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.
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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