11 lb 8.7 oz
9/03/21, erin
Wind whips some blue back into our sometimes smoky sky.
Nora thrives. Jon drops her at school, and she doesn’t cry. She befriends the two quiet ones, and the gal who plays with everyone.
“Breen is thriving.” He has been breathing 4 liters of high flow. We tried him at 3.5 on Wednesday, but he started needing more than his normal 30% O2. Especially when sleeping. So we went back to 4 that night.
This guy. Plays hard with nurses and therapists in the morning, naps hard afterward. Breen sleeps, and grows, and grows.
The closer discharge feels, the more arduous the hours.
Jon says it’s like we’ve been on a deserted island for all these months, and we can finally see the rescue helicopter approaching. And we want to cheer, but it is taking FOR. EVER. We’re out of water. We’re famished. We can start to see home, but the chopper turns to find a better landing spot. Can’t land on those rocks! Oh, the wind is picking up. Chop chop chop chop….
We stare at the sky.
We wake every night aching for him.
We spend our hours apart from each other to be with some of us. We miss whichever family members aren’t in the same building.
We try to make plans. We loosely follow some rhythm. Then a heart explodes and plans change. “I JUST HAVE TO GO RIGHT NOW.” (Of course! Yes, go!)
“I was going to come home BUT I CANNOT LEAVE RIGHT NOW.” (Of course! Yes, stay!)
A “desat” to 86 triggers the alarm, he’s marked to stay 87 or higher. He parks at 86. The alarm blares. The high-sat alarm is back on. He dances with 97. The alarm blares.
Wires and tubes tangle, catch under the chair, catch on the recliner handle, catch on my foot, catch on his foot. Move the chair closer, this one is pulling too tight. A lead pops off. Alarm blares. O2 isn’t reading well. Alarm blares.
He settles in my arms, then reaches up for the wire that holds the cannula. He mashes his face into my chest, tries to tear it off. It scrapes into my skin. The tube folds in half inside his nostril. I push his sleepy forehead up off my neck and try to reopen it without it flicking him painfully.
He fights sleep, fights his face, fights me. I rock, pat, jiggle, sing, pat. I rock faster. Sleep, stir, nose mash, rip, repeat. Then he sleeps.
Our baby neighbor screams through the wall and wakes Breen.
Everyone is back in N95 masks, “There’s been a huge uptick in Covid cases.”
We enter through the Emergency entrance on nights and weekends. We walk (the shockingly long walk) to the NICU, maybe holding our breath a little.
His hair is so soft. He loves all the songs. He’s still entranced by his balloon arch.
Nora poetry corner:
- Nora: *With a mouthful of cereal* “When Breeny comes home, I can really really really really really really really really really hug him.”
*finishes cereal* “I can help him brush his teeth!!”
*slaps the table, looks at the ceiling, shakes her head* “Breeny doesn’t have any teeth!”
2. *Operating a train made of dining room chairs in the living room*
Mom: (after a trip to the ocean) “Where do you wanna go next?”
Nora: “Home! I’m gonna, I’m gonna hug Breen! And I’m gonna change his diaper if he peed. Breen Breen is already on the train. Okay, Breen Breen, what do you wanna do, okay?”
