Neonatal intensive care unit. No parent wants to hear those four words. Just like no parent wants to hear the acronym "NICU" used in connection with a newborn. But, then again, we don't always get to choose.
On Saturday morning, the pediatrician informed us that the little Sith princess was a bit yellow. "Duh," I thought. "She's a Sith princess." Also, jaundice tends to run in my family. My brothers and I all had jaundice, and The Prodigal One was jaundiced at birth (phototherapy cleared things up in each case). However, the pediatrician was concerned. So they took some blood and put her under the lights.
"I'll hit the gym and do laundry later."
The blood work did not make the pediatrician feel any better. In fact, she was mildly alarmed at the bilirubin levels given the age of the child. Well, more than mildly alarmed. Rather, alarmed enough to order a transfer for the baby from our delivery hospital to the hospital with the new, state-of-the-art NICU.
Editor's Note: I will not bore you with the banal details of the science behind jaundice and bilirubin. In this case, the cause was likely blood type and rH factor incompatibility between mother and child.
I do not know exactly how long it took my wife to become hysterical over these developments. I think the time could be measured in nanoseconds, much like the big bang. Also, the energy released with said hysteria was akin to the big bang. Despite repeated assurances that the condition was completely manageable, that they just wanted her to be in the best possible hands and that they could not administer medication for the condition (if needed) anywhere else, Operation Devastation had taken hold. I tried to remind my wife that nothing about this pregnancy was easy, and this was merely a minor inconvenience. Yes, i did get the death stare for trying to make her feel better. I should have known better.
On some levels, getting this child to term was a miraculous result on several levels. We found out my wife was pregnant in late June/early July. Great news. We learned of the pregnancy about a week after my wife had undergone a gastrointestinal radiology panel for her hiatal hernia that had, at the time, become more and more difficult to manage. Not-so-great news. After learning of the pregnancy, my (mildly hypochondriac) wife went on the Internet before I had a chance to stop her. I really need to get around to blocking all medical information websites from her laptop and smartphone....
After another monumental freakout session, I was able to get her to focus on the following facts. First, a fertilized egg is pretty fucking resilient. Second, the radiological elements to which she was exposed were likely below the "unsafe thresholds." Third, all of the literature says that the two results would be either miscarriage or no miscarriage--birth defects and the like would not be a result due to the nascent nature of the pregnancy. I find that many aspects of life can be boiled down to binary concepts and choices. A or B. 0 or 1. Miscarriage or no miscarriage. This simplicity was likely cold comfort to a woman who suffered two miscarriages since the birth of our son.
Each day became a waiting game. I am so horrendously bad at walking on eggshells that I do not even bother trying, and this was no exception. I would ask her how she was feeling, even if it pissed her off. I would tell her to push more water, even if she felt like she was floating already. I would tell her to call the obstetrician's office, even if she said an issue "was really nothing." Sometimes doing the right thing means being a bit of an asshole. Or an enormous asshole. Whatever. I revel in the role.
We endured test results, silently cheering when HCG numbers doubled. We waited for an eternity until the first ultrasound--the positive pregnancy test was so early that we had to wait far longer than usual to get the paper-thin reassurance that an ultrasound printout of a yolk sac brings. We mad sure that she was not doing anything to put the pregnancy at risk.
The Fourth of July came and went. The Prodigal One and I went camping. The Prodigal One went back to school. Labor day was here before we knew it. Each additional week was modestly--sometimes silently--celebrated. And with the continued stability of the pregnancy came new experiences. Terms like "advanced maternal age," "shortened cervix" and "prenatalogist." I joked once that I should see if the hospital would just rent me office space. As much time as we spent there, I would probably get more done working from the hospital than my regular office.
I thought things would get easier once we were far enough along to go public with the news. Bzzzzt! Thanks for playing. Enjoy these parting gifts. Other challenges lurked around every turn. Gestational diabetes (managed solely via diet, thankfully). Elevated risk levels from the quad-screen. Amniocentesis. Non-stress tests. And more ultrasounds than I can count (evidently the 10th one is NOT free when you pay for the first nine). But who would not do everything possible for the health of their wife and unborn daughter?
Editor's Note: The wildest thing in my mind was that they sent us actual pictures of her chromosomes from the genetic testing after the amniocentesis. Like I could look at the pictures and say, "Oh, yes, those are some good looking chromosomes. Look at pairs 12 and 19, honey! Should we submit these to that "Cutest Chromosome" contest we saw in Reader's Digest?"
So, this brings us to last Saturday. The transfer went well, for the child at least. My wife's transfer involved "the worst van ride EVER" according to her. I gather the hormones and hysterics did not help. The same goes for just having given birth less than 18 hours ago. On the plus side, I am fairly certain that we had the largest, healthiest baby in the NICU. This fact was confirmed by several of the (wonderful) NICU nurses we had over the past few days. I think this perspective and another day of healing have finally started to calm my wife down. Also, making arrangements so that she can stay in our daughter's NICU room has helped.
"I'm too sexy for your timeline."
If all goes well, the baby will be back home in a few days. The sooner the better. Her Sith training awaits.
Update, Monday, February 28, 2011, 1 PM local time:
They have shut down one bank of lights (of the three) and have stopped pushing antibiotics, so that is all good news. If everything keeps progressing, the Sith princess should be home on Wednesday.
Update, Tuesday, March 1, 4 PM local time:
They have shut down a second bank of lights, and we expect to have them shut doen the final bank this evening. Also, they have stopped IV supplementation. She is definitely her father's child, because when I fed her formula after her noon nursing session she took down 50cc (almost two ounces) of formula LIKE A FUCKING BOSS. Then she napped with me for over an hour before I had to return to base for The Prodigal One. Things are looking good for Wednesday.
Like one of the biggest bosses of all time, Odysseus (also know as Ulysses for you Roman-only pussies), we have returned home from our 10-year (okay, five-day) NICU journey. The discharge took forever, but I think that was mainly because they had a couple of emergencies on the ward. Again, I am supremely grateful for our relatively minor inconvenience of post-partum jaundice. The Sith princess is sleeping and eating like a champ (O would dare say "winning," but some asshole has taken that one already).
On behalf of everyone here at Team Dark Side, I would like to thank everyone for the kind thoughts and enquiries.
Regards,
DSL
