Resident

The 5th floor of St. Francis Children's Hospital became my new home. For Rodney, it was his home base. He drove to Tulsa after work every night to hold and feed the babies, take me out to dinner, stay the night, and rise early for work the next morning. Rodney was the best part of my day. He is very high on my list of angels, for sure. He was so tired. I knew I was tired, but I could not imagine having to go to work during this, having that desperate, removed feeling, unable to concentrate, having to drive so much, and sleep so little. Sometimes he drove back home late at night and went to sleep in our bed. He would call me on the phone and tell me how amazing he thought I was and how he wished he could be there with us every second. I never loved him more.

They had sheets and pillows, so I could bed the couch. I had my book and my laptop....oh, and my new best friend, the pump.

Every morning before the eight o'clock feeding, I'd get up and make the long journey to the hospital's cafeteria. I'd get in my wheel chair and wheel myself all the way there. I was on a strict schedule with my new best friend, so there was no time for the C-section Shuffle. I could only walk with about a 2 inch pace for maybe...10 feet with a strained look on my face the whole time, and then I needed to sit down and rest through the pain. So this is what it feels like to be 90. After about a week, I graduated to a wheelchair with no foot pedals and I would "Flintstone" myself all the way to the elevator, all the way down the looooong and jagged corridor that connected the Children's Hospital to the main hospital. And I was gettin' some good speed on that thing. Kids I saw on the way got a big kick out of it. Yabba-dabba-doo! 
Then maybe a week after that, I graduated again to just walking behind the wheelchair part of the way until I could go the whole way.  I will try to think of this the next time I'm feeling sorry for myself or if I revert back to taking the simple things in life for granted.

The cashier at the cafeteria from time to time would ask, "Resident?"
Really? Look at me. You can see that I am lookin' pretty rough, weakly walking along behind this wheel chair in my pajamas. What professional shows up to work like this? 
There must be some kind of discount. I'm sure the confusion was only in the fact that I wore this little clip-tag on my shirt, my ID that got me through those heavy swinging doors of the NICU. "Mom 2010" was all it said. After about two weeks of my comings and goings, everyone at the front desk recognized me, so I didn't really need it. I wondered...what does this prove? Anyone could get a hold of one of these. They had a security illusion in my opinion.  They force all other visitors to vaguely and unofficially identify themselves with sticker name tags and room numbers. And they're all over it. Right when you walk in the door of the children's hospital, they want you to get a sticker. "Excuse me Ma'am-- where is your sticker?"

As the babies started gaining strength, we began introducing a few breast feedings a day and the rest bottles. They were so tired, bless their little baby hearts. They kept taking a few sucks and taking a little break until they were all pooped out. Whatever remained of their required intake went through the feeding tubes. We felt a small victory every time the babies had a good feeding. It was measured in milliliters. "They took 5 mls, woohoo!"--mass text to the family. I remember when the minimum per sitting was 20 mls. We could tell how much they were getting in two ways: we either weighed them before and after, or the nurse would come and syringe-pull the contents of their stomachs via the feeding tube.

Milliliter by milliliter, the babies were making progress. Ethan was usually just a smidge ahead of Emma in mills consumed by mouth. Emma was very strong and usually kept a very close second to her bigger, but one minute younger brother. The doctor said that when the babies could take all of their feedings without the tubes, they would be ready for release. "When does that usually happen? How much longer?" I wanted to know.
"When the lights come on. One day the babies just...do it. Usually about 38 weeks," he said.

I pleaded and pleaded with those babies to breastfeed. And they did so well. But they were just so tired and it was holding us back. It was much easier for them to bottle feed. And I wanted to go home. So, finally after three weeks, I let go of the dream and switched them to breast milk bottles. There was a fair amount of grief in that for me. But as soon as I did, it wasn't long before "the lights came on" just like he said they would. "...was blind, but now I see"