing.  Dorian was breathing on his own, and the CPAP was providing extra pressure that his lungs needed.

Lindsay placed her hand in the incubator with Dorian and he immediately latched on to her finger.  I watched Dorian.  I looked over at Lindsay.  I could immediately tell by the look of complete calm on Lindsay's face that Dorian had the exact same effect on her as he did on me.

"He's so beautiful," she said softly from her bed.

"Happy birthday, Dorian," I said.

"We love you," Lindsay added and I repeated it as well.

"We love you, Dorian."

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 3

Lindsay never ceases to amaze me.  While heavily medicated, after just going through major surgery, and as the doctors were finishing up, Lindsay had some questions.  "Will I get the placenta?" she asked coherently.

"Oh yeah," the doctor replied as he concentrated on whatever he was doing behind the curtain barrier.  "It seems that your placenta was starting to calcify some," he added.

"Could that be due to the preeclampsia?"  I was shocked that Lindsay was able to ask such good questions where as I was focusing on not falling off my chair.

The doctor stopped whatever he was doing, looked at Lindsay with an inquisitive glance, and said, "It may be, but I'd like to look at it under a microscope."  He returned to his work.  "We're going to put staples in so if there is any leakage, it will be able to come out easily."

"How long will the staples have to stay in the incision?" Lindsay inquired.

"Four days," the doctor stated simply.

"Four days?!  I work at a Vet hospital," Lindsay began, "and the staples we put in our animals stay in for at least seven to ten days!"

"No," the doctor responded.  "Four days."

"You can come see him."  I turned around to the source of the voice which came from a nurse standing in the ajar door where Dorian had been taken.  They didn't have to tell me twice.  I gave Lindsay's hand a quick squeeze, stood up, and walked into the next room.  It was an oddly narrow room compared to the one from which I entered.  A few feet in front of me stood five to six attendees dressed in the same yellow gown I was wearing.  Their backs were to me, they were circled around a small table, and their heads were all angled down looking at whatever was on top of the table.

I felt like I floated toward the table as if I were underwater.  The attendees--all women (Dorian's already a ladies' man, I thought to myself)--opened their tight circle to allow me to stand next to my son.  A lovely, dark haired Indian woman pulled a mask off Dorian's face.  "He's doing fine," she said in her rich accent.  "He's breathing on his own," she assured me.  "I'm just providing him with a little pressure to ensure that his lungs stay inflated."

He was so small--skinny to be more correct.  He was a long, skinny, beautiful baby.  He was perfect.  I was immediately in love.  I couldn't begin to fathom or understand the bond that was started at that moment--let alone put it into words.  The emotion, however, was pure joy.  All of my fears, doubts, and anxiety of the previous days were washed away instantly.

"What's his name?" one of the ladies standing around us asked.  This inquiry was quickly echoed by the others.  They were all eager to know the name of this perfect baby boy in their presence.

"Dorian," I said with a hint of reverence.  "His name is Dorian," I said even prouder.  The doctors and nurses around us repeated his name with "Ooo's" and "Aww's".

"You can take a picture," I heard someone say.  I pressed my hands against my gown and, to my great shock and pleasure, found a disposable camera I had apparently slipped into a pocket.  I had purchased the camera the day before when I was out running errands.  During the flurry of packing our bag, I had forgotten to bring our digital camera.  So I purchased this backup at a drugstore down the street "just in case".

"Thank you all so much," I said to everyone standing there with Dorian and me.

"You're quite welcome," the doctor said to me.  "You go back with his mother," she instructed me.  "We will work with him for a few hours, get him settled in the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit), and we will have someone send for you both when he is ready."

I thanked them all again, smiled down at my son, and traced my steps back to Lindsay to tell her about our baby.

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 2

Nurses started flooding into Lindsay's room.  They explained that Lindsay would receive a "spinal"--which meant that I would be allowed to be in the delivery room with her.  One of them handed me a face mask, a full length, yellow gown, and two blue booties for my shoes.  I'm not exactly sure what changed, but just as I finished adorning myself with the medical gear that was given to me, the doctor told Lindsay and me that she would be given general anesthesia--completely sedated--which meant I would not be allowed in the room with her for delivery.  Upon hearing this I went to Lindsay's bedside.  I told her that I loved her and that I would see her soon.  I kissed her, turned to the nurses, and asked in a near shrill, "What do I do??"

The nurses prepared Lindsay's bed to be moved.  One of them turned the bed so it was in the direction of the door.  Another nurse gathered Lindsay's IV stand together.  Finally one of them said, "Someone will come and get you."

"So I stay here??"

Lindsay was being wheeled through the door with the entourage of nurses, and the last nurse replied, "Yes, stay here," as she passed through the doorway.

Just as the ambulance ride from Bloomington to St. Vincent's three nights prior, Lindsay was being transported and I couldn't be with her.  I allowed the tears and emotions to rise up and consume me as I was now alone in the room.  I felt ridiculous standing there in that emptiness.  I felt purposeless.  I ripped off all the medical clothing and guards I was wearing and began making phone calls to family.  In a shaky voice with tears running down my face, I informed them one by one that Dorian was on his way.

I was on the phone with my sister in Florida when a nurse burst into the room.  "Come on!" she barked at me.  I put my phone in my pocket, and I raced side by side with this woman down the hall, past the nurses' station, through the lobby, and into a part of the hospital I hadn't been before.  "Where's all your stuff??" she demanded of me.

I immediately knew she was referring to the gown, mask, and booties I was no longer wearing.  "I was told that I couldn't come in," I explained to her as we came to a set of large double doors.

"Well," she said, "things have changed."  She pressed a button on the wall and the doors opened for us.  We continued our quick pace down another hallway, turned a corner, and we were met by another nurse standing beside a cart with shelves.  The nurse that guided me here grabbed a face mask off the top shelf and handed it to me as the second nurse assisted me with a gown.  "You'll need these," the first nurse said as she attempted to put the booties on my size 13's.  She managed to get them both over the toe sections and declared, "Good enough!"  A hand was placed on my back, and I was shoved through another set of double doors that I had failed to even notice directly in front of me.

The room I entered was very bright--I remember that.  I immediately saw Lindsay on a table a few feet in front of me to my right.  There were curtains (thankfully) around her body, and 3 doctors surrounded her.  "Over here," a firm voice said.  I followed it to a man standing behind an empty chair which had been placed at the head of the table by Lindsay's face.  I went to it quickly and sat down.

"Hey baby,"  Lindsay said sleepily.

"Hey," I replied through my mask.

"We're having a baby," she said calmly with a smile.

"You're going to feel some pressure," the doctor said suddenly.  The table that Lindsay was laying on shook, and Lindsay furrowed her brow slightly.

After 29 weeks 5 days, at 9:36am on March 4th 2012, Dorian was born.

He let out a small cry as the doctor held him up for us to see.  "He sounds like a kitten," Lindsay said.  He wasn't nearly as small as I dared to imagine.  I remember he looked long, gray, and not too happy.  I could definitely see some mats of hair on his head.  I didn't have long to look before he was whisked away to a station on the opposite side of the room.

"He looks good," I said through tears as I squeezed Lindsay's hand.

"We made a baby," Lindsay said with a smile.

"Yes we did," I replied with a nervous, elated chuckle.

"Two pounds.  Fifteen ounces," the nurse caring for Dorian informed the room.  "And sixteen inches."  Dorian was then taken to another room through a door and out of our sight.

"He looks good," the doctor proclaimed.  "I think he peed on me."  I looked at the doctor from my seated position, and I noticed some clear droplets on his shoulder.  "That's a good sign," he said.  "That means everything's working."

That's when we heard it.

The first night we were at St. Vincent's (Friday night), I was taking a break in the lobby on the second floor.  It was sometime after 8pm, I had just woken up from a 4 hour nap, and I left Lindsay alone in her room to rest.  The lobby is rather long with couches, chairs, tables, and a television.  On the north wing of the lobby is the "High Risk Unit" (where Lindsay was).  "Regular" deliveries occurred through the double doors at the south.  There were two families sitting in a group just outside those latter double doors.  I sat on a couch alone near the north end.  I could hear their excited conversations about their new grandson, granddaughter, baby, bundle of joy, etc.  Being in the emotional, exhausted state that I was at that time, I sat quietly staring off into nothing.  I thought it was interesting that, from where we were sitting, we literally represented the spectrum of emotions regarding the arrival of a new life.  Suddenly over the PA system "Lullaby" by Brahms played softly.

"Whose is it?!"  I heard a female voice shout with excitement.

"Is it ours?" another woman asked.

I soon figured out that every time a baby is delivered at St. Vincent's, the lullaby is played.  It was too much for me to handle at that moment, and I went back through the double doors leading into the High Risk Unit and Lindsay's room.  Looking back now, I'll admit that the lullaby is very cute and lovely.

But that's not what Lindsay and I heard.

When Dorian was born we heard the "Imperial March" from Star Wars (aka Darth Vader's music).  "Is that what they're playing for Dorian??"  Lindsay asked me.

I looked up and saw a nurse walk toward a table across the room.  She picked up a cell phone where the song was originating and silenced it.  "It's just a ring tone," I explained to Lindsay.

"Okay," she said, and we both laughed.

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 1

March 2nd.  A Friday.
To be honest, I don't remember a lot of that day after we got to St. Vincent's.  The families came for support and shared in the ultrasound experience.  Nurses and doctors were in and out checking on Lindsay.  The last conscience memory I have of that day was literally falling asleep standing over Lindsay's bed as a nurse or a doctor was talking to us.  I believe by that time I had been up for 36 hours.

Restful sleep did not await me.  I woke up a few hours curled up on a pull-out sofa, which was not pulled out.  The nurses were in taking more blood draws from Lindsay.  "I feel like you're vampires," she told them.  I was happy to hear that even in her medicated state, she could still crack a joke--although it wasn't too far from the truth.

Lindsay asked the nurse about getting some sleep.  Every hour they were pushing and prodding or drawing labs.  Her blood pressure cuff inflated every 60 minutes.  The nurses told her, "You'd expect to get some rest in a hospital...but it doesn't happen."  During that sleepless night, Lindsay was given the second and final round of steroids to help further develop Dorian's lungs in case he decided to make an early debut.  We were told that it would be ideal to hold off on delivery 48 hours after it was given if possible.  That means Monday by 1:30am, I thought to myself.

On Saturday a neonatologist came to talk to us about all of the possible complications for which to prepare ourselves.  He told us about "bleeding on the brain."  He informed that premature babies delivered after 24 weeks have a higher survival rate.  He said, "Once you get to 30 weeks, the chances of survival are 95%."  He told us that Dorian's chances are probably in the low 90 percentile.

I never thought that 10% could seem so high.

We were told that Lindsay would be staying at the hospital until the baby arrived--whenever that may be.  Since Lindsay and the baby were stable, they said that the plan was to deliver at 34 weeks (April 3rd). 

The rest of the day was declared "Aunt Day" by me.  Linday's aunts came to show their support and love.  My aunt came back with her whole entourage (her husband, daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters) bearing gifts for Dorian and sustenance for Lindsay and me (sugar cream pie and mashed potatoes, respectively).  Later that day more friends came to see Lindsay and show their support.  Lindsay was doing her best to answer questions and stay in good spirits, but with every visit her blood pressure would creep up.  I did my best to try to keep Lindsay calm and tell her to relax, but even in her medicated state, there was no "telling" her anything.  She comes from a long line of strong-headed, stubborn women.  We did try to keep the visits to a minimum best we could so Lindsay and I could attempt to maximize what little sleep we were able to get.

I made phone calls to my family and gave them updates.  "All was good.  Everyone's stable.  We're planning on delivering at 34 weeks.  Looks like we're going to be here a while."  I slipped into accepting this as our new reality.  We have some close friends whose father was diagnosed with cancer recently.  They said, "You make goals, or benchmarks.  You make it to those, and you make new ones."  My benchmarks--Dorian's benchmarks were:

1)  Monday 1:30 am - 48 hours after last steroid shot
2)  Tuesday - Dorian is 30 weeks, survival 95%
3)  April 3rd - 34 weeks, we deliver

"Part of being a parent is accepting that things don't always go as planned"

I woke up Sunday morning around 4am to unfortunately familiar sounds.  Lindsay said that the pain was back.  It was the exact same pain that brought us to the hospital 3 nights prior.  We called the night nurse in and she gave Lindsay some morphine for the pain.  This allowed 15 minutes of relief before the pain came back.  The staff brought in an ultrasound machine to check on Dorian.  They prodded for 30 minutes--"hospital protocol for this type of situation," I was told.  This did not help Lindsay's pain and discomfort.  I stood beside her, holding her hand, and feeling utterly powerless.

On the ultrasound, I could see Dorian.  I could see his heart beating.  He looked calm and peaceful.  I asked the doctor, "Is he okay?"  She didn't answer me right away.

"I'm looking for signs of him breathing," she told me as she studied the screen.

"Do babies breathe in the womb?" I asked.  Lindsay was moaning and shifting as the doctor continued to probe.

"Sometimes they do," the doctor said.  "Not always this early, though," she added.  A nurse came in to "stimulate" Dorian.  She held a small, black, controller-sized tool against Lindsay's lower abdomen.  When it was activated, it gave a small buzz.

During any ultrasound, Dorian was a mover and a kicker.  He didn't like to be messed with.  "He gets that from his mother," I would joke.  Dorian wasn't moving now.  "Could that be due to the morphine?"  I asked the doctor.

"Possibly," the doctor responded.  Thirty minutes never seemed so long.  When it was over, Lindsay and I were not prepared for what she told us, "Since your pain has not stopped, Lindsay," she began.  "And since the baby is not reacting to stimulation, I think it's best to deliver right away."  It was 9am on Sunday morning.  We had not reached any of Dorian's benchmarks.

Tempestuous Weather pt. 3

Since arriving at St. Vincent's Women's Hospital, Lindsay, the baby, and I received nothing but the best care.  The nurses were so incredibly caring.  I made sure to thank each and every one of them by name whenever they left the room.  Lindsay and the baby were being monitored by a computer that took Lindsay's blood pressure every hour.  She was monitored for contractions, and the baby's heartbeat was monitored constantly.  As the morning light slowly spilled through the windows, Lindsay had blood drawn to test her liver and other levels, her urine was checked for the presence of protein, and her temperature was taken with her blood pressure.  The magnesium sulfate pumping through her IV, we were told, would make her groggy, hot, and generally feel uncomfortable.  I did my best to provide cool wash cloths to wipe down her cheeks and face.  I rubbed her legs and feet (a nightly ritual started long before we became pregnant), and I did my best to keep her spirits up.

Lindsay was stable and the baby's heartbeat was strong.  Sometime later that morning (the memories of the specifics are fading, although with the lack of sleep I'm surprised I remember anything), the troops arrived.  Lindsay's dad and stepmother arrived first.  I did my best to quickly and calmly recount the events that brought us together that morning.  I told them about Lindsay's upper abdominal pain that wouldn't go away.  I relived the fear and anxiety I felt as I told them about the possibility of the baby being delivered today.  I was able to maintain my composure for the retelling of all the events except this one:  "Another 4 hours and we could have lost Lindsay and the baby."  My biggest concern is always for Lindsay.  Her blood pressure was stable and I intended to do everything in my power to keep it that way.  That meant filling in all of the family, friends, and anyone who would listen about our story and saving Lindsay from doing so.  The emotions tied to this tale were too fresh and too much for Lindsay to handle.  After Lindsay's dad and stepmother were caught up, I sent them in to the "High Risk Unit" where Lindsay's room was.

Next to arrive were Lindsay's mother and my aunt and uncle, who happen to live literally down the road from the hospital.  Again I answered the question, "What happened?"  And again I found the words harder to say through my tears: "another 4 hours and we could have lost Lindsay and the baby."  I ushered our family into Lindsay's room.  Everyone gave hugs and held Lindsay's hand. It all seemed so ridiculously unreal.

My aunt and uncle left shortly thereafter, and they promised to return the next day.  A machine was wheeled into the room to perform an ultrasound on the baby.  I found it incredible that Lindsay's mother, father and stepmother were present for the procedure.  Our baby was already bringing people together through love and support.  The baby's face was visible in the screen shot that the ultrasound technician printed out for us.  We passed it around for all to see before I taped it to Lindsay's IV pump located next to her bed.

I'm not exactly sure whose idea it was--and I'm not sure that I care--but Lindsay and I decided to tell everyone our baby's name at that moment.

When we first discovered that we were pregnant, we thought that we would keep the sex of the baby a secret--even from ourselves (Lindsay's idea, which I agreed with).  Lindsay said that there seems to be so little surprises any more with technology, social media, and the Internet.  Surely THIS would be a secret worth keeping.  As our 20 week ultrasound appointment drew closer, Lindsay's line in the sand started to blur.  "Well, if we see it on the ultrasound," Lindsay told me, "then it's okay if we know.  We just won't tell anyone else, okay?" she explained to me.  When we arrived at the doctor's office for the appointment I told Lindsay, "Baby, if we find out the sex of the baby today you will not be able to keep it a secret."  Lindsay bit her bottom lip and considered my statement.  "You're going to want to tell your mom," I added.  She broke a smile and said, "Yeah, you're right."

So after the appointment we told everyone we were having a boy.  However, we were going to keep the name a secret until he arrived--hopefully by then we would have decided on one...or four.

Standing in that hospital room with Lindsay in her elevated bed we told our family that our son's name is Dorian.  It means "tempestuous weather".  Rather fitting especially considering that weekend's weather included tornadoes, rain, snow, and 70 degree temperatures all in the span of three days.  Lindsay and I felt that is was important for everyone to know his name.  Dorian needed all the support and love from everyone who anxiously awaited his arrival.