Life in the NICU

First and foremost, thank you all SO MUCH for your kind words on my last post. I've been struggling to keep my head above water and clear for a few days, but luckily it's becoming easier. Your positive comments helped so much!

So, it's day 4 in the NICU after giving birth to our first child, Jasper. It's stressful, we're anxious, and dear GOD my breasts are killing me.

Our little boy is absolutely stunning, though, and I wouldn't have all of this any other way. Now that he's here and I finally see him, that's it. He's here to stay.

I have trouble connecting him to concern at the moment. Everything is so surreal. If my boyfriend or my mom was rushed to the hospital and hooked up to tubes like this I would be terrified, but that's because I know they're not supposed to look like this. I have seen them outside of the tubes, happy and sad and laughing and confused, and living and breathing freely and enjoying every minute of it.

I haven't gotten that with Jasper. From the first moment I saw him he was in plastic bags for warmth and already had a breathing tube. He was already hooked up and plugged in, and I have never seen him any other way. This is his entire existence as I know it, I cannot imagine him outside of it. I've never even heard him cry or cough because his tubes block him from making sounds.

And so it's hard, it's difficult to recognize the danger that's right in front of us because this is just who he is and has always been.

I'm not necessarily afraid he'll die. I know there's a chance, but it's low, and his performance is great, and he's strong. I don't think he'll die at all.

What I'm uncomfortable with and struggling to process, is the fact that I can't do anything. I go to the care meetings, the doctor's rounds every morning, help change his diapers and pump as much milk as I can, but I still feel weak and small and useless in this situation. I can see him struggling to cry when we do something he doesn't like but cannot hold him to give him comfort. I see him struggle to move and roll around and it breaks my heart to restrain him. I see him reach out a grasping hand and have to refrain from sticking my hand in the box so he can hold me.

I struggle, but not with the things I thought I would. I want him to be ready to go home.

The nice thing is that today is a GREAT day. He's gaining weight, eating more, being weaned from some of his drugs, had his first poop, gets hiccups, and is overall a fighter. He's magical, I adore him, and we're so much better off than some families in here.

Regardless of all the rest, he's my sun and stars, and I will power through this journey for him.