About an hour after my post yesterday, things fell apart. I hate to be negative, but the reality of our situation is that it’s tough. Very tough. And most days the difficult moments outweigh the positive ones, but it’s more fun to be optimistic. I will continue to use this blog as an outlet to update friends and family and perhaps provide hope, solidarity and perspective for others. However, I’ll also be honest when there isn’t much good to say. Yesterday was one of those days.
Joey and Finn were enjoying “kangaroo care,” or skin time (serene pic below) when two supervisors loudly entered the room, turned the lights on, and said, “Time to move! Come on; let’s get you packed up.” A nurse packed up all our things, Joey and I replaced Finn in his bed, tangled in wires and cords that pull at him and make him scream. I began taking the encouragement/prayer cards off our window–bright spots of hope and reminders of truth that felt wrong to take down while our journey here isn’t finished. They bumped his bed and IV’s to the opposite side of the building into a hot, humid room with no chairs. We immediately began sweating as we tried to calm Finn down. Haven’t you noticed that stressful situations become almost unbearable when you’re physically hot? The real kicker was that in the room change, the supervisors didn’t switch Finn’s monitor to the nurse’s new phone, so when his heart rate was increased to 213 for about 30 minutes and all his alarms were going off, our sweet nurse was in another room prepping the new baby that just arrived, unaware. He finally calmed down when we swooped him up and put him on my chest. He just wants to be held, but each time we hold him there’s danger of hurting him. It feels awful not to be able to comfort your child.
So many other things added to the storm of yesterday: Joey went to another room to get us a chair and a breast pump and someone tracked him down to tell him there’s only one per room (our roommates were using/hogging both). Finn cried constantly. We tried breast feeding and though he latched a couple times, he was in so much pain on his side (can never be supine), he screamed between each suck. After dinner we returned with some strength to face the evening. Upon entering the building, the fire alarms went off, thus the elevators were locked down. We climbed all 7 floors…more exercise than I’ve had in several weeks…and not comfortable with a c-section wound. In an attempt to bite my tongue, I’ll just say our new nurse for the night was the worst we’ve had at the NICU. We actually argued. Joey and I never argue with strangers. Our nurse was completely inattentive, always going to her other rooms (probably in an attempt to avoid us), and Finn was going ballistic. So we tried to do kangaroo care on our own. His cords got caught and Joey couldn’t get them unstuck. I cried hysterically because I thought he was going to drop him. We planned to stay the night sleeping on the tile floor because we didn’t trust Finn with our nurse. After talking to a supervisor, we decided that we’d be worthless parents today if we didn’t go home and get a little sleep. We left at 1:30am.
There was a moment where I was in the recliner holding our little nugget and Joey was in a chair opposite me holding his head crying. We looked up at each other in pain, yearning to just escape. To run away. We were reminded of our summer in Slovenia where a missionary dropped us off two hours south of our base village and told us to find our way home and to minister to rock climbers along the way. We were in a foreign country, no cell phone, we don’t speak the language, there is no grocery store or restaurant around for miles, we are in a tent, it has been raining for 3 weeks straight, and we are scared. We wanted to escape. To run home. God rescued us from our fear and desperation during that time, and though this situation is a million times harder and the difficulty will not end (nor would we want a life without Finn), we know God will rescue us. Maybe in small ways. Maybe there won’t be miraculous healing. But He’ll find a way to remind us He loves us and hasn’t forgotten us. He always does.