NICU

Raz was born 15 days ago, six weeks premature.

I don’t think I’m ready to write about it. The abject terror is still far too near with ECG leads, oxygen monitors and a feeding tube all seemingly permanently affixed to my newborn. I need him to be out of the NICU then maybe I can write about that night, not yet.

We’ve been here for two weeks, living in this tiny room, watching monitors flash his vital signs and celebrating each small victory when a tube was removed. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t let the memories of the last time I was in a room like this surface. I was in survival mode… until last night.

Last night for the millionth time his alarms screamed, his heart rate dropped and he stopped breathing. I was trying to feed him at the time, something so simple. I was just trying to feed my baby. Except he’s a preemie and he’s still figuring out how to breathe, eat, and keep his heart beating. The sixth or seventh time his alarms went off and I had to desperately rub his tiny little back to get him to breathe I broke.

I stood in his room completely paralyzed as the tsunami hit and I was suddenly aware of how incredibly warm and wet my face was. I sat in the lobby of this hospital and cried and cried and cried. I finally let the memories come. I mourned Damon and I hoped for Raz and I cried.

I don’t usually let people see me cry, like almost never. It’s not a pride thing. I’m not ashamed of my tears. They are necessary. I’ve figured out that I don’t let people see me cry because people want the crying to stop. People think that the crying should stop, as if that is some measure of the comfort they have given. When I cry no amount of comfort will make it better, no words will heal, no presence will soften the ache. I cry because I need to cry and I need to cry until I stop. So, I usually cry alone so I can be free to hurt, to be exposed, to be pissed, to be so deeply wounded it cannot be explained.

Last night there was nowhere to go. So, I sat in the lobby, while people came and went, and cried.

Today, as always after I’ve let myself look at the gaping Damon shaped hole in my heart, I’m raw. I’m ragged. I miss him so much.

When Raz was born a warm new light bloomed in my heart. It sits next to the icy hole of pain created by Damon’s death. Before, I never would have imagined both sensations could coexist, but they do. My happiness and love for each of my guys lives with the horrifying pain of Damon’s loss. They influence each other but they are each independent and unique entities. Raz’s birth, his life, is good and beautiful and in no way lessens the ache for Damon.   

From the NICU, until next time…