A Reunion of the Heart

I normally leave the health and hospital news to L.A. Parent's Health-E blogger/editor Christina Elston, but this one hits close to home.

Six years, two months and 18 days ago, my son was born at St. John's Health Center in Santa Monica. I had grown to ginormous proportions, and my doctor was concerned about how much fluid I seemed to be lugging around. So she decided to bring Jack into the world a couple of weeks before his due date. I was ready, but little Jack apparently wasn't. As soon as he saw the bright lights of the outside world, his little face contorted into an unhappy pout. But even more distressing was that he didn't seem to be breathing properly – and then turned a disconcerting shade of blue.

"Is he OK?! Is he OK?!" That's all I remember saying as they whisked the baby out of my arms, past my husband and out of the room. I'm not sure what happened or how much time went by, but the next thing I remember was seeing a pediatrician at my bedside. Apparently, Jack's little lungs weren't quite fully developed, so he had to begin life on this Earth hooked up to a ventilator and all other manner of horrific equipment in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit).

From that moment, I scarcely remember anything except the primal, horrific pain of seeing my baby inside a plastic box, his little chest working hard for every breath. Fortunately for all, he quickly showed his strength and determination, ripping out tubes and fussing at all the fuss.

As moms everywhere know, there is NOTHING on this planet that surpasses the trauma of having a baby or a child with a medical problem or injury. Your brain goes to a crazy place. Your body is not your own. You eat and dress on autopilot, and your focus is on nothing but the well-being of your baby chick. A bomb could've gone off three feet from me, and I would have still been sitting in that waiting room, my arms wrapped around my legs, rocking back and forth.

But throughout my entire ordeal, the NICU nurses became the glue that held me together as my addled, postpartum brain tried to make sense of what was happening. They were an unwaivering force of peace and comfort and knowledge and sanity. Before I had even really gotten to hold this wiggling little bundle, the nurses already knew that he liked sweets and hated the pacifier. They knew his cry (scream, more like it), and that he really liked to be naked.

To this day I cannot tell you how long this ordeal when on, except that I know I was discharged before Jack was. The nurses kept me informed without scaring me, made sure I could hold him as long as we both needed it, and they totally understood my fits of rage, despair and exhaustion. Without the dedication of the people who are strong enough to hold up those who, in the moment, are not, then this type of ordeal simply is not survivable.

When I look back, I know now that Jack's little underdeveloped lung issue was a minor complication, compared with some of the medical situations that NICU and its nurses and staff have seen. But my crisis and fear were as great as anyone's, and the staff was no less sympathetic to me than to a mom who might've been dealing with something more serious.

Alas, I am not good with thank-you notes, as the 100 or so people who sent me wedding gifts about 20 years ago can atest to. I swore I would be better about that with baby showers, but I'm still trying to remember to thank folks for the onesies they gave to Kate 10 years ago. And with high hopes I thought I'd succeed in thanking the incredible staff at St. John's NICU after we all came out of it alive. But alas, I don't think I ever found the time to scrap together a few words of thanks between the feedings and diaper changes. But here I am, six years, two months and 18 days later, offering my heartfelt thanks to those incredible women who gave their time, emotion, love and caring to me and my little Jack.

But their greatest rewards might just be seeing the happy, smiling faces of the babies, children and parents they helped nurture through difficult times, which is why St. John's is holding a NICU reunion from 1:30-4:30 p.m. on Sept. 26 in the Dining Court of St. John's new Howard Keck Center. You'll find arts and crafts, food, face painting and the faces of a grateful group. St. John's began delivering babies in 1945, and the hospital opened its 18-bed NICU and a state-of-the-art Women's Health Unit earlier this year – a bit late for me, although I thank them just the same!

Good Night

I've spent the better part of the last few hours barking orders, trying to formulate an edible meal and keeping children and dog from simultaneously bringing the house down to its studs.

I'm exhausted.

Kate exhibited her usual deep-seated streak of independence (where'd she get that?!), and Jack, just today, learned how much he loves the art of sass. Steve is working late tonight, so I feel like a small square of plastic wrap that's being stretch across a giant casserole.

But bedtime, as any parent knows, is a mixed bag of blessing and blessed irritation. It's the last chance to squeeze in a cuddle but you're so exhausted you just want the bedtime fairy to whisk them into their beds and zap their eyes shut. But as I looked at them tonight I started to see their little faces as teenagers and adults. I saw the end of the era of them as my warm wiggly little cuddlers.

So despite my drooping eyelids and need to get that next chore done, we stole a few minutes off the bedtime clock tonight to curl up with each other and shorten the distance that school, work and chores seem to drive between us. In my current fit of mom-love and nostalgia, I even read that dreaded Thomas the Tank book that feels like, if it were a movie, it would be twice as long as Benjamin Button (and without the bonus that is Brad Pitt).

As we huddled in our quiet little wrinkle in time, Kate reached over with her delicately long fingers and rubbed by neck while Jack made his Spiderman action figure do a table pose (his big sister taught him some yoga, obviously) before it leaped in a loud explosion onto the floor.

And for one more night, they were the age that I love them to be; still so filled with sweetness in the bedtime hour that it makes my face hurt.

So good night and sleep tight, my little darlings, for tomorrow, you'll be a little older.