Part VI: Bad Summer Camp

On the day we packed up our little bundle of anarchy and left the NICU for good, I felt a sudden rush of emptiness in my chest.  I lingered at the empty crib, even though the Anarchist--who had taken the car seat challenge twice before being allowed this moment--was wearing real clothes and was securely fastened in her car seat.*  I kept sniffing the air, which smelled of new born baby, medical supplies, and my beloved hospital soap.  I closed my eyes and took in the no-longer-terrifying, but actually-somehow-comforting sound of the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors.  I forced myself onto the elevator and past the first floor gift shop where a nice Labor and Delivery nurse had once taken me for a walk/wheelchair ride some four months before.  I passed the coffee stand where, on my own first day of freedom three months ago, I had purchased a large frozen mocha to sip as I ran outside and spun in circles rejoicing in the fresh air and the fact that my legs still worked.

This is me feigning joy at leaving my little haven.
This is the Anarchist looking like an angry pirate.

But on this day, I had no desire to run outside and spin.  Everyone told me that this would be the happiest day of all.  I would be so happy to finally go home and be with my baby, the way it was supposed to be.  But I wasn't happy.  I was terrified.  But more than that, I was sad.  I was experiencing the trauma of separation, not from a child--as I had expected--but from my little NICU family, from the smells and sounds that I now associated with my baby, from my new normal.  The cheerful nurse and my very favorite respiratory technician, whom I adored, smiled as they helped us pack anarchy-in-a-car-seat into the back of our car.  I made a deliberate effort to smile...and then burst into tears.  All the way home, I planned my new career as a NICU nurse.  I had to get back in!

See?  She doesn't want to go home either!

Even before the Anarchist's unlikely and phenomenal birth, the Bureaucrat and I had decided that the whole experience was something like bad summer camp.  Allow me to explain.  If you've ever been to summer camp for an extended period of time, you'll know how easy it is to form intense bonds with unlikely people in a short period of time.  When I went to Interlochen for a couple of weeks in high school, for example, we all hugged and cried and swore we could not live without each other on the last day of camp.  Being in the hospital was kind of like that.  The nurses and doctors--who poked and prodded my belly, denied me meals, brought me extra cake and juice when I was sad, told me things that made me cry, did things that cheered me up--were kind of like the camp counselors who wake you up (cruelly) for a frigid polar bear swim at six in the morning, but who you still love anyway and feel like you will die without when you leave.  It was a similar phenomenon in the NICU, but of course the nurses were the Anarchist's counselors; and instead of polar bear swims, it was spinal taps, feeding tubes shoved down noses, and needles jammed into miniscule baby veins.  Sigh...I still miss those days.

Back when things were really bad, they wouldn't let us touch her...

...then we were allowed to semi-touch her...

...and then she got big enough for silly hats, and it was all
uphill from there!

Shortly after the Anarchist graduated from a
baby crate to a real, big-preemie crib. 
She got a certificate and everything!

The Anarchist opens her eyes for the first time, catches sight of
her adorably ridiculous hat in the reflection of the Bureaucrat's eyes,
instantly becomes an Anarchist in protest.

The strange thing was that what started as an awkward experience turned into something beautiful.  At first, we were told how much our baby needed our presence, and then warned not to touch her.  We heard loud beeping, saw doctors panicking and nurses running, and then were told that it was normal.  Being a NICU parent took a lot of getting used to, especially for someone who is afraid of intruding...even on her own baby.  But things began to turn.  We watched some of the most high-risk babies go through ridiculous amounts and come out all the stronger.  We met little friends who seemed to be going through exactly what we were going through.  We may have even arranged a marriage between the Anarchist and the lovely little guy next door, although I doubt it's legally binding.  I finally got to hold her tiny little body, feed her (an area in which, according to the lactation consultant, I was impressively skilled**), dress her in real clothes and watch her as she committed acts of anarchy.***   The NICU even arranged for special crafts and pizza nights for the parents, so that we could connect with one another and stop feeling so isolated.  We made friends with the nurses, other moms and dads, and even the doctors.  Our children were given matching, silly, fluffy hats to wear so that we could laugh at them instead of cry about them.  There was a sense of fear, but also a sense of community.  So yeah...bad summer camp.

Random acts of anarchy.

The Dictator visits the Anarchist in
the NICU.

 And I didn't want to leave it.  I didn't want to leave Trendy Baby and her caretakers who badgered the nurses and decorated her crib in zebra stripes.  I didn't want to leave The Baby Next Door, the Anarchist's love interest who had a neato mobile and friendly parents.  I didn't want to leave the nurse who shared my exact--not so favorable--sentiments about the new pope.  I didn't want to leave the nurse who realized that the Anarchist loved music and played soft lullabies in her crib to put her to sleep.  I didn't want to leave the receptionist who always gave the Dictator stickers when she came to visit, or the nurse who gave her tiny preemie diapers and bottles to play with, or the respiratory therapist who was basically one of the all-around greatest people I've ever met.  Nope.  I would have turned the car around and gone straight back.  But I wasn't driving.  

So we went home.  And it turns out that, even though I pride myself in being a pretty mediocre mother, the Anarchist thrived.  She started smiling, laughing, snuggling, and of course, screaming.  She developed a sense of humor and started singing.  She learned to crawl, walk, and--most recently--run and jump.  She threw all the books off the shelves in the public library, escaped church by crawling under rows and rows of seats, attacked strangers with love and friendliness, made up songs about "dirty poop," and basically became an all-around delightful little anarchist.  Truth be told, despite the fact that the NICU gave her the very best start possible where she received immeasurable care and support, maybe coming home was the best thing for her...even if it meant I had to leave bad summer camp.

Note that the oxygen tubing is not actually entering her nose.
Instead, she is using it as a teether.  She mastered this trick
during her days in the NICU.

* Yes, they make preemies take a car seat challenge before they allow them to leave the NICU.  The challenge consists of a fully-ripened preemie sitting, for minutes on end, in an uprightish position in a car seat.  If their vitals don't spike they get the go-ahead to pack their tiny onesies and go.  If not, they are sentenced to several more days of chillin' in the NICU.  Is it wrong that I was glad when the Anarchist failed her first challenge?

** Thanks to the Dictator refusing to wean--right until the moment I was admitted to the hospital--I had lots of practice.  If it hadn't been for this unfortunate turn of events, I would be one of those moms still suckling my kindergartener.  And let's face it...in my heart, I am not that mom.  Mostly I'm just a pushover.  


*** Preemie acts of anarchy include, but are not limited to: turning head to right when NICU staff expressly wants head turned to left, yanking out feeding tube/oxygen tubing/etc., pulling of c-pap (i.e., wind tunnel mask) in record time, and screaming like banshee when meals are not forthcoming (I could hear her scream straight through the walls of the NICU and into the hallway...she was the only preemie I ever heard do that).