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.)