I knew she had a story as soon as I saw the neon pink bracelet, with NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) written in clear black letters. We rode the elevator together up to the fourth floor. She had not yet recovered from delivery: still in a wheelchair (her husband pushed her), still wearing her hospital gown, still pulling along the IV and catheter pole.
I didn’t ask her about her story, and I didn’t ask any of the women I rode the elevator with, except to say occasionally, in a friendly way, “We wear the same bracelet.” They smiled tired smiles back.
Every time I saw someone wearing that bracelet, I wanted to know their story. How early was your baby? Mine was thirty-four weeks, five days. And yours? And is he breathing all right now? Yes, we’re on room air. He was on CPAP at first, but only for a day and a half, so that was pretty good. Have you started to nurse? How’s that going? How’s all that pumping? Eight times a day, more if I can fit it in. Yeah, I get up in the middle of the night and pump too. I’ve never had milk supply issues before, but it’s been harder this time around for some reason. Does it frustrate you too that no one gives you a straight answer about when your baby can come home? Except that would be terrible, to have them say “three weeks” or “two weeks” and have it drag out to four or five. To have something else go wrong.
I would have liked to ask those other women, but I did not. Partly because I was shy, and partly because it was such a personal experience. Yes, I had a premature baby, but he was born at nearly thirty-five weeks, which is a whole different league than a baby born at thirty-two, or thirty, or earlier. I’m in the NICU mom club, and I’m not saying it was easy, but I felt like I was still not… worthy, I guess, to share my story with someone whose story could be much more intense than mine was.
And I know the feeling of having someone pry when you’re not ready to open up. The week after I went home, when my baby was still in the hospital, I had to go nursing bra shopping–it was something I’d left for the end of my pregnancy, and then bed rest prevented me from going. The sales girl was helpful and chatty, but I did not want to chat. “Did you have your baby yet?” she chirped. “Uh-huh,” I said.
“And what did you have?”
“A boy,” I said. “And can I try that other one on too?” She wanted a birth story, but I wasn’t ready to tell her. Weepy with postpartum hormones, I did not want to share my story with a stranger, even a kind one.
But eventually my deflections did not work, and as she rang up my purchase she asked the question that sent me over, “And when were you due?”
“July 28th,” I said.
“Oh.” Now she understood, and seeing the understanding on her face made me lose everything I had been holding in. “So he was early. Is he going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. Even knowing that he was going to be okay, it was still hard to stand there in Motherhood Maternity, passing over my credit card, signing the receipt, weeping to a stranger.
So I thought about that when I saw the girl in the wheelchair, the girl who was me a few weeks ago. I did not want to ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer to a stranger. But I hoped for her that her baby was like mine: off of his IV, starting to wake up to feed, and comforted enough in her presence to sleep. I hoped she was doing all right, that her husband was taking care of things at home, that someone was praying for her and that she could feel those prayers as intensely as I have felt the ones of family and friends in the last month.
My baby is home now, and he’s doing fine. He was born at thirty-four weeks and five days, because my amniotic fluid was too low. I had a c-section, and my recovery from that was excellent. We are still trying to figure out nursing, but he’s eating well and gaining weight with our current system. Those are the more mundane details. But the heart of this whole experience is much harder to articulate. I have, as I said, felt divine help and prayers strengthening me and my family. I have been blessed by many, many friends and family members who have sacrificed time and energy to care for me and my family. I have realized, more than with my previous children, the way my whole world can revolve around giving birth. There are thousands of women like me, with stories of their baby’s stormy transition from heaven to earth.
Do you have a NICU story you’d like to share? No pressure, though, if you don’t want to. I will enjoy whatever you’ve got to say. I can’t promise to comment much, because I’m working on very little sleep, but I will read them all. And thank you.
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