He is one of the sweetest things I've ever seen. Not just because he is tiny and perfect, but he is just sweet, naturally patient and wise, born at 12 ounces. A wisdom in his eyes that told us that he understood all the things we had to do to him, for him, but mostly to him. He endured it and looked at us as if to say, "I know."
I was one of his primary nurses. I got to take care of him on very important days during those 7 weeks. I was there for his first bath, and I was there the day his eyes opened. I carefully placed him in her arms the first time she held him. We gently put him next to her and he knew the sound of her heartbeat. He settled in and stayed there a long time. He was kept warm by her bodyheat and a little knitted hat that I had made especially for him. It was soft wool, in a precious blue-green color. It fit him perfectly and he wore it many times.
That day I clocked in and walked through the nursery. It seemed quiet; people were quiet. His bed was empty and his belongings were packed into pink plastic bags. I looked for the night charge nurse and she immediately explained, "He got sick through the night, quickly and unexpectedly. We transferred him out at 0600." He was taken across town to a hospital who employed a pediatric surgeon. Mom and Dad had been here with him and were with him now. The doctor had ridden in the ambulance with him, something I had not seen in over 10 years. The situation was rushed, and critical. I had missed him by 30 minutes.
When the doctor returned I asked about him. She gave me the details of the night and how there was no choice but for him to go where surgery would be an option. I was sad that it was no longer an option here, where we knew him, and more importantly, where he knew us. Ten years before it had been an option: very few last minute transfers. I had trained in a full-service intensive care nursery, but now surgical services were across town, with strangers.
The doctor told me that they hadn't stopped to pack his belongings, but she saw Mom take one thing out of his bed. His little knitted hat was clutched in her hand as they rushed him out to a waiting ambulance.
It was late afternoon and we hadn't heard an update. I sat wondering about him as I fed another baby. I looked up and saw Mom through the glass door. The look on her face hit me like a punch in the stomach. A look that one mother recognizes on another and a look that a 25-year NICU nurse has seen too often.
I touched the big silver button and the glass door disappeared from between us. All I could do is hug her. After a long time she said, "He didn't make it. They did everything they could, and they were really good to us, but it wasn't "home"." The only home he had ever known was here with us, but he had to spend his last 6 hours of life in the company of strangers, loving caring strangers, but new faces, away from home.
Each time I encounter this situation I have a flash-back to nursing school. My instructors were very strict, reminding us to "be professional" which we all knew meant "don't cry".
Well, he was one of the sweetest things on Earth, and it was perfectly professional to cry.
Over the next several months I thought of him often. I reflected on how practice had changed where I was working and about how many families were starting their experiences with us, then for one reason or another would need to be transferred for services not offered here. I was sad for them; such difficulty added to an already difficult situation. I was sad for us; we wanted to keep them here, to care for them at "home". But the situation was unlikely to change anytime soon. Budgets and administrative decisions had left families with no choice but to travel during a crisis like this.
One year, to the day, after his transfer, and 28 years after beginning my career, I started a new job; across town, with the strangers.
I was one of his primary nurses. I got to take care of him on very important days during those 7 weeks. I was there for his first bath, and I was there the day his eyes opened. I carefully placed him in her arms the first time she held him. We gently put him next to her and he knew the sound of her heartbeat. He settled in and stayed there a long time. He was kept warm by her bodyheat and a little knitted hat that I had made especially for him. It was soft wool, in a precious blue-green color. It fit him perfectly and he wore it many times.
That day I clocked in and walked through the nursery. It seemed quiet; people were quiet. His bed was empty and his belongings were packed into pink plastic bags. I looked for the night charge nurse and she immediately explained, "He got sick through the night, quickly and unexpectedly. We transferred him out at 0600." He was taken across town to a hospital who employed a pediatric surgeon. Mom and Dad had been here with him and were with him now. The doctor had ridden in the ambulance with him, something I had not seen in over 10 years. The situation was rushed, and critical. I had missed him by 30 minutes.
When the doctor returned I asked about him. She gave me the details of the night and how there was no choice but for him to go where surgery would be an option. I was sad that it was no longer an option here, where we knew him, and more importantly, where he knew us. Ten years before it had been an option: very few last minute transfers. I had trained in a full-service intensive care nursery, but now surgical services were across town, with strangers.
The doctor told me that they hadn't stopped to pack his belongings, but she saw Mom take one thing out of his bed. His little knitted hat was clutched in her hand as they rushed him out to a waiting ambulance.
It was late afternoon and we hadn't heard an update. I sat wondering about him as I fed another baby. I looked up and saw Mom through the glass door. The look on her face hit me like a punch in the stomach. A look that one mother recognizes on another and a look that a 25-year NICU nurse has seen too often.
I touched the big silver button and the glass door disappeared from between us. All I could do is hug her. After a long time she said, "He didn't make it. They did everything they could, and they were really good to us, but it wasn't "home"." The only home he had ever known was here with us, but he had to spend his last 6 hours of life in the company of strangers, loving caring strangers, but new faces, away from home.
Each time I encounter this situation I have a flash-back to nursing school. My instructors were very strict, reminding us to "be professional" which we all knew meant "don't cry".
Well, he was one of the sweetest things on Earth, and it was perfectly professional to cry.
Over the next several months I thought of him often. I reflected on how practice had changed where I was working and about how many families were starting their experiences with us, then for one reason or another would need to be transferred for services not offered here. I was sad for them; such difficulty added to an already difficult situation. I was sad for us; we wanted to keep them here, to care for them at "home". But the situation was unlikely to change anytime soon. Budgets and administrative decisions had left families with no choice but to travel during a crisis like this.
One year, to the day, after his transfer, and 28 years after beginning my career, I started a new job; across town, with the strangers.
such memories flooded my mind and my heart while reading your eloquent and heartfelt words. they are so much more than words though, they are the love that i have seen you give each baby in your care and on your watch. i am proud that i was blessed to work with one of the finest NICU nurses who has been and remains a friend. God Bless you as you continue to touch the lives of the tinies and their parents also. i love you!
Posted by: holly jo | 01/18/2010 at 04:19 PM
I'm so grateful you moved across town to work with the "strangers." Keely and I were blessed to have you as a NICU nurse while Reaghan was there. God Bless.
Posted by: Jeremy | 01/18/2010 at 05:31 PM
Beautiful "life"story! What an awesome job we have. So happy you moved across town.
Posted by: Katie | 01/19/2010 at 04:39 PM
Wow. I remember this all too well and reading about it brought tears to my eyes...tears that a wonderful and amazing teacher taught me were okay to cry. One thing about strangers is that they can become incredible friends.
Posted by: Jen K | 01/21/2010 at 07:40 AM
Now that I have stopped the tears I want you to know how blessed the neonatal field has been to have you in it. Almost every day I'm in the NICU I find myself remembering something you said...even now, after Neonatal NP school, I still reference my folder with notes from the classes you taught. I pray that the move across town blesses you as much as you have blessed others...both big and little people!!!
Posted by: Rebecca | 01/23/2010 at 06:30 PM
You have been such an inspiration to so many people. Your mom just told me of your nomination to the Red Cross "Everyday Heroes". WAY TO GO!! You are SO deserving of so much more than mere words can tell. If not for your input and encouragement I'm not sure where I would be at this point. Knitting for the premies (God Love and Keep Each of Them!! and praying for them) has helped me keep a handle on my sanity. I pray that your move to the other side of town will continue to bless you as much as you have blessed our whole community. God Bless and much love.
Posted by: Patty Mitchell | 01/27/2010 at 08:08 AM
Meredith - I thought that was awesome! I think it would be a great article in a nsg magazine so that more people could read it. Gave me goosebumps. What a great, true-to-life insight - both for NICU staff and NICU parents.
Posted by: Lisa Marrs | 01/29/2010 at 11:29 AM
Meredith Thank you for sharing his story. His mother and I will never forget you and all the doctors and nurses who made it possible for us to know him for as long as we did.
Posted by: Brian Atkinson | 02/26/2010 at 07:16 AM
Brian, thank you for sharing your precious son with us. I think of you often and treasure my memories of your sweet family times.
Posted by: preemiesxo | 02/27/2010 at 11:17 PM
Mere,
That was an amazing read...you should write a book, seriously! I was glued to the page with great interest! (I don't read often, I'm a movie person:-) waiting for more!
Doug Cox
Posted by: Douglas Cox | 11/28/2011 at 04:00 PM