Yesterday was day 5 in the NICU, and so, so much has happened that I can't even begin to wrap my head around it. My son is progressing and growing and developing faster than I can keep up with, and I'm struggling with how to deal with these changes that happen so quickly.
The first thing is that one of his eyes is open. With his right eye still fused, his left has begun to peek around at us when he's awake, trying to process what's happening with eyes that are still underdeveloped and weak. I haven't seen his eye yet, just noticed that the lid was open, so I await that day with bated breath.
Next is that he's no longer using a lipid supplement. He's getting all the fats and proteins he needs from my milk directly, so they removed one of his feed lines for that yesterday.
Our doctors are pretty impressed right now with how much he's pooping as well. They actually had to start increasing his changes from every 6 hours to every 4 because his diaper was getting too messy too often!
One of the biggest things is that he got his breathing tube taken out yesterday! He's currently using a CPAP to assist in his breathing, but the doctors said he's doing almost all of the work on his own and he looks really great.
The CPAP means two big, big milestones: us being able to hold him for the first time, and him being able to cry.
It sounds a little weird I guess, but I have been waiting to hear him cry since the moment he came out of me. Because he was so premature he wasn't able to cry, and the delivery room was oddly quiet in the time that he was out and being worked on. It was surreal, and it's pained me ever since to not hear his voice. I look forward to holding him as well, don't misunderstand, but hearing him cry has been something I could not wait to experience.
Last night I heard it for the first time. Last night I was helping a nurse change him and broke down in tears. Last night he cried to me for the first time, and his minuscule hand gripped my finger with everything he had. My baby's voice is so small, so weak, it doesn't seem to match the boy that I know is a fighter, who grabs onto me and holds like his life depends on it, who is stronger than anyone else I know.
He finally seems fragile. He finally seems breakable. His cries are bittersweet. Most of me is so overjoyed to finally hear him that everything else falls away. But at the same time, every fiber of my being is begging to clutch him close to my chest, to comfort him and breathe him in, to keep him safe and warm and protected. I cannot do that yet. It will be a little while longer before I can hold him at all, and even longer before I can hold him when I want to.
I wake up from dreams where he's plastered to my chest, smiling in his sleep while I rock him, and feel tears on my cheeks that I didn't realize I had. I wake up with tender breasts, needing to pump, thinking about how much I long to feed him directly. Instead, he still eats from a syringe.
My child is so strong; so independent and ready to tackle life. But his cries remind me that we are not ready for that yet. His feeble whining puts things in perspective. I remember him wrong when I'm not with him. I remember him as bigger and stronger because to me that's what he is. Bigger and stronger than he should be. I have to remind myself he is not big, he is not strong, he is my preemie, we are in the NICU, we will be here a very long time.
But in the meantime I can take solace in knowing that he is in good hands, that he will be okay someday, and that for now, at least he is crying.
