His First 15 Days (3): Ready for the Ride
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.
MaKai had yet to open his eyes fully, but his eyelids would peel apart enough for us to see the deep blue underneath. His yellow-tinged skin was accentuated by the fluorescent lighting that filled our little room. The space felt smaller now with the large chair that was thankfully brought in for me to use while sitting with or breastfeeding MaKai. This offered significantly more comfort than the office-style chair that had been my previous option. Though to Adam, the office chair was a significant upgrade from the floor, so we were both now sitting relatively comfortably. Sharing this small room with us at all times was MaKai’s nurse, her desk, MaKai’s mobile hospital bassinet, and a couple of attached monitors.
Sitting with MaKai in my arms on his second day of life, we anxiously awaited any test result that could give us an explanation for his predicament. I felt the urge to pee, which in my current circumstance and state of mind felt like a huge inconvenience. By the time I’d actually leave my baby to make my way out of the room and through both sets of locked double doors, trek down the hall, and enter the bathroom with my diaper bag in tow…I’d really have to pee.
I’d occasionally wait for a handicap stall for added space, but even still, I would find myself juggling an assortment of postpartum necessities on my lap or on the handicap bar, or I’d awkwardly cradle them like I do groceries when I’m superior to using a basket. My bathroom necessities included my perineal spray, perineal wipes, a vaginal ice pad, and a clean pair of disposable underwear. I’d hold the same wide-legged squat I sported while birthing MaKai to keep my shorts from falling to my ankles, which was far more difficult in the hours after birth when my body was slow-moving and tender (and still 80 pounds heavier and much rounder than it had been 10 months prior). The entire act was centered around avoiding anything touching the floor of the public bathroom (especially those things meant to have direct contact with my vagina).
Simply trying to dispose of old pads, undies, and wrappers in the insufficiently teeny-tiny recessed trash container felt like enough to put me over the edge. On more than one occasion, these antics would cease only for me to realize I hadn’t yet swapped out my disposable underwear and would have to take my shorts off anyway—and why didn’t I just take my fucking shorts off in the first place? I was learning—learning and unlearning how to go to the fucking bathroom at age 34.
I’d be cursing the hassle of it all sarcastically under my breath in a woe-is-me tone:
If I were in my room, everything would just be out and fucking ready for me, and my baby would be just 10 feet away! Within sight!
My nurse told me not to even get out of bed by myself and to buzz her to come help me get to the bathroom, and here I am “getting my steps in.” Why do so many women my age say that? And genuinely care about it, even track it? I shouldn’t judge now that I’m 200 pounds—and not 120. Fuck, I will probably have to start tracking steps.
This is me now… Molly… post-partum lunatic and amateur perineal product juggler.
Eventually, I got back through one set of doors, washed my hands again, walked through the second set, and reached the entryway of MaKai’s room. Fatigue set in. I had decided not to go back up to our room since the last feeding two hours prior, which meant I hadn’t had a place to rest or lie down. The ramifications of this decision, just eighteen or so mostly sleepless hours after giving birth, were now weighing heavily on me.
Adam and I always wanted to stay with MaKai in between feedings, and Adam almost always did. But with only one chair in the room the majority of the time, the presence of a stranger 24/7 (MaKai’s nurse, bless her heart), and no food or drinks allowed, we (especially me) would end up back in our room to eat, try to sleep for 60 to 90 minutes, or cry privately—my favorite kind of cry, and one I didn’t get often enough of in these first two weeks of MaKai’s life. Then, of course, there was the very inconvenient truth that changing my postpartum dressings in a public bathroom stall was a monumental pain in the ass. Alas, I failed to relax without MaKai in my presence even though I knew I needed rest.
Adam would often walk me back to our room and then head back down to MaKai’s room while I set my alarm for 90 minutes to be sure I had enough time to change my dressings and make the trip back within the two-hour window. I’d arrive back at the NICU to find Adam situated in a chair with his phone playing soft reggae music as he sang quietly to MaKai in his arms. The nurse would look up and see me watching… I’d shoot her a grin, and she’d happily do the same.
I returned from my bathroom antics to be greeted by the occupational feeding therapist and lactation consultant.
Great. More people I don’t know are here to see me at my most vulnerable.
With MaKai being on oxygen for unknown reasons, there was additional breastfeeding support until we could determine what was causing his breathing issues. There was also talk of moving him to a more equipped NICU at another hospital.
I positioned myself with MaKai ready to breastfeed, navigating the cords with Adam’s help. My efforts consisted of working to fill the gap of MaKai’s wonky mouth with enough breast tissue to create the suction of a latch, which was easier to do when my breasts were full but not too full, and making sure my nipple was centered in his mouth properly, not the center of the elongated opening that extended his mouth but the center of where his mouth should have been so his tongue could do it’s part too. I tirelessly tried again and again, almost constantly repositioning MaKai’s cords and my nursing pillow. As both MaKai's and my frustrations accumulated, a dietitian walked in. I don’t recall what I said, except that it was something to the tune of “We’re good, thanks.” I do remember Adam being overly kind in response to what I’m sure was a lack of social grace on my part.
With Adam, the lactation consultant, occupational feeding therapist, and our NICU nurse all surrounding my efforts, the pressure I felt was tangible in the room. I could see Adam receiving this energy. He took a deep breath while locking eyes with me, indicating that I should do the same, and said:
“It’s just you and MaKai, Moll.”
I nodded my head, tried to grin, and then accidentally peed myself a little. I just sat there. I thought about the trip back outside the NICU to the bathroom and all the faces I’d pass along the way, the handicap bathroom stall I’d wait for, or if I didn’t, and the double-doored entry back in, then all those faces on my way back, all while feeling so far from my baby. My hungry baby. MaKai would cough and even choke a little, but he did get some milk. There wasn’t an understanding around what was causing this or his low oxygen levels, but tests were being run, and we had accepted that he’d need to be moved to another NICU.
Sitting in my own urine while disassociating from everything and everyone in the room, including my son, felt pretty low. And it happened to be just in time for a social worker to walk in to meet me.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I thought to myself as I audibly inhaled deeply.
She sat down. I could feel the tears pooling in my eyes, ready to spill over. Adam knew that my bucket was nearing empty and was ready to defend what was left:
“It’s been a difficult two days and an even more difficult last hour.” Adam looked up at her before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone:
“This isn’t a good time.”
“I understand,” she nodded her head. “I’ll be quick.”
I tried to smile and make eye contact. When asked, I gave her the name of my psychiatrist, but couldn’t rake my brain for my therapist’s last name. Sewn within her slew of questions regarding my mental health were questions about my already medicated mental health status, and with that, her forewarning that I was high risk for postpartum depression. She said this like it was supposed to be news to me.
Fucking fear mongers! I am well aware that my preexisting depression and anxiety conditions put me at a high risk, as if the routine questionnaires at my pregnancy visits didn’t score poorly enough.
She requested my current medications, including my medication doses.
Does she suppose I’m under the impression that my symptoms or conditions should improve after childbirth? With little to no sleep and a baby with health complications? I’m one bathroom visit away from a complete mental breakdown. Wrap it up, lady.
She completed a brief mood evaluation.
Ah yes, my mood. Just delightful! A woman always dreams of the day she finds herself nearly maxed out on an SSRI, sitting in her own urine in the NICU twenty hours after giving birth to her baby who’s unable to breathe…
While my mind was filled with frustrating and spiteful thoughts, I felt vacant. With my drone answers and expressionless face, I’m sure I was being perceived that way too. I looked up at Adam, who, after going through an unmedicated and completely natural childbirth at my side and enduring everything else we’d gone through in that last day, didn’t need more than a glance from me to know that I was done.
“We appreciate you coming in,” Adam said, standing up, “but we will have to finish this another time.”
That thankfully ended our meet and greet.
“I fucked that up. That didn’t go well. She came at the worst time. What’s she going to do? Does she recommend check-ups or something?” My tone blended frantic yet deflated.
“It’s fine Moll. She’s probably just happy to see both parents in the room.” Adam responded quickly with a calm tone.
“That seems a little presumptuous, but you’re probably right.”
Adam nodded his head.
“It’s not going to stop me from worrying about it, though.”
Another nod, this time with a grin.
The next day was MaKai’s third day of life. Two paramedics briefed us on the logistics of medical care and transportation for MaKai’s first car ride; he’d be taken via ambulance to a NICU at Rady Children’s Hospital. We signed paperwork as they prepared MaKai. They had rolled in a cart with a clear little incubator on top, not even three feet long by about a foot and a half wide. MaKai was placed inside on a little mattress wearing double swaddles.
He’s going to get out of those. I thought with a smirk.
If there was anything that matched the sorrow I felt in that moment, it was the look on Adam’s face when the paramedics told us we weren’t permitted to ride with MaKai in the ambulance.
As Adam and I said goodbye to MaKai through the glass, he opened his eyes wide for the first time. He was almost smiling. He was certainly smiling with those deep blue eyes, and with tears in ours, we chuckled. It was as though MaKai was saying, “I’m okay, guys! I’m ready for the ride!”
Adam and I made a quiet, somber trip back to our room to gather our belongings. With our baby leaving, so were we. This was a walk we had made together countless times before, but always while knowing our baby was right downstairs. There had been moments in the middle of the night, in between feedings, when we would try to sleep, only for one of us to hear the other weeping. This would be met with solace, but we never had a mutual breakdown—it just hadn’t happened.
Upon entering the room this time, in silence and with the task in our minds of packing our things, our friend Kathleen was waiting for us. She was going to drive me home to help get me settled in and learn the ropes of my new breast pump while Adam met the ambulance at the hospital to see MaKai into his new home. As Adam and I walked into the room and “I’m so sorry” left our friend’s lips, Adam and I fell into her arms. We finally allowed ourselves to let it all out, together, because our baby wasn’t coming home with us.
