We arrived at the hospital this afternoon, and when I approached Zoey's incubator, I did my reflexive glance towards her CPAP monitor to check her O2 rate.
But. . . there was no monitor. I then looked back at Zoey and realized. . . she wasn't wearing the CPAP headgear. No CPAP? NO CPAP?!!
Apparently, at 11 a.m. today it was determined Zoey had done so well during her one hour breaks from the CPAP earlier this week, they wanted to try it longer term to see how she reacts. So, she's only wearing a tiny nasal O2 cannula.
And she's LOVING IT! Zoey's just stretched out, with her hands on the sides of her head, totally at ease with this most excellent development.
Zoey had always fought with the CPAP--it was clearly an uncomfortable apparatus for her to endure--so seeing her in her incubator unencumbered by the annoying device provided a huge emotional lift for my wife and me.
She's also 2 lbs 9 ozs today which--for those of you playing at home--is double her Dec. 30 birth weight.
Now, if you'll excuse me, we have to give our daughter a bath.
Yes, this has been one of those good days we've been waiting around for.
UPDATE: I should note she's now able to experience up to an hour or more off the CPAP, which she LOVES, and then it just becomes too much. She also was weighed after this Kangaroo Care session. She was up 10 grams.
She's going to poop like an elephant tomorrow.
My wife insists she wants me to hold Zoey tonight during Kangaroo Care instead of her. This is the equivalent of Michael Moore giving up cheeseburgers or highly disingenuous "documentary" film making.
Linked once again by Instapundit! Thank you for all the comments and e-mails. Preemie and NICU stories are more common than you'd like to think.
Zoey was moved yet again today, this time to an entirely different NICU room. It's a room for babies who aren't in need of quite the same intensive care of the previous room. I like to think of the new room as NICU-Lite.
The move was necessitated by an influx of new babies, and the anticipation of another set of twin preemies arriving in the next few days. Yesterday was the first time I actually saw a baby smaller than Zoey, although the baby was still way bigger than Zoey's birth weight.
There's a part of me that suspects one consideration that went into Zoey's new accommodations was to soften the emotional impact on us when the set of preemie twins arrives. I could be wrong, but it makes sense.
It's funny to think of Zoey being in the NICU-Lite room. We were told about the extra NICU rooms way back during the first week or so when we were just beginning this journey, and I remember thinking how far away into the future it would be before we'd see Zoey in one of those rooms. Even two weeks ago, it seemed it would be at least another month before they'd even consider such a move.
Yet, there she is, and she's doing fantastic. And I can barely bring myself to believe it.
Cautious optimism, indeed.
I wish I had something poignant to write, but Zoey is doing well, and apparently filling diapers like tankards of ale, according to the nurses and my wife.
My wife and I did have our taxes calculated today, and for the first time since. . . I have no idea. . . we don't have to pay MORE to the IRS.
That's pretty much thanks to Finn. Another gift from him, I suppose.
He should still be with his sister, but I guess that's neither here nor there. It's just another way in which we're reminded how much being a family of five was once our impending reality, but now it isn't, like the two unopened crib boxes in the porch, or the fifth dining-room-set-matching chair we discovered by accident and bought at a furniture store's clearance section shortly after we learned we were having twins, and we thought we were so fortunate.
We were a family of five though, for three days.
Three days. . .
It was an unexpected, irritating, terrible, scared, terrified, helpless, sad, happy, mad, angry, determined, exhausted, confused (not necessarily in that order, but kind of) and--in the end--resolute (for me) three days.
Finn still has a chair. I guess he'll always have that chair.
Until his brother and sister break it, which they will.
I bet Finn would have broken it, too.
Eventually.
Since Zoey was moved out of her private NICU corner real estate all those couple days ago and was placed in a far more open area, I've become acutely aware of all the other babies in the room.
Technically--for the purposes of privacy and patient confidentiality and such--we're not supposed to take too much of an interest in the other babies unless we've taken time to engage with the parents. Because we've only really been exposed to the wider NICU world for a couple days, however, I've come to realize I don't really know any of the other parents.
So, when I'm standing over Zoey's incubator and she's gripping my finger, I exist kind of in this weird nether-world where I'm literally surrounded by babies that I'm not supposed to be looking at, but it's IMPOSSIBLE not to look, so I find myself doing this furtive glance thing where I quickly scan the room and then look back down at Zoey.
The whole experience reminds me of a nude beach on Maui called "Little Makena" that I visited several times when my family met for Christmas on the island for many years. It was the same idea, in that there were naked people EVERYWHERE, but it was considered impolite to stare, but they were NAKED PEOPLE, and some of them were playing VOLLEYBALL, so I simply had to at least look around.
So, yeah, our new NICU location is like that, except with babies.
You know what? Scratch that analogy. It sounds entirely too creepy.
Anyway, my primary reason for wanting to look around at the other babies is to see how much size difference there is between Zoey and the others. So far, it's no contest as Zoey is hands down the smallest baby in the room. There are other small babies, to be sure, but I'm fairly certain they could all take Zoey in a fight, if it were to come down to that, although I can't possibly imagine that happening.
If that did happen, however, my Flip video camera had sure as hell better be working.
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: Your daughter's ROP test looked good, and she is resting comfortably.
ME: That good!
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: But we'll need to do a follow-up ROP test next week as a comparison.
ME: That's bad.
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: But if we do find a problem, it's 90 percent correctable through surgery.
ME: That's good!
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: But be advised, any surgery on a baby so small carries increased risk.
ME: That bad.
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: I've made more money during this conversation than you'll be able to pay off in a lifetime.
ME: . . .
ASIAN CURIO SALESMAN/DOCTOR: That's GOOD!
ME: I'm going to go now.
While I wouldn't characterize our situation as even remotely lucky, we are fortunate in that we live so close to the hospital. Whereas we're only a few minutes away, there are families with babies here who have to travel 40 minutes or more one way. I can't imagine the logistical hurdles that have to be overcome for that kind of commute commitment, to say nothing of the extra emotional burden.
Zoey has been on preemie cruise control, so to speak, for about the last week or so. Her numbers have been steady and she's been putting on weight to the tune of an ounce or more each day. The NICU is probably one of the only places on earth where doubling your weight is considered a milestone worthy of celebration. If I doubled my weight in less than two months, I'd be an object of derision--although at the rate I've been eating fast food lately, it's not entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
Ah, but in the NICU, you're never far from the next screeching "BUT," he wrote, giggling.
BUT, tomorrow morning will be Zoey's first Retinopathy of Prematurity (ROP) test, for which doctors and nurses alike have been bracing us. As if a test to determine eye development and possible blindness isn't jarring enough, the test itself can be extremely irritating for preemies. Not that being poked and prodded in the eyes as an adult is considered a theme park ride but, for preemies, the experience can be downright exhausting, and the reaction to the eye drops can cause Zoey's current steady numbers to fluctuate. Also, feedings will be suspended for at least three hours, which would make even me a bit grumpy. Regardless, my wife and I are planning on being on hand first thing in the morning when they administer the drops.
I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how awesome the nurses and doctors have been through all this. My wife is much better with all their names and faces, owing primarily to her spending much more time in the NICU than me. I, on the other hand, have become an expert on NickJr programming and conjuring meals for our toddler boy. I'm also one of the world's foremost practitioners of the art of smelling a dirty diaper from five rooms away.
The nurses are the NICU's rotating miracle workers. They adjust drug and O2 levels throughout the day and conduct regular cares with enviable professionalism and skill. Each nurse has her own subtle different ways of conducting their daily duties, and it's become impossible for my wife and me not choose our "favorites." They're all excellent, of course, but some nurses just have personalities and ways of doing things we naturally prefer over others. Yeah, we're preferential jerks like that.
The doctors, too, have all been great, although I've admittedly avoided too much interation with them, owing to a certain level of "trigger shyness" when remembering Finn's constantly grim prognosis updates. There's a part of me that has tended to err on the side of "ignorance is bliss" when it comes to talking to the doctors after those horrible first few days.
Here's hoping Zoey takes tomorrow's ROP test in stride. It sucks requiring her to endure something new when she's just now seemingly figured out this whole NICU experience.
UPDATE: The geek in me wants to add "THE EYES, BOO! GO FOR THE EYES!" But, I won't go all Minsc on you.
Commenter pjMom steered me to this site: http://mikeandollie.wordpress.com/
It's a better chronicle of the NICU experience than you'll find here, and it was originally written--on pen and paper, when such things existed--back in 1991-1992.
Zoey was moved out of the private NICU room she's inhabited since Dec. 30. Another preemie baby is being brought in who needs the room more than my daughter.
It's almost alien for me to entertain the idea there's a baby who is more in need of NICU care, but then I have to remind myself Zoey's been in that room--gradually getting better, stronger and bigger--for over a month-and-a-half.
And then I feel terrible for the incoming baby and family who are about to inhabit that NICU room and experience what no family should. More emotional drama plays out in this NICU hospital wing than I ever previously considered. It's not all bad emotional drama, but the good drama is definitely a distant second.
Zoey's incubator is now in a corner, with a window view overlooking a. . . McDonalds. It's not exactly an ocean view, but if I close my eyes, I can almost smell the McNuggets cooking.
I guess that's sort of an improvement.
Most bloggers spend their blogging existence wondering what it would be like to be linked by Instapundit even once.
I've now been Insta-lanched twice, thanks to the Blogfather.
I don't suggest going the preemie route to obtain this particular honor, however.
Stick with politics, or whatever. Faster please. Heh.
Thanks again, Glenn.
And thanks to all who take the time to comment and share your stories and best wishes. I read them to my wife at night almost as a kind of therapy. It helps, seriously.
