This is the post I write from my phone. The post where I’m hooked up to my breast pump, trying to banish thoughts of dairy farms from my head. The post where I’m too lazy to try and juggle the laptop on my lap while breast shields and baby bottles hang from my boobs, the post where I write from my phone.
We got to the hospital at ten this morning. We left at midnight. This is not an atypical schedule for us. 14-hour days have become not only the norm, but often the minimum. Sometimes we’re here at eight and leaving at half-past midnight. It all depends on the day.
If you’re sensing an undercurrent of exhaustion in between the lines, it’s because we’re practically drowning from the lack of sleep, the monotony of living at the NICU, of transience as we shuffle from house to house for a place to sleep for the night in between long days at the hospital.
We just. Want. To go home.
With our son.
* * *
I’m supposed to be pumping 8-10 times a day. I’m lucky if I can fit in 6 at most. I’ve tried setting alarms at 3:30am, to capitalize on a rise in prolactin levels and to ease off some of the pressure overnight… And every time, I’ve turned off the alarm only to wake in lukewarm puddles of breast milk a few hours later.
I have accepted my lot in life that at any given moment, there is breast milk on me somewhere.
Thankfully, I’m averaging ~3oz total for each pumping session, so that I don’t feel too bad about only pumping 6 times a day. That said, I want to take a bat to my breast pump, a la Office Space. I hate this thing.
* * *
We still have no ETA on when Judah will be released. It seems like for every two steps forward, it’s another step back. After a serious run-in with NEC that was caught early, he stopped antibiotics on Sunday night and resumed feedings Monday morning. For 24 hours, he was taking in 6ccs of Pregestemil: no residuals and even a stool (much to the surprise of his care team).
Today they bumped him up to 12ccs. After his first feed at the new level, half of it came back in residuals. The second feed was fine: all 12 stayed down. The third however, was a hot mess. He was fussy and vomited multiple times. When the nurse checked his residuals, he had only managed to keep down 4ccs. The nurse practitioner ordered another x-ray, which mercifully, showed nothing. So it’s back to 6ccs with an even slower advance.
He’s considered full capacity once he reaches 45ccs. Only then will they take out the feeding tube. And then he has to work up to eight feedings by mouth for a sustained period: four by nursing, four by bottle.
We have such a long way to go yet. And there’s no exact formula or timetable on any of this.
And so we’re there every morning. I pump. We work remotely. I pump. We do his care. I pump. We eat at the cafeteria entirely too much. I pump. We hold him, read him stories, sing him lullabies, gaze at his perfect, tiny features. I pump. We ask so many questions. I pump. And we stay until midnight every night.
And in the morning, we do it all again.
* * *
Larry, on the drive back to my parents’ house tonight:
“I think this is most stressful thing I’ve ever had to deal with in my life.”
I nod silently, already fighting back tears.
All we want is for our son to be healthy, happy and home.
