As I
type these words, cotton ball, my favorite kind of snow, is delicately falling
on the grass infront of my apartment, melting the very moment it would touch
ground – candy flossy, something so special about how it makes me feel – happy,
sad, pensive and nostalgic, all at the same time, besides being surreal and
magical, like a page out of a book of fantasy. It instantly drifts me into a reverie;
of days lived in the recent past, of nights and days disappearing in a blur in
my sleepless zombie-like existence for the early parts. But most of all, it
reminds me of the birth of this soft cuddly cotton ball next to me that is slowly
drifting away into her dreamland, sleeping peacefully in the living room couch,
cozily wrapped up in the warmth of her blankets, in the most awkward position one
could envision, as a result of her newly acquired skill of ‘rolling over.’ Phew!
Who would have thought that an act as trivial as ‘rolling over’ would one day become
the most passionately debated dinnertime topic of our lives! ‘No, it takes
time.’ ‘She is not ready for it yet.’ ‘I heard some kids skip roll over and sit
up instead.’ ‘Do you think she will do that too?’ ‘Its ok, she is fine, let’s
just eat our dinner now, shall we?’ hashtag firstworldproblems hashtag newparentwoes
What
however makes these clumsy, silly discussions worthwhile now is when I think of
the day our munchkin was born, when we were asking more serious questions such
as, is she breathing fine, is she responding to sound, eye movement, human contact
and so on and so forth. This cotton ball of mine, impatient to see the world,
was born pre-term, on the 35th week of my pregnancy. After spending
35 weeks in my womb, she had spent the first 12 days of her ‘life’ in NICU
(Neo-natal intensive care unit) with busy nurses and doctors attending on her,
flipping her and poking her for blood samples, urine samples, heartbeat count,
breathing, hearing and what have you. And as soon as I was discharged from the
hospital, that is two days after delivery, instead of ‘bringing’ her home, the
ordeal of ‘visiting’ my daughter in NICU had began. I still remember the drive
from hospital to home; it was anything but easy to have left behind a part of
me in the company of strangers. Strangers who arranged for a suit for me and
baby in the hospital for the night before she was finally going to be
discharged, so that they can monitor my ‘performance’ of caring for this infant
child of mine. This probably was the greatest test I ever had to sit for. ‘Will
they not let me take her home if I fail?’ Luckily I passed this test. But far from
being offended for having to prove my capability as a mother, I could only feel
a deep sense of gratitude towards these people who saw to it that my baby was
fine before she was to be whisked away and taken under my wings. On the 12th
day of her existence, she was finally ready to be ‘brought home.’ Paper work
was sorted, important documents were handed to us, and signatures were printed
wherever required, and this tiny little thing was strapped to the car seat in
which she was barely able to sit up. I remember a young and petite nurse
escorting us to the gate and how profusely I had thanked her for all that they
had done, making her a little uncomfortable in the presence of other people;
these nurses deal with anything between five to ten of these infants on a normal
day, how are they to fathom what they mean to the parents of these babies!
Just
the other day I came across a very heartfelt letter written by a mother of twin
boys who were born pre-term with some complications in a cold January morning in
Chicago. This mother, so grateful to the doctors and nurses of the Intensive
care unit, had decided to write ‘thank you’ notes to them every year till the
boys turned 18. Heartwarming isn’t it? That’s what I thought. What inspired
this thoughtful gesture, besides her obvious gratefulness, was that, while she
would pray and beg for her babies to recover during those trying days, she
would see ‘thank you messages’ from parents of recently discharged babies, freshly
brought in by the nurses everyday, that would be dutifully hung on a wall
across the room. She had said that these notes used to give her hope in
thinking that she too, would be writing them very soon. Finally she said, “those parents who are right now peering into
the bassinet which has their heartbeat in it, they should know that they
too would be sending these sloppy, emotional notes of gratitude eventually.’ Ah!
All so wonderfully relatable!
The
image of ‘peering into bassinets’ must be one of the most common sights in the NICU
of any hospital. Since one cannot exactly lift and scoop the baby in arms as
one would like (thanks to the numerous wires and pipes attached to them) one
could only gawk at them as they sleep away for most parts of the day, oblivious
to the world. When I think of our errands to the hospital during those days, the
first thing I remember are the anxious, tired and worried faces of new parents,
some nursing, some dozing off right next to their child on a chair, some
sanitizing hands before entering the special unit, too happy to adhere to
protocols this one time. Protocols remind me instantly of the ‘car seat test.’
This was a requirement of the US government for pre-term babies. This was important
so that we know if baby is ready to take the ride home; to avoid choking or
difficulty in breathing considering pre-terms are usually tinier. So it was not
just I, but munchkin too, in the 11th day of her life, sat (quite
literally) for a test!
So
finally and eventually baby came home at long last, leaving behind her tiny
human friends in NICU, with whom she struck a chord in their synchronized
crying, just to think of the level of patience these nurses need to have to be able to
handle a bunch of wailing, screeching babies at once. Munchkin’s homecoming was
a plain and simple one in the absence of grandparents who had booked their
tickets as per my scheduled delivery. So we just said a little prayer and
marked her homecoming. Some of our friends made up for the absence of family.
Soon began the business of the husband offering hand sanitizer to the
uninitiated at the drop of a hat, while I would pray he be less direct about
it. The first night at home was an easy breeze, thanks to my rehearsal night at
NICU. Countless sleepless nights followed thereafter, having to wake up after
every two to three hours for feeding. The husband meanwhile jostled between a
full time MBA, a part-time job, and between serving as full-time cook and
part-time nanny. God bless this man who, prompted by keen in-laws, made concoctions
out of fenugreek and milk (yuck!), celery soup, khichdi, chicken soup so that I heal better and faster. Soon I was back on my feet; marveling at how quickly the
labor pain was forgotten, all so easy it seemed now. Parents arrived soon after,
and it was already a month! A small ceremony to mark baby’s first
month was performed. Days melted into weeks and weeks into months. And then I
batted my eyes, and baby turned all of 6 months! Seeing my unabashed display of
excitement on baby’s ‘halfie birthday’ over social media, my cousin said she
feels dizzy to imagine what will happen when she turns one. To be honest, I
dread to think about it too. However, before we touch that mark, we have some
more exciting dinnertime topics stored ahead - sitting up, solid food, crawling,
standing, taking the first few steps and if only this list ever ended! Till
then we pray that this journey always remains as exciting, well, little less tiring if possible, sometimes compounding,
occasionally challenging, yet never ceasing to be full of fun.
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