Chapter 29: Corabelle
We spend eight days in the NICU. Ethan takes his feedings fine, with a little tube of pumped milk assisting his nursing.
This is the part I missed the first time, his little chin working with his mouth clamped to my breast. It’s wondrous. The emotions that flood me when he’s there are overwhelming. The nurse calls me the “tissue monster” because I go through a box a day.
I can’t help it. Every day is a miracle.
When Ethan can hold his own temperature without the heat lamp and has gained another pound, they tell us we’re about ready to be discharged.
June and Mrs. Mays, who now insists I call her Alaina, have been staying in our apartment. As far as we know, Gavin’s dad drove home. His car is no longer in the hospital’s garage. Alaina hasn’t been taking his calls. He can sit and stew, she’s decided. She wants to be a grandma.
Mom and Dad decided to stay in a hotel all week since they didn’t feel like driving back just to return for Christmas.
A lot of the NICU is getting sprung for Christmas Eve. Babies who were already close are sent home. We sit around half the day because there is a backup on paperwork. The home health people are working overtime to prepare equipment to send home with some of the babies, apnea monitors and bilirubin blankets.
We don’t need any of that. I just have to bring Ethan to a pediatrician within a week to check for weight gain and do a blood draw, and we’re good.
Mom, Alaina, and Gavin wait with me for the final discharge. Dad is back at our place, helping June blow up an air mattress in our living room for them since we’re coming home.
It’s going to be crowded, but Alaina plans to get an apartment nearby next week when her job transfer goes through. The grocery store chain where she was a clerk has a store here and they were glad to give her a position. Apparently she’s serious about leaving Gavin’s father.
She’s a totally different person, as if a great weight has left her. I’m fine having her around. And June is the most devoted aunt. We finally got her cleared to visit Ethan and she’s happy to just sit by the crib and let him wrap his hand around her finger.
At last the nurse stops by our spot with a folder full of papers and instructions. Gavin stands while she talks, holding Ethan on his shoulder.
I watch them while trying to listen to the nurse. Gavin shifts from one foot to the other, bouncing a little at the knee. He’s wearing jeans and a dark green button-down. Ethan has a red and white striped sleeper with this crazy long elf hat. Mom picked it out. Ethan keeps knocking it off. It’s more cute than practical.
It slips again and I catch it before it hits the floor.
“You can read over these things as well,” the nurse says, passing me the packet. “The main thing is to see your doctor in a week.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“Good luck,” the nurse says. “Do you have everything?”
I glance around at the space that has been ours for eight days. “We’re all packed,” I say.
“Merry Christmas,” she says. Then she tweaks Ethan’s foot. “I hope Santa brings you lots of things tonight!” She waves as she heads to the next family.
Ha. We haven’t shopped for a thing. Gavin and I already agreed to nix presents to each other. And everyone else will understand. Gavin did run to a store a few days ago to pick up some hiking boots for June. They have ideas for some short trips in the desert while she’s still on Christmas break.
Mom picks up our bag and I fold the last blanket over my arm. I look around one more time.
This NICU is not so different from the one where we spent our week with Finn. I glance across the room at the almost-empty row of the healthiest babies, the ones who just need a little monitoring. They’ve mostly gone home.
Then I turn to the farthest corners, where the tiniest babies lie in their darkened Isolettes, ventilators whirring.
The families there have settled in for the holiday, covering cushions with red and green cloth and setting stuffed reindeer on the tops of their babies’ monitoring units.
I pray they see these next few days safely through.
“You got the car seat installed, right?” I ask Gavin.
“All ready for him,” he says.
I guess there is nothing else to do. We head for the secure entrance. A few heads lift to smile at us. Some are still hopeful they will be discharged before the day is over.
We push through the door, and I look back one more time.
They say a rainbow baby, born after the loss of a child, is the beauty after the storm. And I get that. Ethan has certainly brought a joy I could not have thought possible after the dark depths of my hardest years.
But I don’t really want to think of Finn as the bad part, the black spot, the horror I had to recover from.
He’s a child in his own right, a light that still lingers long after his actual time with us on earth.
And if there is a rainbow here, it’s all of us. Me, Gavin, Mom, Dad, Alaina, June. Each of us brings a unique color to the story we’ve all lived through. Every moment, good, bad, easy, or hard, has led us here.
This particular day of my life may be my rainbow, but I am still eternally grateful that at one time, I felt the rain.