By Meghan Tjaden
Show your ID, even though you’ve been there 100 times. Don’t forget to sign in.
Wash your hands for 3 minutes, all the way up to your elbows… don’t forget to clean under your nails.
Put on your hospital gown.
Head to his bed.
You greet the nurse with a smile, you don’t have the strength to give. You strike up a conversation that, quite frankly, you don’t feel like having.
Get his daily report. You know all the things he should have done, but couldn’t. All the things they want to see happen, but aren’t.
You watch her mouth moving, not hearing every word. You nod. The conversation finally ends. You sit down.
That God awful rocking chair.
It’s cold in the NICU, always cold.
You watch his monitor, see how he’s breathing.
You hear loud dinging. You know the sound.
It’s a ‘low sat’ alert.
You look back at your baby’s monitor. He’s breathing fine.
You look two pods over. Pod 33.
A preemie Mom, just like you, has backed away from her baby’s bed, making room for the nurse.
Her baby needs stimulation. He forgot to breathe for just a second. (Something you know all too well) After all, He’s still learning how to do that.
Mom’s face turns red.
She steps further away from her baby’s bed, holding back her tears, swallowing her fear.
The nurse closes his bed, “all good momma” she says.
Momma, feeling weak, returns to her baby’s side and stares [into] his bed.
I’m not 100% what she’s doing or what she’s thinking, but I think I have a pretty good idea.
She’s pleading. She’s begging. She’s praying.
