I walked into B pod at work like any other typical day in the NICU. Except it wasn’t typical.
I’d spent the predawn hours forcing myself into a new post-maternity leave routine that involved getting a whole other human being up, dressed, fed, nurtured, and to the sitter’s house before heading into the hospital. This new motherhood thing was busy, stressful, and amazing all at once.
I couldn’t stop thinking of my son during the commute. He was so vulnerable, and I was leaving him in someone else’s care while I went to care for other people’s babies. I felt guilty for leaving him. I felt guilty for being excited to see my co-workers and friends and looking forward to the patterns and expectations of work compared to the chaotic schedules and self-imposed expectations of caring for my own infant.
The work routine came back to me quickly. Baby Jaxon was my first patient. New eval. Born at 25 2/7 weeks, DOL 5. Surprisingly, the sight of him stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t understand why. I felt as if someone removed a film from my eyes.
Jaxon’s aloneness in the isolette struck me in a new way after three months of nearly constant physical connection with my son at home. The contrast almost dropped me to my knees. Jaxon was someone’s son, a word that had a whole new meaning to me. His parents had no choice but to leave him here with us, strangers, at just 25 weeks gestation. They had to go home without him. Due to his medical fragility at the time, they had to ask ‘permission’ and assistance to hold him. They pretended to sleep while away from him. They were lost in a new land.
What kind of trust is that? What kind of responsibility?
I blinked back tears and took a deep breath. Jaxon’s nurse put her hand on my shoulder and said, “It’s a whole different view now, isn’t it?”
Together, we provided Jaxon’s 8am care. We spoke softly to him. I tucked my hand around his small head and body while assessing the nuances of his movement and behavior – neonatal therapist and neonatal nurse, quietly and expertly supporting him medically and developmentally.
His mom arrived moments later. I noticed the curiosity and wariness in her eyes. I took another breath and introduced myself. But I wasn’t the same person I’d been three months before. I never would be. I do not know what it’s like to leave my fragile baby in someone else’s care, but I caught a lightning bolt of a glimpse in that moment and was in awe. Gratitude washed over me when I held my son later that day – for his health and Jaxon’s current stability.
NICU parents – you joined a club you never wanted to join to fight a battle you never conceived of alongside professionals you never knew existed. Please know that sometimes we are hit right between the eyes with moments of clarity about your journey, and our compassion is re-ignited.
You and your children are why we go to work. Your tiny warriors inspire and teach us every day. Your confidence in us is humbling and motivating.
My son is now 27 years old. Jaxon, that means you are 27 as well. You and your sweet parents made it all the way through. I remember your face as if it was yesterday. We never forget.
