One Month
Today is the eve of the boys' one month birthday and they are doing well. To say this past month has been a blur is an understatement. They mentioned at the beginning that the NICU was going to be a roller coaster ride; that wasn't a lie. It's the most terrifying one we've ever been on. A ride where the slow straightaways are as frightening as when you feel a G-pull and you fear flying out of the car.
We're slowly adjusting to the constant beeps and incessant pinging alarms that make up the soundtrack of the NICU. The various life support screens with their colorful bouncing wire lines that spike and drop and speed across the screens relay status updates in real time. Maybe it's us looking for some silver lining in the situation, but how often does a new parent have a state of the art heads up display giving you slight edge when a fit is about to be thrown? The only downside is you rely on the nurses to translate the patterns and ultimately take care of the pending situation which could probably be your baby is about to stop breathing. We're getting better at reading the screens, but we're still at the rule of thumb level where yellow is a warning, less than 88 in oxygen saturation is bad, and if the hand portals of the incubation chamber are open for too long, you'll get the alarm and reminder: 'BABY IS COLD'.
The NICU life is a hyper aware routine of minute adjustments for incremental ends. The level of which the nurses execute even the most mundane of tasks, like a simple temperature check, is nothing less than saintly. Complimenting the predictability of the life support systems' pings, dings, and beeps is a positive and gentle banter from bubbly social but professional nurses as they go about their cares and daily protocol. Unlike the situations that land their patients in their care in the first place, the NICU is actually a community of care givers genuinely happy with their profession which is abundantly clear across every shift.
We have been nothing short of thankful and impressed with the folks taking care of Elan and Quin. After the first couple of days they already had a pair of nurses who signed up to be their primary caregivers. Signing on as a primary means they will automatically be the caretaker for the duration the boys' stay at the NICU while they are on shift. A third signed up not long after and even signed up for both boys during the day shifts once they were stable enough to be cared for by a single nurse. Having these three ladies in particular has been grounding rod for us. We've managed to get away for the last two weekends guilt-free and get back to Bellingham to make some much needed progress on the house. The NICU allows parents to call in anytime day or night and get a status update. Every time we've called we're reminded of the good hands the boys are in and we sleep a little easier that night.
But while every day has generally shown some incremental improvement, it hasn't been without its moments. This is a roller coaster after all. We went back to Bellingham last week to work on the house and take a break from the NICU. Several friends came up to help including Geoffrey's brother Evan and his family. The weekend was successful and on more than one occasion we were able to relax a little. We planned to return to the NICU that Sunday for what was to be the first day of skin to skin or Kangaroo Care. We were actually going to hold our boys for the first time since birth. Up to this point their premature size and state made direct contact or movement a traumatic event the nurses rightfully defended against until just the right moment. Sunday was going to be that moment. After the final weekend tasks on the house had been cleaned up and tools put away, we headed back to Seattle.
It seemed like a routine evening in the nursery. The nurses had finished up with other babies and made the preparations to Elan and Quins' corner for the first Kangaroo Care. Two recliner chairs with swivel castors and covered in hospital sheets were arranged side by side. Since the boys are both on ventilators, a respiratory specialized nurse is required to help the primary nurse transfer the babies from the incubator to the parent's chest while they sit in the recliner. It's a two person job and really three if you count the parent who has to be comfortable for the two to three hours of still sitting Kangaroo Care requires.
Quin was prepared for be transferred first. As they arranged his lines, feeding tube, and ventilator tubes, his saturation levels abrublty plummeted. His heart rate dropped. His hands and feet wiggled erratically and then suddenly drooped lifelessly by his sides. We could only stand in shear terror and stare. The nurses instantly sprung to action. A nurse sounded the overhead alarm that echoed throughout the NICU and the top of his incubator shot upward like a canopy of a jet plane when the pilot pulls the escape cord for the ejector seat. Nurses and doctors descended on our little boy while we stood helplessly by completely petrified. His skin turned purple than pale and his breaths were little gasps. It may have very well been a few minutes, but it felt as if hours had passed. Eventually Quin's vitals came back on line, his numbers returned to those we were familiar with, and the nurses left his bedside one by one. The doctors cooly and confidently assured us accidental extubation, or when the breathing tube inadvertently slips out, happens all the time and Quin would be fine. Given the excitement that we experienced that night, the nurses thought it best that Quin take the rest of the night off and we postpone Kangaroo Care for another night. We agreed and reluctantly went home to face a sleepless night.
Such is life in the NICU. One moment you're surfing a wave and next moment you're getting tossed like a rag doll. We were able to hold both boys the next night for the first time. It was a precious moment that we will never forget. Between the hoses, wires, and beeping machines, the four of us relaxed for over three hours, maybe not in complete comfort, but as a family.
We're slowly adjusting to the constant beeps and incessant pinging alarms that make up the soundtrack of the NICU. The various life support screens with their colorful bouncing wire lines that spike and drop and speed across the screens relay status updates in real time. Maybe it's us looking for some silver lining in the situation, but how often does a new parent have a state of the art heads up display giving you slight edge when a fit is about to be thrown? The only downside is you rely on the nurses to translate the patterns and ultimately take care of the pending situation which could probably be your baby is about to stop breathing. We're getting better at reading the screens, but we're still at the rule of thumb level where yellow is a warning, less than 88 in oxygen saturation is bad, and if the hand portals of the incubation chamber are open for too long, you'll get the alarm and reminder: 'BABY IS COLD'.
The NICU life is a hyper aware routine of minute adjustments for incremental ends. The level of which the nurses execute even the most mundane of tasks, like a simple temperature check, is nothing less than saintly. Complimenting the predictability of the life support systems' pings, dings, and beeps is a positive and gentle banter from bubbly social but professional nurses as they go about their cares and daily protocol. Unlike the situations that land their patients in their care in the first place, the NICU is actually a community of care givers genuinely happy with their profession which is abundantly clear across every shift.
We have been nothing short of thankful and impressed with the folks taking care of Elan and Quin. After the first couple of days they already had a pair of nurses who signed up to be their primary caregivers. Signing on as a primary means they will automatically be the caretaker for the duration the boys' stay at the NICU while they are on shift. A third signed up not long after and even signed up for both boys during the day shifts once they were stable enough to be cared for by a single nurse. Having these three ladies in particular has been grounding rod for us. We've managed to get away for the last two weekends guilt-free and get back to Bellingham to make some much needed progress on the house. The NICU allows parents to call in anytime day or night and get a status update. Every time we've called we're reminded of the good hands the boys are in and we sleep a little easier that night.
But while every day has generally shown some incremental improvement, it hasn't been without its moments. This is a roller coaster after all. We went back to Bellingham last week to work on the house and take a break from the NICU. Several friends came up to help including Geoffrey's brother Evan and his family. The weekend was successful and on more than one occasion we were able to relax a little. We planned to return to the NICU that Sunday for what was to be the first day of skin to skin or Kangaroo Care. We were actually going to hold our boys for the first time since birth. Up to this point their premature size and state made direct contact or movement a traumatic event the nurses rightfully defended against until just the right moment. Sunday was going to be that moment. After the final weekend tasks on the house had been cleaned up and tools put away, we headed back to Seattle.
It seemed like a routine evening in the nursery. The nurses had finished up with other babies and made the preparations to Elan and Quins' corner for the first Kangaroo Care. Two recliner chairs with swivel castors and covered in hospital sheets were arranged side by side. Since the boys are both on ventilators, a respiratory specialized nurse is required to help the primary nurse transfer the babies from the incubator to the parent's chest while they sit in the recliner. It's a two person job and really three if you count the parent who has to be comfortable for the two to three hours of still sitting Kangaroo Care requires.
Quin was prepared for be transferred first. As they arranged his lines, feeding tube, and ventilator tubes, his saturation levels abrublty plummeted. His heart rate dropped. His hands and feet wiggled erratically and then suddenly drooped lifelessly by his sides. We could only stand in shear terror and stare. The nurses instantly sprung to action. A nurse sounded the overhead alarm that echoed throughout the NICU and the top of his incubator shot upward like a canopy of a jet plane when the pilot pulls the escape cord for the ejector seat. Nurses and doctors descended on our little boy while we stood helplessly by completely petrified. His skin turned purple than pale and his breaths were little gasps. It may have very well been a few minutes, but it felt as if hours had passed. Eventually Quin's vitals came back on line, his numbers returned to those we were familiar with, and the nurses left his bedside one by one. The doctors cooly and confidently assured us accidental extubation, or when the breathing tube inadvertently slips out, happens all the time and Quin would be fine. Given the excitement that we experienced that night, the nurses thought it best that Quin take the rest of the night off and we postpone Kangaroo Care for another night. We agreed and reluctantly went home to face a sleepless night.
Such is life in the NICU. One moment you're surfing a wave and next moment you're getting tossed like a rag doll. We were able to hold both boys the next night for the first time. It was a precious moment that we will never forget. Between the hoses, wires, and beeping machines, the four of us relaxed for over three hours, maybe not in complete comfort, but as a family.
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