Last night, when I arrived to visit the girls, I walked through the NICU looking into the Fraser Suite to see whether the nurse attending to them might be one of the few I recognize. I couldn't see anybody in there, and I paused at the entry. There, by the side, was a cart of gowns, and gloves and masks, the various accoutrements of isolation.
As I lifted my head to see if there were any nurses approaching, I heard a small plaintive bleat, a cry as diminutive in its utterance as it was sincere in its complaint, and it was coming from the girls' room. I stepped in and was immediately disoriented, because the noise was suddenly coming from behind me. I turned and there was sweet Caitlyn, lying in her isolette by the door, her plexiglass cuccoon. She was lying on her tummy, nose and mouth mashed into her arm, eyes wide and alert, bleating with frustration. She was red in the face from valiant but futile efforts to lift her head away from her arm in pursuit of a more comfortable position. I reached into her isolette and pulled her arm away, and then gently rested my hand on her small back. I told her "Papa is here. Shhhh. You're okay now. Papa is here."
Premature babies are sensitive to overstimulation. A touch, a voice, a face -- any one is enough, but too many at once can be overwhelming to the developing central nervous systems of these young young babes. I could tell that my touch was having a soothing effect on Caitlyn, so I stood there gently resting my hand on her back and focusing on just being a comforting presence.
Soon, a nurse arrived and told me that the nurse attending to the girls (and a student aide) were on break and would return in a bit. As Caitlyn was settled, and I could see Emily was asleep, I washed, gowned and gloved and moved on to visit Heather. She was stirring in her nest of blankets, wires and tubes, stretching her limbs and exploring both the confines of her humid hothouse and the flexibility of her joints and digits. I put my finger in by her hand, and as soon as she touched it, her fingers searched it out and grasped around it, her tiny fingers struggling to realize its full circumference. She clung so tight I could see her fingertips turn white as they found the purchase of their grip. By then, her eyes had opened and she was looking over to me. I spoke to her and commended her on her strength, and told her of my pride in her vitality.
I rewashed, regowned and regloved and returned to see Emily. I lifted back the blanket veiling her little world from the harsh brightness of the room lights, and peered into the dimness beneath. There lay a wee angel of a girl deep in slumber, a dreamy smile appearing from time to time on her sweet face. Born as early as they were, and without much of the fatting that full term babies arrive with, it seems at times as though the girls appear to be older than they are, and I feel like I am catching glimpses of how they will look -- 10, 15, 20 years from now. I sat staring at Emily's fickle grin in that long quiet moment, wondering about what dreams she was having and who she will be.
I know that there are many challenges ahead for this family, but despite the worries and concerns, I felt a wonderful feeling of fulfillment as a father last night. I'll take it -- I'll take it all; hook and crook, needles and tubes, dreams and smiles, hanging on tight.
--
Tonight, on the other hand, was a frustration. For the first time, neither Jan nor I were able to visit the girls. Jan has had a mischievous tickle in the back of her throat and I felt this evening as if I had either eaten something funny, or have another tummy bug coming on. Out of a sense of abundant caution, we both decided not to go in, but it was a heartbreaking decision. With each passing day, I think we both feel a longing to be together with these girls as parents and as a family. Although I know there are good nurses at the hospital and they are taking good care of the girls, I hate to think that there are moments when their backs are turned and the girls are uncomfortable or agitated or just unsettled, and neither mama nor papa are there to lend a gentle touch, a soothing voice, some reassuring presence of constancy.
We still await a couple of test results to come back before we will know whether Emily and Heather can come off isolation. Tomorrow, hopefully...
Jer
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