| The NICU Experience | Aaron update 24 |
| Subject: Aaron update 24 Date: Saturday, December 28, 2002 8:08 PM From: Kevin Quick To: Aaron Update List Got a few minutes? Looks like I’ve written a novel here... Well, Aaron had his one-month birthday yesterday (Nov 27 to Dec 27), and tomorrow marks six weeks since this little adventure of ours began. It’s Saturday afternoon, Aaron is doing fine (his feeds are 11cc now; he’ll go to 12cc “full feeds” tonight), and I thought this would be a good time for me to take a look back over the past six weeks and write down some of the things that Kathleen and I have experienced, before we forget them. From the big window in the hospital’s 4th floor waiting room, where I am now, I can see that it’s a dark, rainy, windy day in San Francisco. Just perfect for gathering my thoughts a little bit. I won’t go into too much detail (or, at least, I’ll try not to); I don’t need to write a book right now. I just want to hit some of the high points and low points of the past six weeks. There are pictures in my head, like snapshots from a camera, that I want to capture before they lose their clarity and vividness. Some of these things are scary, some of them are a little grotesque, some of them are funny, and some of them are sweet. I just feel like it’s time to write them down. Also, I thought a little background information might help you put Aaron’s daily updates into perspective. The past six weeks have been quite a ride. Sometimes it feels like it’s been a car crash, where my family and I have been blind-sided by someone speeding through a red light. There’s a big crash, and our baby flies out of the back seat and lands out on the road. Other times, it feels like a train wreck, because so many people are in this thing with us, some with micropreemies of their own, some consoling us, some praying for us, some operating the machines that are keeping our baby alive. Usually, though, I think it feels more like a rollercoaster ride. At the beginning of the ride, there’s the long ascent. Kathleen gets pregnant, and for four and a half months, we’re steadily and happily pulled upward toward the top of the hill. Everything is going without a hitch. At our first ultrasound exam, we have our first glimpse at our perfect little baby. My friend Eric tells me that I look about a foot taller than I was before Kathleen got pregnant. Every prenatal visit is perfect. Kathleen and I rejoice at how nicely everything is going. We read along in the “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” book, not getting ahead of ourselves, and not getting behind, either. “Don’t read the back of the book, unless you have to,” the author says. “There are scary things back there that you probably will never need to know.” So, we take her advice. We’ve read up to “The Fifth Month,” because that’s where we are. We’re nearing the peak of the uphill climb... Sunday, November 17, 2002... “Well, it looks like congratulations may be in order?” As we stood up at “greeting time” during our Sunday morning church service, the man behind us offered his congratulations to me. “Yes,” I beamed. “We’re four and a half months pregnant.” As we took our seats again, I felt a deep, gentle glow in my heart. I was going to be a daddy! And Kathleen, the sweet, cute, love of my life was going to be a mommy. I don’t think I’d ever felt so completely alive in all my life. Six hours later... Now I understood why doctor Nancy Reynolds had called magnesium sulfate the “big guns.” I held Kathleen’s head, with tears running down my cheeks, as Kathleen vomited violently into her bedpan. The “mag” was making its way out of its plastic bag, through an IV in Kathleen’s arm, and into her veins. Her body didn’t like this one bit. It was the last resort. Kathleen had begun preterm contractions during the church service. We talked with our new friend Claudine about it after the service, and she sounded worried. “Call the doctor,” she said. So, we called the hospital in Lakeport, and the nurses suggested that we come in. They’d put Kathleen on “the monitor” so we could be reassured that everything is OK. Needless to say, everything was not OK. Nifedipine taken orally, then terbutalene taken by injection, did not stop the contractions. “We HAVE to stop these contractions NOW,” Dr. Reynolds said as she felt our baby’s head while doing a cervical check. “If we don’t, this baby is going to be born, and today, at 23 weeks gestation, there is no chance for viability.” I remember Pastor Gary, and Mike and Laurie, and Joel, and Freddy coming by to see how things were going, right in the middle of this. I remember crying on their shoulders, as they hugged me tightly. What in the world was going on? What was happening to us? We felt as though we had been abruptly transported to another planet. I remember getting up every hour or so that night, and checking the paper tape readout from the contraction monitor. Contractions calming down. This is good. Monday, the next day... The “mag” did the trick. The contractions had slowed, then stopped. Tuesday... Things were under control. We went home. We thought everything was going to be OK. I remember making a little nesting place for Kathleen. Now on strict bed rest, she was only allowed to get up to take a quick shower once a day and to go to the bathroom. I set her computer up alongside the recliner in the living room, so she could stay in contact with the world via e-mail and the Internet. She would migrate back and forth from the “comfy chair” to the couch to our bed, for the next four and a half months. Or so we thought. Friday, November 22... “The contractions are happening again.” I can still hear the fear in Kathleen’s voice and see the tears in her eyes. We pack quickly and head back to the hospital. Several injections of terbutalene get things under control this time. We go home the following day. Kathleen will be on oral terbutalene now, which we hope will keep the contractions in check. Wednesday, November 27... As I stood outside in the morning sunshine watching the helicopter lift off, I tried to see into the future, but couldn’t. I knew that I was standing on the edge of something, but I didn’t know what. What had happened to our lives? What in the world was going on? I stood there in deep shock, not knowing how to process the events of the past several hours. The previous three hours were a blur. “Kevin,” Kathleen had called to me from the bathroom at the hospital. “Come take a look at this.” Knowing that I’d never been that comfortable with even normal menstrual bleeding, I was worried that Kathleen was concerned enough to have me come and take a look. “I think the nurse ought to see this,” I said. Nurse Susan took a look, and flipped our world upside down once again. A cervical check showed that Kathleen was dilated 4 centimeters. I remember nurse Susan walking very quickly out of our hospital room, bloody fingers held in the air. An emergency injection of steroids to help develop baby’s lungs, an injection of demerol to help Kathleen with the pain, another IV of magnesium sulfate in a last-ditch effort to get the contractions under control. I remember Susan pulling me aside and counseling me as gently as she knew how: “Kevin, I need you to understand that if your baby is born in the helicopter, there will be no chance for survival. You need to be prepared for this possibility. OK?” I needed to take care of some errands, get things prepared at home, then drive down to San Francisco. I remember trying to give the cashier at Safeway the correct amount of money, and not being able to figure out what combination of coins makes 18 cents. I remember being at home, just ready to walk out the door with the suitcase, when the phone rang. Kathleen’s voice was on the other end. “Are you sitting down?” she asked. I sat on the edge of the couch, and heard her breaking voice say, “We have a baby boy!” Oh, my God! She had had the baby! We were only in our 24th week! We were hoping that the doctors in San Francisco would get and keep the contractions under control, so the baby would have a few more precious weeks to grow. I knew what the chances of a 24-weeker’s survival were: less than 50/50. We cried together on the phone, then I left for San Francisco. I remember the 3-hour drive, but vaguely. I don’t remember much of the actual drive, except that it seemed to take forever. I do remember my thoughts very vividly, however. I remember thinking about Jesus being “the Lamb of God that takes away the sin of the world.” I remember thinking that the work that Jesus did in reconciling the world to God was surely sufficient to take care of my little boy, should he not make it. I remember thinking about one day, way in the future, after Kathleen and I had died and went to be with the Lord. After reviewing our lives with us, I envisioned Jesus saying to us, “I have someone I want you to meet.” And there, taking our little one by the hand, he introduced him to us. And I saw our little boy, the purest, most innocent, most precious little creature imaginable, pure as gold, translucent with holiness and guilelessness, never having been tainted or hardened by life in this world. I remember my cell phone ringing as I drove through Santa Rosa. “This is Karen Shearer, a social worker at California Pacific Medical Center. Is this Kevin?” I swallowed hard and braced myself for the worst news that I’d ever have to hear in my lifetime. To my relief, though, she only had some questions about medical insurance, and Kathleen was still “out of it” enough that she thought Karen should be talking with me about this. I don’t remember the details of her questions, but I do remember her words, “your son is stable.” My son! Stable! I remember seeing Aaron for the first time. Kathleen and I couldn’t go into the NICU together. Somewhere along the line, the people who know about these things figured out that it’s best for each parent to see their preemie child for the first time separately. I remember the nurse walking me through the NICU, past two rows of isolettes, and toward the back wall, where Aaron was. Here was my son. Tiny, scrawny, red. But alive. Unbelievable. I remember receiving the news that Aaron had NO brain bleeds. I remember seeing Aaron’s eyes open for the fist time. I remember Aaron breathing on his own for the first time. I remember thanking God for every breath that our little boy took. I remember later thanking God for each breath that I was taking...this one...and this one...and this one...and realizing how incredibly unthankful I’ve been all my life. I remember watching Aaron’s heel get pricked with a small blade, so the nurse could get a blood sample for testing his blood gases. I remember Aaron’s tiny face wincing in pain, and seeing him trying to cry. My eyes blurred as I identified with my son. I made a mental note not to watch this procedure in the future (he has to have this done twice a day). I remember changing his little “preemie” diaper for the first time, and how his little “Hershey kisses” kept coming and coming, as I wiped again and again. I remember sitting in social worker Norma’s office with Kathleen, and feeling my jaw drop to the floor as Norma gave us her rough estimate as to what the cost of Aaron’s medical care was going to be. I remember acts of kindness... I remember pastor Gary visiting us each time we were in the hospital in Lakeport, spending hours with us and praying with us. Thank you, Pastor Gary. I remember our visitors at the hospital in Lakeport. Thank you, Mike, Laurie, Joel, April, Kevin and Freddy. I remember coming home and finding dishes washed that I had let pile up while Kathleen was on bed rest. Thank you, Kevin and Mary Sue. I remember Judy coming over, one day when Kathleen and I were both home. She had told, not asked, Kathleen the evening before, that she was coming over to do laundry and clean the house. And bring food. Thank you, Judy. I remember people bringing us food. Thank you all, you know who you are. I remember Kathleen and me saying to each other many times after receiving these gifts of kindness, “We have to learn how to do this. We WILL learn how to do this.” I remember the Christmas Eve service at church three days ago, and Scott and Judy’s three little girls coming over to Kathleen and me after we had sat down, and each giving us big hugs. I remember how sweet and alive those girls felt to us, and how they made us cry. These are some of the peaks and valleys of our past six weeks. There are many other things, too, that would just be too numerous to list here. And, of course, I’m just describing these things from my perspective. Kathleen has her own story, too. It’s hard, no, probably impossible for me to understand some of the things that Kathleen is going through right now. I’ve attached two pictures with this update. The first one was taken at 8:11 p.m. on Christmas Day. The second one was taken only two minutes later, at 8:13 p.m. I think they’ll give you a little glimpse into Kathleen’s world. Thank you again for your continued love and prayers. Love, Kevin, Kathleen & Aaron |
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