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.)