It was the four longest days of my life.

The room was well lit during the day, with no effort at ambience. It wasn’t meant to be “comfortable.” There was only one purpose to this room; one purpose to everyone that came and left this room in their white coats or their colorful scrubs that were a feeble attempt to bring a minute amount of cheer to their surroundings.

At night, the lights were kept low in the pretense of allowing for calm and sleep, neither of which was easily attained here.

I was here nearly around the clock, breaking only for food or a shower, missing only the hour that they were closed off to any and all visitors between 6:30 and 7:30am.

I was amazed at how one place could simultaneously etch fear, hope and helplessness onto someone’s very being.

It was sectioned off rather haphazardly, each area with either an isolette or a bassinet containing a tiny swaddled newborn, cords and tubes for monitors and IVs spewing forth in a bundle at one end of their carefully wrapped blanket. The sense of panic when one of the alarms on those monitors went off, even when I was holding my son and could see that he was quite obviously fine, faded, for me, by the second day. By that time, I was familiar with what the monitors meant and to which sensor each was attached and how to adjust it to make the beeping stop.

I could have lived my life happily without ever having known these bits of NICU trivia.

They had been sure that the nostril flaring immediately following Preston’s delivery at just under 36 weeks gestation was indicative of possible respiratory problems, despite the steroid shot given during labor to help mature his lungs. I was also told that he may or may not be able to regulate his own body temperature or latch correctly in order to properly nurse.

He was quite possibly the largest preemie here, weighing in at 6 pounds, 6 ounces and measuring 19.75 inches long. He was the size of many of my friends’ full term babies. We had been preparing, full term, for about 9 pounds of newborn, so this wasn’t too far off the mark for how far we had actually made it.

Still, it seemed strange to me for us to be in here.

Like we didn’t really need to be, despite his need for 48 hours of antibiotics to ensure he would be safe from infection. Despite his obvious jaundice (that lasted almost into his third month of life) that required phototherapy via overhead lights in an isolette during our stay. And despite the fact that he was, as predicted, unable to regulate his own body temperature until the third day, when he was moved, finally, into an open bassinet.

The nurses had placed a carefully handmade sign on his bed, stating his name and birth weight, complete with Lightning McQueen and friends staring out at us from the red, white and blue page. It was all in the same effort as the tiny pictures around the room of the babies who had left here healthy and happy, the wallpaper border with its nursery designs and the scrubs and sunny dispositions of all the nurses: the effort to make this room, this area, less about realities and more about possibilities.

Possibilities for the little girl next to us who had severe digestive problems and had blood in her diaper every time she was changed, made even sadder by the fact that her mother and father were hardly here as she just sat, alone, in her bassinet hour after hour until she became so upset that one of the nurses would finally come to hold, cuddle and soothe her.

Possibilities for the twin girls born at 31 weeks gestation, just under 2 pounds each, whose alarms seemed to go off nearly 4 times each hour.. and neither of whom were faring all that well by the time we were ready to leave.

Possibilities for the dozen other babies, both full term and premature, each with their own unique story for what had placed them here, to leave here as healthy and happy as all of the infants in those photographs.

We were fortunate enough, after four long days of tubes and tests and lights, to leave with a beautiful baby boy that would grow to be just that.


This post was written in response to a prompt by The Red Dress Club:

Think of a room from your past. It can be any type of room at all.
Take a mental picture of that room.
What happened there? What is it like? What is the atmosphere there? What are the smells, the sounds, the sights? How does it feel?
Now reveal that snapshot to your reader.
Take us to that room.
And try to do it in 750 words or less.


About Caitlin's Concepts

Mom to 4 boys and drowning in a sea of testosterone!
This entry was posted in My Babies, RemembeRED, The Red Dress Club and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

15 Responses to Possibilities

  1. Shell says:

    This gave me chills. So glad your little one was okay.

  2. Elena says:

    Beautiful post! Reading about your little guy’s story – I’m so glad you only had to stay 4 days. Such a vivid painting of what life was like in the NICU.

  3. Andrea says:

    I love it. I’m there with you, feeling what you feel. Thank you for sharing your experience with us. You have a gift for using words, woman. A true gift.

  4. This made me cry. Those poor babies, with no one to hold them, and with limited possibilities..

    I’m thankful your little guy wasn’t one of them.

    The details you used in this piece were perfect.

  5. JP says:

    What an experience for you. What a description you gave of every detail! Great writing!

  6. Leighann says:

    The words you wrote about the baby who’s parents were absent and the twins who were do tiny broke my heart.

  7. Jack says:

    Very nicely done- you did a good job of setting a tone.

  8. Mandyland says:

    My oldest was a NICU baby. Born full-term but with an infection caused during labor, he was the largest, healthiest baby in the room. I remember sitting and watching with fear and sadness all the other babies. You captured that time in the NICU perfectly.

    • It was such an odd feeling. I almost felt guilty that we were there, taking up valuable space and nurses’ time when there were obviously so many other babies that needed so much more than we did. Thank you for your comment!

  9. Jessica says:

    I swear I could hear the beeping of those NICU monitors through this whole post. I will never forget those days and those babies who never had visitors to hold them. Truly an experience no parent can erase from their memory. I’m so glad your little guy did so well.

  10. Katie says:

    ugg. I was in the NICU just recently to visit a friend and her newborn. Hers was by far the healthiest baby in there…and I just wanted to hold all the others who didn’t have someone there with them right at that second.

    This is EXACTLY what it was like to be in that room. You captured all that goes on perfectly and vividly!

  11. hi there…just to share, my daughter was born at 26 weeks. yikes!!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s