Day Eleven.2

In our return to our home, we are still trying to process what happened over the previous eleven days. We have a child yet he’s not here. We have a room dedicated to him that he cannot use. We have to incorporate our new existence as parents, cat owners, people who have friends, family, and jobs into our individual and collective lives. I’m running a little behind on the story telling yesterday was some what of a whirlwind. Also, the drama of the birth was probably like some fictional drama. The postpartum probably isn’t that interesting to most of you.

That said, we are in a transitional state where we are home yet not at home. We have been released from the hospital yet our life remains in it. We have the deafening quietness of our reality and a sense of loss. We also have cats.

I realized that some of you are unaware of the complete picture of our journey to Jax. It was neither easy nor typical. It was a path littered with whys and what happens, of difficult discussions and disappointment. The most critical takeaway; however, is that baby Jax would not be hear without the love and sacrifice of Lara Fife. She willed him into existence and endured physical and emotional pain that few women experience. Of course she also had to deal with me. The recounting of those times are for a future time, when we can look back on this period of our lives with wonder and amazement. A time when Jax’s parents can demand payment in Bitcoin or some other future boondoggle currency for all that we paid to get him here.

We look forward to that time.

Lara’s last few hours as a postpartum hospital patient ended swiftly. While kind, the hospital staff urged us the get the hell out of the room. We were not the only people having children according to the Postpartum patient board. At one point during the day, the ward had only spare room. We struggled to balance seeing baby Jax, one parent at a time, during our late morning visit to the NICU, packing our things as if a sheriff executing an eviction notice was knocking on our hospital door, whilst completing somewhat complicated paperwork so that we could be discharged. I feel dizzy just typing it. “You have to be out by 3:00”, nurse Felicia said with a mixture of kindness and urgency that one learns after 30 years on the job. I don’t think we would have been able to navigate our last day without Ms. Felicia’s help. She called the right people and walked us through the process. I really appreciate it.

As we completed the discharge documents, one question boggled. Without giving you the play-by-play, it had two parts that could lead to unintended parental right outcomes. You would assume that two people with college degrees could figure this out but we needed nurse Felicia to give us the 411. As I read the questions I kept hearing Maury Povich say, “You are the father”, while holding out a DNA test. Of course, I was fine with that revelation but it was the first time that I ever heard it – I mean really heard it. Something to think about.

Once we completed our eviction paperwork an submitted it to the proper unimpressed bureaucratic hospital authorities, I began lugging our worldly possessions to our car. At the same time, I had to coax a blood weakened Lara out of her room and into a wheelchair so that she could see baby Jax before we left. We took one look at the room to ensure that we had all of our things and left. I resisted the significant urge to say, “Bye, Felicia“.

A hospital homeless couple, like vagabonds I pushed Lara and the wheelchair to the NICU with one hand and carried our belonging on my back and in my other hand. I microcosm of fatherhood, I suppose. As if someone put in a STAT order, Dr. Fries walked up from behind us and asked if she could help push Lara. This was so kind and so indicative of the care we received. The hospital staff went out of its way to help and through serendipity or prayer, was right there when we needed them.

Leaving Lara bask in motherhood and be pooped on for the first time by our loving child, I carried our remaining items to the car then walked to Children’s Hospital to rent a breast pump, as one does. When I returned, I traded places with Lara and spent time holding our son. As any father would do, I began to explain to baby Jax the nature of light – that it’s both a wave and a particle, how light is made in stars and can take thousands of years to get out of them to become what we see as light. Naturally, he grew fussy, moving his legs as if to walk away, so the NICU nurse place him in his crib.

It was time to leave.

The NICU nurse that looked after Jax has an effervescence, a joy in eyes that indicates she loves her job. She had forgone food and bathroom time to make sure our son was safe and protected. Thank you. She, as well as others at the hospital also indicated that the road to normalcy would be a change, a challenge. We learned that quickly as Lara insisted that she walk out of the hospital.

Most of you know that Lara is athletic. She has run several marathons and participated in about a dozen triathlons. She has an inflatable stand up paddle board and routinely exercised and the most trendy of trendy exercise cults. On this day, she is none of those people. She struggles to walk 50 feet, leaning on hospital walls as we take slow, purposeful steps. This is frustrating for Lara the Wonder Woman. After several deliberate minutes, she made it to the hospital main entrance lobby. I introduced her to the hospital staff as if I worked there. They were kind as we’ve seen for most of our stay. I fetch the car. It was a sunny day, brisk but not impossibly cold.

As we left, the weight of what was happening was happening. We had a full car and an empty infant seat. After everything that has happen – a week long early labor, a world speed record delivery and a near death experience – we leave without are prize, our joy, our light. There is a guilt, a loneliness, a sadness, a loss, a remorse, that Lara and I breathe like amniotic fluid. Our child is fine, he great making progress and will likely be home with us sooner than we think. We understand this logically and it’s perfectly rational. Nevertheless, we are at a loss – we are in a loss. We are in the twilight.

That said, we are okay and getting better each minute, just like baby Jax.

For the remainder of the evening, we tended to our somewhat neglected home. The reestablishing of routine: washing our hospital clothes, cleaning the cat bathroom, eating, unboxing boxes. Lara began the routine of pumping, as most every said that this must happen every three hours to encourage milk production. This is hard with a baby; doubly hard without; triply hard when you are weak and still processing transfused blood. We ate an iron rich meal, watched assorted sitcoms from the 1990s. We then quietly went to our places.

Again, many thanks.