His First 15 Days (2): "You Can Visit Him"
A mini-series about my firstborn son’s first 15 days of life in NICUs, and the surreal experience of starting our parenting journey where fear and gratitude collided, and sorrow and solace coexisted.
Dear MaKai,
Like you, I didn’t cry when you were born. This was unexpected.
I suspect I was so enthralled and relieved that you were finally here. Even with your aggressive kicking and rolling inside of me (and those creepily unbecoming 3D ultrasound images sent out to family and friends), your tangibility once here was more than I could have imagined.
Lying on that bed with you draped over my chest and stomach, it felt like you formed to me, a warm little bundle of sand. Now an exterior extension of my being. Our little MaKai. Your dad held you in his arms, overcome with emotion. Now that you were responsive and my oxygen mask was off, texts went out to family members informing them that you and I were both healthy. Your dad and I reveled in the joy of your existence; you were real in our arms, here in the world, and our creation. Our marvel and elation as a family consumed us.
MaKai made what Adam thought was the cutest sound: a soft, yet high-pitched humming. Unfortunately, the moments following MaKai’s birth had put me in a state of hypervigilance, so I desired absolute certainty that nothing about him—cute humming sounds or otherwise—was a cause for concern. The “otherwise” being a few abnormal physical features I noticed when he was first handed to us. One side of his mouth was significantly elongated and gaping. He also had what I guessed were skin tags on his cheeks and near his ears. Noticing these led me to see MaKai’s misshapen ears and their extra cartilage.
These features were impossible to miss, so I was perplexed by the guilt I felt for simply having seen them. Nothing about them was immediately troubling, but it was the first moment I had with my son after the traumatic moments that followed his birth. They were the first things I noticed once he was responsive and breathing. Maybe I felt ashamed for having seen these things first.
I wondered if these deformities were indications of something wrong beyond the surface.
Why isn’t anyone addressing these things?
Am I supposed to be the one to bring this up because I’m “mom?”
My joy was being overshadowed by uncertainty. A quiet heaviness settled in, blurring the edges of my instincts. “Did I do something to cause this?” escalated to “What did I do wrong?”
I asked myself what his mouth malformation would mean for his ability to latch onto my breast, or even a bottle, and if he’d have issues eating in general. These were uneasy thoughts and uncomfortable questions, ones I buried beneath the surface along with the realization that I had seen some of his features before in a 3D ultrasound during my pregnancy.
Why hadn’t I asked about them when I saw them?
A lactation consultant came to help MaKai latch onto my breast once we were settled into our recovery room. Both nurses and lactation consultants struggled to find appropriate words when referring to his mouth.
“Hmm, it’s not a cleft palate…” they pondered for accurate medical terminology.
Fortunately, with all of the emotion that day, I had full breasts ready to be emptied at a moment’s notice. Though we initially struggled, within an hour or so, we believed we had a version of a latch that would work for us. More than one medical team member mentioned how fortunate we were to accomplish this. Watching little MaKai now breastfeeding without issue, I felt more hopeful and audibly released tension with a sigh.
Our evening nurse then arrived at shift change to introduce herself. She checked in on the routine items; my vagina, my vitals, and of course…MaKai. She heard that squeaky humming sound MaKai had been making intermittently.
“It’s probably nothing,” she said with a reassuring tone, “but I would like to take him to the nursery to observe and have him examined, just to be safe. You two should order food and get some rest.”
She instructed us to dial the nursery if we wanted to check in on him and said they’d call us with any updates. Adam and I locked eyes as though we each intended to ease one another’s minds, but it had been a long day, and the possibility of more surprises with our baby deflated us.
Looking around the hospital room, fluorescent lights cast a glow that turned the equipment and supplies into quiet sentinels; each one a witness to the beginning of our new life. Nearby sat the bags Adam and I had packed weeks earlier, hopeful bundles of anticipation for a day we thought we understood, at least to some degree.
I was flooded with the urge to plead for her not to take my baby. Not knowing if something was wrong… only that something might be… made his absence feel like punishment. But I just sat there, hollow and overwhelmed, unable to move or ask the questions I didn’t know how to form.
A little while later, we received a call. The nursery was going to keep MaKai longer for observation. Shortly after that, we heard a knock on our door.
A team of staff entered our room: the evening nurse and three other people. One of the others was the NICU man who had been in the delivery room aggressively patting MaKai while he was unresponsive just before they took him away the first time. The strangers beside him in our recovery room had matching uniforms and ID tags reading “NICU:” Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. They also all had matching expressions, solemn.
They’re not here with good news, I thought to myself with an anxious, fearful anticipation. Though I simultaneously felt for them, this must be one of the many challenging aspects of their jobs: to meet new parents on what is expected to be the happiest day of their lives, to deliver bad news.
For having been in the delivery room with us and being the primary caregiver to our son in those pressing moments just after birth, it was odd to me that the NICU man I recognized didn’t share any looks of recognition in our direction. Or say anything at all. He just stood there with his head somewhat downward, no eye contact, wearing a mostly expressionless face. The two women beside him had similar body language and wore awkward grins when my eyes met theirs.
These people must be trained to have a stoic bedside manner. Maybe they’re only here per protocol if questions arise.
I wanted to be hopeful.
But where is MaKai?
For all the minute details I remember so well from that day, most of what was said here is not one of them. My memory of this interaction is comprised of visual stills and soundless shorts.
Our nurse did most of the talking and used her hands as she spoke. Adam reached for my hand and squeezed it while nodding his head in acknowledgment. These memories are silent.
It’s as though I’m dropped into someone else’s moment in time, where everything slows down, and though Adam is holding my hand with a comforting grasp, it feels as though no one knows I’m there; I am watching the nurses and Adam, but only hearing my own thoughts.
Where is MaKai?
When I look up, the nurse sees me, and the words from her lips are now audible:
“We don’t know yet, but we have him on oxygen. You can visit him. He’ll need to eat every two hours.”
With Adam at my side, I stepped out of the hospital room wearing nothing but those absurd grippy hospital socks, a robe that cloaked my sore body, and a gusset padded to the fucking nines. In hindsight, I’m certain that my pained, diaper-wearing waddle and bloodshot, swollen eyes communicated to onlookers that I had just given birth. Then there was my hair; in any other environment, it’d probably be assumed I had just lost a bar fight. But in that moment, I hadn’t given my appearance a single thought… not being with my baby was the all-consuming reality that left me feeling exposed and vulnerable to a degree of significant discomfort.
Upon exiting my room, my eyes met those of a few women sitting at the nurses’ station. Then came people in the hallway, and then more strangers gathered near the elevator. With each unfamiliar face, I felt more exposed… fragile in ways I couldn’t hide. I picked a speck on the wall to stare at blankly as I fought back tears.
I don’t want to be seen right now.
As we exited the elevator to begin our trek down the long hallway on the main level, I feared even the briefest eye contact would expose my vulnerability and send me spiraling into a public display of emotion.
More and more strangers passed, heading in or out of their shift or as patients popping in to see their doctor, or family members visiting new babies.
By avoiding eye contact with all, and by holding my breath, I hoped to curtail the loud gasps and wimpers I could feel relentlessly fighting for air.
I heard Adam’s comforting voice:
“We’re almost there.”
We approached a set of locked double doors. Adam stood in front of the wall beside the entryway, then stepped aside to usher me in front of it too. My body moved slowly. I realized there was a tiny camera in front of me. I looked down at the nametag on my robe and then it registered in my mind:
We’re being given passage to see our baby. My baby. The one I just gave birth to.
After the strangers that I never saw granted us entry, we entered the sanitation area. Adam and I stood silently at adjacent sinks. We washed our hands, dried them, and continued in silence as we made our way to a second set of locked double doors. Once again, we were on camera to display the stickers worn on Adam’s shirt and my robe; they displayed our faces and names right below the word “NICU.”
These stickers are a black and white copy of a driver’s license photo. Simple. Nothing to take a second glance at when you’re handed one. But when leaving this particular Children’s Hospital, upon exiting the elevator and walking out into the concrete parking garage, these nametags become the most noticeable sight from higher than you can reach to as low as you can step. There are clusters of what must be thousands of them. What must have been mothers and fathers who visited, who lived with their babies, in this same hospital. This is stark, humbling imagery when exiting the elevator.
We are two of many, I thought.
I waddled through that second set of double doors with conviction. My anxious state was replaced with maternal instinct; I was going to see MaKai.
While sporting those tall, goofy hospital socks and disheveled hair, a fierce determination came over me as I scanned the space. My entrance must have felt abrupt to the staff standing quietly in the small common area that showcased the individual doors to patient rooms, because the nurses quickly exchanged awkward looks at me and then at each other.
I realized that they knew I had just given birth, and that I was a mother to a patient behind one of those doors.
One woman instructed another nurse to bring out a wheelchair as she started to approach me:
“Did you walk here?!” she asked with a concerned and caring tone.
“Yes,” I replied nonchalantly. Her question seemed frivolous in that moment.
“Where is my son?”
