One day, there will be a blog post about the experiences and stories of our Hypnobirthing classes. Hypnobirthing is a method of winning the natural childbirth game through self control, hypnosis, and focus. We had the opportunity to buy a CD that has two more generic Hypnobirthing routines - one of a mountain and one of a beach. While I don't use the Hypnobirthing beach CD when I get stressed, I do tend to close my eyes when I'm overwhelmed and envision being back on Maui. I can feel the sand between my toes. I hear the surf. It calms me. It helps me focus on the rhythmic sounds of nature. Somehow, I'm able to retune my own breathing and stress to the wave. To the surf. To the sound.
I didn't expect to be writing again so soon. I've gotten so used to an early afternoon and late evening update, that you know this can't be something I'm overly excited about. But as I do, I think of a wave. The same droplet of water...almost instanteously transferring from a high point to a low. Elisa and I got a wave this afternoon. We're trying to keep our heads above water.
About 10 minutes before we were to leave for our 2:00pm feeding, Elisa got a call from the hospital. On the other end of the line was a NICU nurse/social worker. No, she wasn't calling to chew the fat or ask what we thought of the stunning accomodations for nursing. She wanted to talk about transition - how do we start getting ready for the transition home? She had spoken to the doctor who said that Sam was looking good, and that everything was predicated on tomorrow's echocardiogram. This, we already knew. But in that conversation, clearly St. Mark's is thinking of "what happens next." And that includes us going home. So we talked to her about new things...scary things, sure, but progressive subjects. Did we get the baby on insurance? Have we taken an infant CPR class? How are we doing? What does the support network look like at home? Are we getting enough sleep? Did we know that the insurance has Sam covered (currently) through Wednesday of next week? Have we heard of the car seat test? We will be asked to bring in a carseat and Sam must hold his stats for periods in the car seat. It was overwhelming. Elisa got off of the phone, unsure of what to think, but buoyed by the idea that they are talking about us going home. We left the house on a high. I guess we just didn't know we were on the peak of a wave.
When we arrived at Level 2 NICU, Lindsay (yet another phenomenal nurse) had us set to go. The nursing screens were already placed. She stated that he was awake, changed, and ready for us. As we walked up to him, we noticed his oxygen. Not only was it now at 39%, he had also been pushed up to 2.5 lpm (liters per minute?). When Lindsay came over, I inquired. Over the last three hours, Sam's oxygenation levels had hovered around 90-94, where they needed it to be 95+. They had continued to tinker with his levels and had arrived at 2.5 lpm and 39% for the last 75 minutes. He seemed to be tolerating it. I think she could see the fear, worry, and disappointment on our faces. She immediately stated that she didn't think this was a step back. She believed that Sam was using up the oxygen reserved he had stored with the Nitrous and we were simply asking his body to do it now and he was adjusting. But she then stated that she would talk to the Doctor about "how high he'll want to go".
As the wave crashed into our newest low point, I had one thought. Really? We haven't had enough? We need to be kicked around a couple more times until we have more permanent bruises to show that we passed some sort of sick test? I know it isn't rational, but it is painful. 15 minutes before, we were driving to the hospital, talking about the car seat, getting Sam home, and how we couldn't imagine getting called if they weren't serious about us going home soon. Now, we're staring at tomorrow's D-Day with trepidation and doubt, not comfort and confidence. Is this a sign of a relapse? Is Sam struggling to keep up? Will we go back in 3 hours, only to hear that the Doctor is now concerned and wants to restart Nitrous Oxide?
Whereas D-Day #1 felt like a question of "are we getting better or worse?", tomorrow's decision day feels more like "are we almost done, or do we have to endure more?" Frustratingly, Sam looks like a healthy baby. He has wide eyes on most of our visits. He eats well. He snuggles into his mother like he was meant to be there for about 6 years. Yet his lungs, heart, and body are concealing a secret - one that we desperately want to know and furiously fear.
If anything gives me comfort, it's the fact that Elisa put Sam onto her chest and held him for about 15 minutes...during that time, Sam's breathing was the calmest I had seen since he had been in NICU. His oxygenation levels were at 100. His heart beat was normal and consistent. His stats were the picture of perfection. When we put him back down, his breathing picked up a little. His oxygenation dropped to an annoying 95 (illiciting a periodic alarm). And we left with that all-too-familiar pit in our stomachs. It tells me that Sam needs us. Sam will get better with us. But waiting and hoping for Sam to scientifically and medically clear the hurdles put in front of him in NICU is sometimes to much to bear, or even to process.
At times like these, when I'm overwhelmed; when I'm stressed...I close my eyes. I feel the sand between my toes. I hear the surf. I feel the sun warming my face. And I see the ocean rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling. I can only hope that the next rise in the water is soon, is positive, and gives us something that I'm desperately trying to cling to. Hope.
Brad
1 comment:
I hope you have a rise in the water soon, too. thinking of all of you, cousin Heather
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