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."