Our Story of a Syndrome:Transport to Children's-- Part Three


Within a very short amount of time my husband, Jon, arrived.  We clung to each other for support.  We  have been through a few other intense circumstances in life together, and we were rooted deeper because of it. But this was every parents nightmare: something was wrong with our baby and we had no idea what the future held.  This was more traumatic than anything we had ever encountered.

 At less than 12 hours old Rhyse had already been moved to the "special babies" part of the nursery and hooked up to those soon to be all--too--familiar monitors.  I could no longer hold him freely.  


By 8 am Rhyse was transported by EMS to Devos Children's Hospital, and I was discharged.  I could barely walk without intense pain, and I couldn't stand  up straight at all.  

Jon and I drove in silence to Devos:my mind didn't know what to focus on.  I had already cried my eyes dry, how much more could I cry.  

As we pulled in the parking ramp my husband very wisely said, "let's not let this tear us apart. Let's believe today is the worst day: each day will get better."  With the Lord as our backbone, we promised each other no matter how painful this experience is going to be and no matter where it leads, we will be each other's strength, not enemies.  

I had never been in the Children's hospital before. Devos had only been open for one year, a massive and picturesque building filled with the best of the best specialists.  But the layout was confusing.  From the very beginning we went the wrong way down one way lanes in the parking ramp and got turned around in the elevators. When we finally figured out how to get to NICU we were required to stand in line at a desk and show IDs and get permanent passes.  A pass to see my son?  It was surreal.

  
In intense angst we rode the elevator up to the third floor NICU.  Using our new passes we were admitted into the unit, told we had to watch some sort of NICU etiquette video and upon every entry, scrub in. I understood the reasons for washing up to our elbows with each entry, but every second away from my son seemed like hours.

Mommy sonar is powerful. Even  more powerful than I knew.  As I watched the electronic doors open to the inner court of the NICU I heard my son crying, squeaking was more like it. I had only heard him make a noise a few times in the first few hours of his life as his tiny, wet lungs at birth didn't allow for much noise.  But through the maze of rooms before me I instantly knew where he was.  It was the most amazing sense of motherhood.  We did not know his room number, but I walked straight to his room, following his noises.  


Rhyse was all alone in the room, with many doodads and gadgets either strapped, taped or stuck to his body, and echoes of beeps and alarms sounding above him.  I was overcome with emotion, and I cried, again.  Only 12 hours ago I was still pregnant and greatly anticipating this new, little life. Now this precious little life was attached to something else: it felt like he was torn away from me and I was left wounded and bleeding.

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