Happy Halloween!

Cole is dressed up tonight as a little pink raisin.

Aside from his make-believe holiday shenanigans, he has grown a couple grams and is ingesting 26ml of milk per feeding, along with an extra 24 calorie boost. 24 calories! That's like an entire tic tac. When your hands are the size of pennies, these are the kinds of units you deal with.

He is still dealing well with the antibiotics, spelling very infrequently.

We gave him kisses on the head and are going to sleep, looking toward a November full of growth and joy.

Pneumatics

No matter how many times people tell you to expect the unexpected, it's always a surprise when the unexpected occurs. So we were pretty taken aback when they said he has Pneumonia. See? You're surprised too! Fortunately though, it seems that this is another speed bump that they are very accustomed to at the NICU. They took an X-Ray of his lungs and saw some ... Pneumonia, so they're giving him some antibiotics and letting him rest. Again, none of the doctors and nurses seem terribly concerned about this, so we're doing our best to follow suit.

Easier said than done.

Lobster claw

They administer his blood transfusion via an IV. Since the little bugger can't be trusted to stay in one position and not wave his arms all over the place, they need to secure the IV with a splint. I think he looks a little like a fiddler crab.

Movin' right along

Cole has been pretty stable for the past couple days, and there has been nothing particularly exciting to report. I suppose that that in and of itself is something pretty exciting to report though!

He does actually have some news. They have been steadily increasing the amount of milk they're giving him, while decreasing the amount of fluids and nutrients going through his PICC line. They have some sort of crazy mathematical formula they've devised over the ages which tells them how much to feed him based on his weight and age and some other factors which I don't remember. Yesterday they had him on 100% milk, and nothing going through the PICC line, so last night they actually removed the PICC line because it's no longer necessary! Holy cow!

Here I was thinking that the PICC line stayed in for ages, and it didn't even last a week! Shows you what I know. Congratulations little guy; one tether fewer.

In other news, he's a little low on red blood cells. He is also having a little difficulty getting oxygen and they're hoping the two are related since, as we all know, red blood cells carry oxygen in the blood stream. That's all I can remember from Mr. Boucher's 7th grade Biology class. Hemoglobin? Anyway, they're going to give him another blood transfusion. None of the nurses or doctors are alarmed by this, it's very typical preemie stuff. Remember, he has like a nanotube of bone marrow so he can't yet generate his own blood that well.

That's all I got for now! Go Cole go!

All is quiet on the NICU front.

We've had a bunch of visits in a row now where we just go and hang out while Cole snoozes and nary an alarm goes off. It's been quite nice. The one exception being when he got bored or irritated and decided to pull his ventilator tube out of his throat. Dude, leave that alone!! They had to reintibate him while Kate looked on at a rate of 47 heart attacks a minute. So that event aside, all is quiet and good.

Here's some snaps of him with his increasingly blonde hair.




Oh hello!

He fits in my little hands.

This time it's a milestone for me. I got to hold him in my arms last night! It was amazing. At first it was weird because you can't just pick him up; a duo of nurses has to set it all up. First, I sit down in a big comfy chair right next to the incubator. Then one of the nurses undoes all of his tubes and wires, and the other places Cole in my arms while the other then moves all the tubes and hoses over to me and arranges them over my shoulder so they reach Cole properly. At first this isn't the soothing wonderful experience you'd think it might be, because yes, I am holding him, but they're manipulating him with their rubber gloved hands and plugging him back in and it's a little stressful because I'm constantly thinking "holy crap he's off life support!". But they managed to get everything back together with Cole and me in a comfortable position and then, finally, the nurses are gone. And then it's quiet. I breathe slowly and there's this little ball of warmth snurgling on my chest and I look up at Kate and we smile. I think I sat there for 2 hours without moving. I had to pee and I was starving, but I was the happiest guy on earth and I wasn't going anywhere.

Now, you might think that this was the point at which something clicked inside me and I felt like a father for real. I've been thinking about it, and I think that the aforementioned click is more like a switch in this case. It goes on and off. When I was in the OR with Kate and I was trying to help her through the surgery / birth, I felt like a father and something clicked. And when I saw Cole for the first time and I put my little fingertip in his teeny hand and his hand closed around me and gave a little squeeze, it all felt right. But then I started going back to work and life became semi-back-to-normal. I don't hear him at night while I sleep, and I don't see him in the morning before I go, so it's strangely familiar. Unclick. Every night I get to take his temperature and change his diapers through plastic walls. I get to put my hands on him and comfort him when he's feeling wriggly. It's awesome, but it doesn't really feel THAT fatherly. However, holding him last night?

Click.

I feel weird about one thing. When Kate held him for the first time, I was at work. She took some pictures of herself as she sat and enjoyed it. Last night Kate was there with the new camera and she took a zillion pics so the event was well documented. It just feels weird that there was such a level of fanfare about my holding Cole versus when she did. Evidence that Kate is just a more private person than I am.

So anyway, here's a bunch of pictures of me with the snoozeball.

A couple things

Cole is gaining weight! He's over 2 pounds now. They're continuing to increase his food intake too -- he is now at 8ml. The steady increase in milk volume is so heartening, not only is it turning him into a fatso, but it's proving that his gizzards are working properly. Of course I can't help but worry sometimes that they're pushing him too hard by increasing it so fast because you know ... they're NICU doctors and they do this all the time and obviously I know better than they do. Along similar lines is my reaction to the "sunglasses" he wears to shield his eyes from the bright phototherapy lights. They have a big band that goes around the back of his head, and then a smaller band that goes across the top of his head -- right where he has no skull and his brain is exposed. Check my 7th grade biology knowledge. Isn't that band smooshing his brain and impeding his ability to learn philosophy? He's DELICATE, people!

I asked the nurse what kind of hernia Cole's is, and she said it's an Inguinal hernia. Apparently it's very common and very easily remedied, so that's fortunate. Still, it's unnerving. Also, he might have two.

I'd just like to reiterate something that I alluded to in my last post. His brain! They scanned it and found no bleeding. I know I already said that, but I'm happy to be writing it despite my fear of repeating myself. This is so significant. I think they only do three brain scans; one a couple days after he's born, one ten days or so after he's born, and then one a month or two later. The fact that he's showing no signs of trouble after the first two stages is huge.

Now, if you're curious about the room that we're spending so much time in, here's some pics of what it looks like.




To Kate's right is Cole's roomate, Cali. Her mom is rad, and when Cole and Cali grow up we want them to date. Don't they make a great couple?


Kate is cute.

The good news is...

He had another brain scan that showed no bleeding. Yay!

The bad news is ... he has a hernia. What?! I didn't even know that was an option! Was he lugging the washing machine around when nobody was looking? I don't really know what to say about this because I don't really know what it means. I'll have more information on it later.

It's strange how this works. I get the news that his brain is okay, and I'm elated. I get the news that he has a hernia, and I'm scared and concerned and confused. Cumulatively these two pieces of information should add up to a generally positive thing, because his brain is so important, and the threat of hemorrhage is very real and severe. A hernia is relatively not a big deal. But since I'm human I'm more concerned than anything else.

Weird, right?

It's Wednesday

Today is the day that Kate was finally able to hold Cole in her arms. I think that's one of the most amazing things I've ever heard. Unfortunately I was at work so I was unable to witness it, but Kate somehow managed to use magic to take pictures of herself with Cole snurgled up against her.



Kate took that HERSELF! I have seen a lot of silly and / or crappy photos taken that way. Neither the previous nor the next photo is silly or crappy and I don't know how Kate did it. Awesome.



How cool is that? Kate will have to tell you what it was like. I wasn't allowed to hold him yet -- so far it's a mothers only thing. Booooooo.

Today I was talking to my uncle Clive and he mentioned that after the first post I haven't really been talking a lot about how Kate and I are feeling about all of this stuff. I'll tell you what I told him: we're feeling everything. I can't speak for Kate, but I can say that we seem to be tied emotionally to Cole's well being. When he's feeling good, we feel good. We feel hopeful and positive and inspired and joyous. Every little bit of good news is like surfacing from underwater and taking that big, needed breath. When we get updates that are bad, or when we're there and we see him struggling, it just feels like time stands still and nothing else matters. And that feels heavy. I'll definitely try to be more multidimensional in these posts though. Not because Clive asked me to (because he didn't) but because I think it'd help me. Sharing is important. Honestly, I have felt a difference between the first post and the subsequent posts and I think that's it.

Anyway, I went to Cole's care tonight and they had nothing but good things to say about him. They have started to boost his oxygen a little bit before care time because he appears to be sensitive to all the fiddling. He would have a couple spells while we were moving him around and cleaning him up and invading his personal space in less than comforting ways. Fair enough. The extra oxygen seems to calm him down a bit so he responds better to being disturbed.

Before I went to the hospital I accidentally bought myself my very first entry-level DSLR camera; a Nikon D40. I wanted to take nicer pictures of the noodlehead. He deserves that much. So please bear with me while I figure out how this way-more-complex-than-point-and-shoot-thingamabob works.

My first images:

You can PICC your friends...

Yay! He got his PICC in today, early in the AM. We are thrilled, and now we should be able to hold him close to us and whisper bits of wisdom into his little squooshie ears.

Also they have increased his feeding again from 3ml to 5ml. Very exciting! He is continuing to process actual food using his on-board digestive system, and has actually gained a little weight! He is officially back up to his original 1lb 15oz.

I can't wait to see him this evening.

Oh, and no spells thanks to Mr. Ventilator.

Stable boy

We called at 4am and we called at 8am and each conversation yielded the same response: Cole is doing well. No spells, lots of relaxation and general good demeanor. Kick ass.

They did a blood culture on him 44 hours ago which takes 48 hours to evaluate. So far it looks good so they're taking him off the antibiotics that they had him on "just in case."

Today, Kate called from the hospital and told me that a physical therapist came in to evaluate his squirms and stretches while sleeping and during his care time. She deduced that Cole gets the hiccups when he's upset, and is otherwise generally normal and mellow. I'm glad his physicality is evolving well so far.

Also, Kate reported that they've doubled the amount of milk they're giving him to 3 milliliters. That's like a monopoly piece top hat full of milk! Yum. I am encouraged by this progress because his digestive system is super delicate at this age, and the fact that it's responding well to feeding is huge.

And now, some pictures of the little doodlehead. This is my wedding ring:







We think he might have my head:

Hangin in there

Today was a good day. For me, there was strangeness in that I returned to work and had to try to stay focused. For Kate, there was spending time at home alone, and at the hospital with our little man. For Cole, there was finally a good amount of rest and conservation of energy.

After some fiddling this morning, they totally found the settings on the vent which allowed Cole to snooze uninterrupted for hours. We are elated about this. It makes us feel calm, it allows him to conserve energy and get fatter, and though yesterday the decision to go back to the ventilator seemed like 50 pounds of doom in a 2 pound boy, today it feels like the right choice. He just feels happier and more relaxed. And since our state is tied directly to his (I think that's natural, right?) we also feel happier and more relaxed. He had zero spells this afternoon.

Breathe.

That feels good.

We thought he'd have his PICC line in today. Turns out they had some technical difficulties of some sort and weren't able to get it put in. I don't know what that means, but nobody on the staff seems too alarmed about it. So they said that the PICC line was going to go in tonight. BUT, it turns out that they can't put it in until 48 hours after they do a blood culture to make sure he doesn't have any infections. We have to wait until tomorrow at 3pm for that 48 hours to be up. I'm really looking forward to that, because currently he's on a temporary IV line which is huge and in order to secure it to his arm they have to tape a giant soft splint to his arm. He looks like he's got a permanent giant foam #1 hand that he waves around and bonks himself in the face with repeatedly. Cute and funny the first couple times, but then we remember that it's probably uncomfortable and heavy and we like seeing his little hands anyway.

The final bit of news is that they're feeding him food again. They stopped for a little while; I don't remember why. Something unrelated to the health of his digestive system; I think it was because of the initial attempt at PICC line installation, or switching to the ventilator. Either way, it's good to see him learning to use his belly for something other than to look like a little gourd.

Keep on truckin' little guy.

What a day

It's late and I'm sleepy! And I feel like I'm getting a little sick. Annoying not only because being sick sucks, but because when I go to visit Cole I have to wear a face mask. Preemies are super susceptible to infection and because their teeny immune systems don't really exist yet, every measure that can possibly be taken to ensure their safety is taken. Obviously. I actually feel guilty going into the NICU feeling sick, but the doctors assure me that the mask cuts the protective mustard. It's still annoying and uncomfortable to wear though.

This morning we were told that Cole was having too many spells, and we found him on the ventilator again. They say that this is typical and is not a step back in his development. I believe them, but it's impossible not to feel like he's struggling, and that makes us sad. What's strange is that different nurses and doctors use different language to describe the cause. Some say it's because he gets tired, and some say his brain just hasn't developed enough to support his lungs properly, and some just say it's like tuning in a radio and they have to find where the station comes in clearest. I don't know which of those responses is more assuring, but it doesn't feel like either of them truly does the trick. So he's back on the ventilator; think of that what you will.

We also visited him this evening and were told that his spelling had totally dropped off now that he was on the ventilator. Hooray! We were feeling all congratulatory until he started spelling like crazy while we were there. Like constantly, his heart rate just dropped and came back up and dropped and came back up and dropped and the nurses came in and fiddled with him and the respiratory specialist came in and fiddled with the ventilator and with his tubing and it was fucking gut wrenching. Wasn't this ventilator thing supposed to stabilize him? Didn't they just say he was stable? We were scared and confused. Eventually it leveled out and we left because it was dinner time, and because we were both a little exhausted and nerve-fried from watching Cole slip into and out of his spells. When we got home we called up the NICU and asked them for an update. They said he was doing just great and that they had pulled a giant booger out of his throat. Jesus christ, as if we didn't have enough to worry about, now he's got mutant killer snots? That's not cool. But at least it explained the episode we witnessed while we were there, and they said they'd monitor him much more closely for blockage from now on. Thanks!

That's about it.

Kate and I are a little excited and scared about a procedure he shall be enduring tonight while we are snug in our bed. They have been feeding him his IV and transfusions through his belly button. That's just plain cool. Unfortunately, belly buttons don't last forever as a perfect painless method of delivery; they only last about a week. Seeing as tomorrow is Cole's 1 week birthday (hoorays!), they have to install a peripherally inserted central catheter. The doctors' hip name for that is a PICC line. Way cooler right? The PICC is like an IV for you and me, but since their veins are super teeny, they have to feed the line all the way up the arm and into the chest, right near the heart. I don't know how the hell they do that.

Belly button IVs are awesome, but the drawback is that they are fragile. They are held on by tape. Literally. The PICC line is hugely superior in this regard; it is very sturdy, and the baby doesn't really know it's there. What that means is that we can now pick him up and hold him close and snurgle with him. We are SUPER pumped!

Work tomorrow? Eeek.
Good night!

Our first Saturday

This post begins with toes.



Cole's care was this morning at 9, so we got up early and scurried over to get there in time. As fate would have it, we were hindered by everything the traffic gods could throw at us, from a garbage truck on a tight one way street to inconceivable traffic from the Head of the Charles squeezing over the B.U. Bridge. We made it in time though, and it was good to see his snoozy little face.



When we got there, he was lookin' good. He had had a number of spells over the night though, and they said that the different CPAP didn't really help, because they had learned that lung pressure wasn't the issue. Therefore, they decided to put him back on the giant robot hat CPAP because it is less traumatic to his little systems. We think that's a good idea. But we miss his little face. The issue of his spells remains, however. They are going to give him a little caffeine boost (that's not a metaphor or a joke) and see if that helps him keep his heart rate up. Hooked at such a young age! He seems pretty excited about the new, more comfortable CPAP:



He's so relaxed and cool:



Speaking of age; I still don't feel like he's 5 days old. I feel like his age should be measured in negative numbers which get closer to zero as he approaches his due date, and then start counting up. I know that's a little nuts, but so is this whole situation!

I forgot to mention yesterday that they have been feeding Cole actual food since yesterday! Quite a big step! They have been feeding him milk which Kate supplies in little bottles which they store and put in little syringes and inject into a little tube which goes down through his mouth into his belly. Not the most comfortable way to eat, but it's the best we can do. So far, he's been doing a great job of digesting the food he's been getting. This is a pretty big deal, because it's hard for their little immature digestive systems to deal with snacks. We're crossing our fingers that he continues to do be able to accept food properly, and if he does, they'll slowly up the doses and eventually (weeks from now) feed him exclusively via his belly, rather than through his IV.

This post ends with a sizemodo of his diaper next to a genuine 20 dollar bill.

Home again

We were discharged today, but couldn't bring ourselves to leave until around six this evening. Leaving the hospital is really tough for a number of reasons. The people are so sweet and amazing. The care is extraordinary. There is so little fear because you know that if anything goes wrong you'll be okay -- everyone there is concentrating on making sure you're okay. Cole is right upstairs and you can see him any time!

It's tough to be home. Of course, there are lots of great things about being home. There's the comfort of our bed, and our couch. There are TV channels that we can control. There is better food (although we can't just ring up room service and have them deliver). I have to say though; we came home to a nice clean house because Bunny is the most amazing woman on earth, and this morning she came over and cleaned the place up. Frankly, I don't think it's ever been as nice and tidy as it is now. Thank you Bunny, you are a superstar! Seriously.

We went back to the NICU tonight at like 10:00 to say good night to Cole and see how he's doing. Interestingly, they switched him to a different kind of CPAP (the crazy nostril hat machine) that goes right up his nose and down his throat a little. I'll give you a poorly paraphrased explanation: Cole is still having more spells than they're comfortable with. The good thing though, is that he regulates them himself; he no longer needs a Neonatal CPR ninja (like myself) to come to his rescue. Cool right? But not cool enough, I guess. Now, Cole likes to sleep with his mouth open. WIDE open. They're thinking that this was decreasing the pressure the CPAP was pressing into his lungs, so if they bypass that portion of his breathing system, the CPAP will be more effective, therefore reducing his spells. I guess tomorrow we'll see if their genius paid off.

One of the good things about this new CPAP, though I imagine it is quite uncomfortable for our little guy here, is that it is much more flattering. It is so great to see Cole's little head.



In other news, Cole received his first blood transfusion this afternoon. Don't worry, this is no big deal. All preemies require blood transfusions because they don't have enough bone marrow to produce more red blood cells. With all the testing the doctors do, the preemies lose enough blood which they can't replace themselves that they require transfusions. Relax, it's not like the doctors are pulling pints of blood from our man here, it's just that even if they take just 5 drops, his circulatory system is so teeny that those 5 drops are like 30% of his entire supply. Make sense? So yeah, I think the consent form to allow blood transfusions was one of the first I signed where I had to put "father" in the relationship box. Pretty intense! At multiple levels!

Oh hi!

Usually he's snoozing. This morning after his care though, he woke up and engaged with us while we nurked him around, sharing with us the gift of his cute little eyes! Hey sparkles!



Head still mooshed. Giggles!

He totally IS like a peach!

We went up tonight to help participate in his care, which usually consists of taking his temperature and changing his diaper and maybe changing around the little electronic wires which monitor all his systems. You know, the usual. But tonight we were rewarded with a super special treat. We got to hold him in our little hands! We got to see his smooshed little face with no breathing apparatus on it! Holy bazangas!



Now don't get too excited; this doesn't mean he's all free and clear of assisted breathing -- this was just a temporary thing that they do when they weigh him. Which they did; and he's lost a whole bunch of weight. This also is normal; babies have a ton of water weight in them when they're born, and he's no exception. Now we just have to start putting that weight back on with burgers and milkshakes.



Do you see how his head is all oblong from the head gear? That's because baby's heads are made of silly putty. They said that as he grows older, and when he no longer requires any devices on his head, his head should become less like a pine cone, and more like a bowling ball. Or in his case, more like a tennis ball. Fuzzy.

This was a really amazing evening. Holding him in my bare hands and feeling his weight and seeing him just CHILL there and look up at me with the one eye he can open (the other one is smurshed closed cause he likes sleeping on that side) made me feel connected like I hadn't before. It was such a crazy thing to be right there when he was born, and feel like a parent for a couple minutes, and then lose him to a plastic box and a special floor so far away. Am I a parent yet? There are moments when I definitely feel like a parent -- like when signing consent forms for him and writing "Father" in the relationship field. But this was a whole new level. It blew my mind. I am really looking forward to this parenting thing.



Also we got another spot of good news. It looks like the medication that he took for the heart problem he had, PDA (Patent Ductus Arteriosus) did it's job. They did an ultrasound on his heart and the flap is closed. Hoorays! Again, we are not free and clear here -- this is something that can present itself again later on down the road. No celebrations yet. But we are definitely thrilled with his progress and with the fight he is putting up. Go Cole!

Generations

Kate's dad Rick stopped by to visit the wee one this afternoon. That's a picture of Rick's hand and my hand on little Cole. So great to see 3 generations in one incubator.

Hello, grandson!



When Jane was visiting, she got Cole his first stuffed animal -- a Super Grover. A simultaneously appropriate, poetic and hilarious gift. There he is down in the bottom right corner, keeping Cole company and being a good super role model.

No news is good news

We went upstairs to say goodnight and Cole was snoozing away soundly, still using his very own lungs. And looking cute and kinda silly.



Also, I wanted to show you Kate's staples. Cause damn.

Like my hat?

They took him off the ventilator this afternoon at about 2:00pm. We went up to say hello at about 7:00pm, and he was still off the ventilator. Holy crap! Look at him go! Look at him breathe using his very own lungs!

I'd like to temper this with the possibility that they'll put him back on the ventilator at some point - they often go back and forth experimenting with what the baby is capable of. At the moment though, he's totally kicking ass.

The big hat that you're looking at is a different kind of breathing device; it just has two little prongs going into his nostrils which help keep his lungs inflated a bit. I think it's also quite stylish. Another of the benefits of Cole being off the ventilator is that now we can hear his voice. He makes the sweetest little squeaky cries! Meow!

The scary thing about being off the ventilator is that he will have more frequent Spells. A Spell is when he forgets to breathe. One of the nurses explained to us that because the baby is so young, the part of his brain that controls his breathing hasn't fully developed yet; so it's normal that he just stops breathing sometimes. Seeing this happen is scary as hell, but the nurses are super calm about it. They give him a little jiggle and he wakes up and his heart rate goes back up. Phew!

At one point he was crying, and I was comforting him and he stopped crying, and I was feeling all fatherly and like an effective soothing force, and then I took my hand away, and he was still like a statue. BREATHE!! I tickled his arm. And he started breathing. I am totally an infant CPR ninja.

Nice brain!

They did the first noggin ultrasound and so far so good. This brings a huge sigh of relief, as this was what we were worried about most. Still not out of the woods, but we're thrilled with his initial progress.

Additionally, after his first 2 doses of heart medication, they can't hear the murmur. So hopefully that means it closed up his little valve thingie.

Also; he was sleeping on his stomach (they're allowed to do this because of the level of monitoring they do, plus it's important for him to have exposure to his skin on all sides so his skin can develop okay) and he flipped himself over onto his back. Way to go, little guy!

I realized that I never posted his original numbers.

He was born on Monday, Oct 13th, 2008 at 2:50pm. He was 1 pound, 15 ounces. They like to round up, so we like to say he was 2 pounds. A real monster! They took his footprints for birth certificates and stuff. Here they are next to Kate's wedding ring for sizemodo! His feet and hands actually seem really big!

Mur Mur

So there’s a very common problem that these little guys have called Patent Ductus Arteriosus. It can be detected by a heart murmur. They think he’s got it. It is treatable with medicine, and if the medicine fails, it is treatable with a procedure involving ... probably some very tiny instruments. We’re not worried though because they see this all the time. And they fix it.

Adam's perspective:

I’m not joking around when I say that this past week and a half has been some of the craziest times in my life. I don’t really know where to begin. I was thinking about writing things down as the days went by, but there just wasn’t time.

I guess I’ll try to start with last Thursday night. Kate had a trio of symptoms which, on their own, weren’t a big deal. Since she had them all at the same time though, she was a little unsettled and she called the Midwife on call at the Women’s Center. She said it sounded like nothing, but told her to come in and get checked out just to be sure. In we went and sure enough; everything was fine. That was our first exposure to the Labor and Delivery section of Mt. Auburn. It was pleasant. The Midwife described a couple warning signs that we should be aware of which, should they occur, would necessitate contacting the hospital to get checked out again. We went home and got some sleep, reassured.

The next day (Friday), sure enough, Kate experienced one of the warning signs and she and I headed off to the Women’s Center in the middle of the day. Stressed. They checked her out upon arrival, and we hoped they would say it was nothing. That’s what you say to yourself when there’s a lot at stake. However, we were unpleasantly surprised when they sent us through the admission process, wrapped Kate’s wrist with an ID tag, and sent her up to Labor and Delivery. Say what?

They wanted to put Kate on monitors and observe her for a couple days to be sure everything was okay. A couple days? Remember when this was just a doctor’s appointment? Holy shit, what is going on here? So we spent a couple nights at Mount Auburn in Labor and Delivery listening to the baby’s heartbeat and watching the graph of Kate’s contractions. It was bad, then it was good, then it was bad, then it was fine, then it was good again after they put her on some pills. Good enough that they sent us home Sunday morning.

Back to relatively normal, except at this point life was to change quite a bit. Kate was to be on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy, not allowed to go to work, only able to get up to get some snacks or use the bathroom. This was a pretty big deal and we were doing our best to acclimate to it. I went and did a bunch of shopping for foods Kate would like and that would be easy to prepare. We didn’t want her up on her feet longer than to just grab something from out of the fridge and go. I was starting to warm up to my new position as caretaker and preparation chef and whatever else I needed to be to keep Kate comfortable and nourished and not too stir crazy. And off her feet.

The rest of Sunday sucked. Kate was in a lot of pain, and having a lot of contractions, and we were like ... this is the way it’s supposed to be? They just let us out of the hospital like this, so it must be fine. Fine equates to frequent excruciating, writhing pain on the couch. Great.

Monday morning we had an appointment at the Women’s Center to get checked up on after our weekend hospital visit. Kate had gotten much better over the night, and we were feeling so good that she even considered blowing off the appointment so as to not upset things. We went in because we follow the rules. Again, we were expecting a routine exam, and to be patted on the heads and sent on our way. Quickly this spiraled from routine exam to being wheeled up to Labor and Delivery again, prepped for labor, then taking a crazy ambulance ride to Beth Israel Hospital, home of the best Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit in Boston. Let me explain a couple things. When I say “prepped for labor” I don’t mean that they wrapped her head with a warm towel and soothed her spirit with quiet music and a comfortable environment. Nay, a dozen blue-paper dressed people with masks on their faces descended upon her yelling things like “stat!” and “20 milliliters!” and “geocortizone glycol!” and “scythe!” while jabbing needles in her arm and her butt. This was the most stressful, terrifying part of the pregnancy so far for me. Little did I know that would change in a week. There were other disturbing parts of the exam that took place downstairs which resulted in our speedy ascension to Labor and Delivery, but I’m neglecting to mention them on purpose for the sake of Kate’s personal space. Those were the previous most terrifying parts of the pregnancy for me. Fleetingly. The view from that room was fantastic. The winding Charles was below, green fluffy treetops bordered everything, and the skyline of Boston bloomed in the distance. There was a nice flatscreen on the wall, and the panelling looked like it was cherry wood or something. Kate and I looked at eachother at one moment and said that we would have loved to be delivering in that room. 4 months later.

The ambulance ride to Beth Israel was strange. We had a weird sense of calm after leaving the insanity of that delivery room. Kate had an electronically delivered, measured dose of Magnesium Sulfate coursing through her veins, which had calmed her, and stopped the contractions. The EMT guys operating the ambulance seemed like they were 16, and they were so sweet and calm and funny. We blew through red lights and crossed double yellow lines, passing stacked volumes of traffic. The sirens didn’t sound very loud from inside.

We arrived at Beth Israel and took the elevator to the 10th floor; the Labor and Delivery floor. A floor we would become more comfortable with than we’d like, although truthfully, we were never really comfortable when we were up there because it meant bad things. We got situated in room 1, and met nurses and high risk pre term labor doctors, and frankly, I don’t remember much of Monday night. I do remember sleeping in a cot narrower than my body, and waking up and going to work the next day in the same clothes. Work was hazy. It was really difficult to concentrate on work, or on anything at all really. My head was muddy and my heart was elsewhere. She was in a hospital bed on the 10th floor.

I went home after work and brought clean clothes back to Beth Israel for myself and for Kate. It had become clear to us that Kate would be hospitalized for the remainder of the pregnancy. But was that really worse than being on bed rest at home? At the hospital she had teams of people to care for her, and technology to monitor her progress, and limitless resources to fall back on should the worst present itself. She was safe. We were in a good place. It sucked, but we were in a good place considering our situation. The food at Mount Auburn was way better though.

Tuesday, they brought Kate down to the 6th floor while I was at work. There are two halves to the 6th floor: Post Partem and Anti Labor. Guess which one we were in. Doesn’t Anti Labor sound like some sort of social movement? The cool thing about Anti Labor is that the rooms are relatively cozy. They are set up like hotel rooms, because people often stay in them for months. And that was our aim -- we were going to do everything we could to hang out on the 6th floor for as long as we possibly could. Every week, every day, every hour that we could buy the little guy inside Kate the better. We were ready to endure the long haul in room 648.

Let me back up a little bit. Remember all the yelling and stabbing in the delivery room at Mount Auburn? One of the things they injected into Kate’s rump was a shot of some form of Steroids. The Steroids’ purpose is to go into the baby’s lungs and get them to develop a little early. It takes about 48 hours to take effect. Remember the Magnesium Sulfate I mentioned earlier? Not the greatest stuff, but it does a fantastic job of arresting contractions. The reason I mention both of these things in one paragraph is that they have a relationship in this context. They don’t want you on Magnesium Sulfate (Mag from now on, because that’s the hip way doctors and nurses refer to it, and it sounds bad ass) for too long -- so they default to 48 hours: just enough time for the Steroids to do their thing. That being said, you can understand that Tuesday night went well. Kate was still on the Mag, and was relaxed and not in pain. A promising start to our potential 4 month stint in room 648. This was 24 hours after the Steroid injection.

Wednesday morning, I kissed Kate sweetly on the forehead and went to work. Again, I had difficulty concentrating, but was feeling a little positive about the situation; Kate was responding well to the medication. I was nervous though, because I knew that after they took her off the Mag, they’d be putting her on Nifedipine which is what she was taking the previous Sunday when she was in so much pain. It didn’t seem to work so well.

Wednesday night was 48 hours after her Steroid injection. They took her off the Mag and gave her a low dose of Nifedipine to see how she’d respond. It takes about a day for the Mag to work its way out of the system, so naturally, Kate felt pretty good. We were reading trashy magazines and surfing the internet. We watched TV and ate terrible cafeteria food. I’m not going to trash-talk their chicken fingers though; they totally kick ass.

Thursday morning was okay. Kate was starting to feel little contractions again, but they were little and infrequent. No biggie according to the medical staff. Cool. We remained in our groove.

Thursday night I got back from work and during the day they had doubled Kate’s dosage of Nifedipine because it seemed like she wasn’t responding that well to it. She seemed okay though, so maybe we’d found the magic number. Again, our definition of “okay” is a bit skewed: she was having occasional very painful contractions, but they weren’t frequent or intense enough that the medical team was worried about them. We were worried about them. We worried about everything. Kate didn’t want to sneeze. But what do we know, right? We’re not doctors. I’m totally not being “ironic”; the doctors here at Beth Israel are amazing and brilliant and we love them. They just didn’t know that little Cole had plans of his own.

We tried to sleep thursday night, but there was a good amount of pain and discomfort, so mostly it was tossing and turning. This was manageable pain though -- if this was what Kate needed to put up with to give Cole the best possible chance at life, she would endure. Kate is a trooper and has a heart of gold to go along with her body of steel. She can do anything. Also, the doctors had assured us repeatedly that these contractions were not worrying them.

Until Friday afternoon when they did start to worry about them and they sent Kate back up to the 10th floor (remember them? Yeah -- Labor and Delivery. The one place we didn’t want to go back to for 4 months.) for more closely monitored observation. I was at work when they transitioned her so I left. I think it was one or two in the afternoon or something. Sorry work! I had to go.

When I got up there, we were back in room 1. It was strangely familiar. Kate was hooked up to the same machines, and Cole’s little heartbeat was echoing off the shiny surfaces in the room. It was always comforting to hear that 150bpm. Also strangely comforting was the barely audible rhythmic sklurking of the IV pump through which they had again started feeding Kate the Mag. Here’s the weird part: Kate looked great. She was calm, and snoozie. It was at this moment that I realized how much pain she had been enduring when she was off the Mag.

Bunny showed up that night and generously gave her evening to give me a break and spend time with Kate so I could go and meet my friend Jon who was staying at our house that weekend. Jon and I walked to Kenmore Square and got UBurger. Not bad.

Over the next 2 days we spent a lot of time talking about some seriously dire possibilities with the NICU staff (NICU is the acronym for Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) and the drawbacks of long term use of Magnesium Sulfate, and other things that made our little heads explode. It was a tough couple of days. Kate was totally stable when on the Mag though, so even while she was up in Labor and Delivery, she was relatively comfortable. Not comfortable were the conversations we had about how we would handle any one of the seven hundred thousand terrible things that could happen to Cole were he to be delivered that weekend.

Kate’s mom Jane arrived on Saturday to keep us company and check in on her daughter. She was great to have around, and her presence allowed me to go out on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon to breathe some fresh air and enjoy the weather. And damn, what beautiful weather. Thank you Jane. It’s funny how when you’re inside for so long you don’t even remember what fresh air is like. Poor Kate must be going absolutely crazy. As of this writing she hasn’t been outside in a week and a half. Damn.

On Sunday morning came the good news: they felt that Kate was stable enough to return to her cozy 6th floor room. This was such great news! She was stabilizing on the Mag, and not responding negatively to it. They said they could safely keep her on it at a low dosage indefinitely due to the way her body was handling it. Kick ass! The psychological effect of moving back to room 648 was enormous and we were soothed upon arrival. Again, we settled in, ready to take on weeks and weeks of monotony in our little room. We were feeling hopeful.

Monday morning came, and everything was great. We had slept decently for the first time in many days, and were expecting a leisurely lunch with Jon before he headed back to New York. Jane was driving home because she was comfortable enough with how we were doing. We had ordered burgers from a nearby restaurant, and Jon was going to be a gentleman and go get them for us. When he arrived to snag the 15% off coupon Jane had left for us, no sooner had he sat down, then the nurse came in and said that they wanted to bring Kate back up to the Labor and Delivery floor for closer scrutiny. Cole’s heart pattern had been doing concerning things, and they had noticed from their remote magic heart monitoring station. These people were doing their job, and doing it well, but WHAT THE FUCK!? We just got here, we wanted to relax, we were happy, and now you’re ruining everything!? What about the burgers?! Just when we thought we’d figured everything out, something we had never even imagined reared up and spun us out of orbit. His heart?!

Jon went to get the burgers. Kate was taken upstairs with me in tow. We were sort of numb at this point. Numb yet confused and scared. This time they took us into room 6 and we knew things were different. Nothing was familiar -- not the room, or the expectations of the conversation, or the source of the fear, or anything. We were totally out of our element. The nurses hooked Kate up to the monitors again, and we were just sort of starting to process what was going on, when Jon buzzed in that he had arrived with the burgers. Kate was no longer allowed to eat (sad face) so I went out to the lobby where Jon and I ate the burgers while watching some sport on TV. I think it was baseball. My brain was a mess. After eating, I suggested that Jon just go home -- visitors weren’t allowed on the 10th floor anyway. He took off and I headed back to room 6 where I was expecting to find the same old thing. I was expecting to lie around some more listening to monitors go “beep” for another stretch of hours. When I sat down next to Kate, she gave me the news that she had just learned that her labor had progressed.

The Doctor, who had given me his seat, was a nice guy. He was funny, but also very honest and clear. He wanted to get the baby out right away by C section.

Wait.

What?

Weren’t we doing everything we possibly could to stop the baby from coming out? Wasn’t every hour that we could keep him inside important? Essentially, he felt, as did Kate, that the labor was progressing and there was nothing they could really do to stop it. The mighty Mag wasn’t even enough, so they should take control of the safest way for the baby to be delivered. Did I mention that the baby was breach?

With barely enough time to nod our heads in agreement, things started springing into action. We were trying to process the magnitude of what was happening when the anesthesiologist came in and asked a hundred questions and prepared Kate for her spinal. We were trying to process some more while Kate was wheeled away and I was ordered into the recovery room to put on the blue-paper outfit. They said I’d only miss her being anesthetized. 5 minutes ago I was eating burgers with Jon, not expecting much. We’d been through this before. Now I was staring out the window waiting for the nurse to come and get me so I could help Kate handle them pulling the baby out of her. She was giving BIRTH. We were going to be a family. I was going to be a father. Kate was going to be a mother. Kate was going through some serious surgery, and I was staring out the window wearing a blue paper outfit. Holy crap was this not how I had expected the day to go.

Remember when I said something about the most stressful, terrifying part of the pregnancy so far? This was it.

After a wait of what seemed like 16 hours, a nurse came and brought me into the OR. There was Kate, on her back on the table with people hovering around her. There was a screen up on her chest so she couldn’t look down and see them opening her up. I went behind the screen to join her and sat and held her hand and stroked her hair and probably said ridiculously unhelpful things. My brain was moving in slow motion. I was still in the other room, still having the conversation with the doctor who was at that moment performing the operation on the other side of the screen. I was still staring out the window thinking about what this all meant. I was still having a burger with Jon in the lobby. I was downstairs hunkering down for a 4 month stay in room 648. Kate was right in front of me giving birth. All of a sudden, I was ready. I was there. I wasn’t scared anymore, I wasn’t processing any more, I was there and finally comfortable and breathing and calm. Kate was uncomfortable and scared and had no idea what the fuck they were doing to her. We asked the anesthesiologist to take advantage of his height to look over the screen and tell Kate what was happening when she felt these crazy sensations. His descriptions comforted her. I hoped that I was comforting too.

There was another person in the room. He was very tiny. We were aware of his presence, but couldn’t see him. He was on a very small table surrounded by an army of women with tools and probes and tubes. They were wearing a different light orange paper outfit than the people in blue working on Kate. They moved in fast-forward. They were very well organized. I didn’t know if I should concentrate on Kate, or on the new little person. I concentrated on Kate; Cole seemed to have plenty of attention. Kate was trying to see Cole and was telling me that though she was still being operated on, I should go see what was going on with the little guy. Semi-reluctantly, I stood up and went over to see what was going on.

Hello there.

He was tiny and pink. He was like a toy. His head was like a little peach -- fuzzy and red and probably sweet. He was squirming all over the place, trying to find boundaries that were not there. He peed all over the place. Nice work, kiddo. He had made the craziest little noise earlier. Like a confused kitten. One of the doctors asked if I’d like to cut the umbilical cord. Hells yeah I would. She handed me some scissors and held up the rubbery snake attached to his belly. It was thicker than his arms and his legs. I cut through it where she showed me - it took a couple snips. It felt like an asian food that I wouldn’t eat; something amphibian or aquatic. Except it wasn’t -- it was his lifeline. Time to fend for yourself little man. Good luck! Except he wasn’t by himself. He had this entire team of amazing people who knew exactly what was going on caring for him. He had the latest technology and the deepest wells of knowledge behind those amazing people. He had me and Kate. And for a few moments, he breathed on his own.

I couldn’t stop looking at him. I touched him, put my finger in the dimple of his palm. His tiny hand gripped the tip of my finger. He was strong. Mesmerized, I stepped back as the doctors continued to work on him. They wrapped him up in a little blanket with his hands sticking out by his face; a warm little burrito.

Hey! Remember Kate? I turned around and saw her straining in my direction. Vainly, I thought she wanted to see me. I returned to her side and comforted her. “Here I am”, I said. “Where is he? Can I see him? I want to see him!” She was saying. Of course! God, I’m an idiot. I turned just as they brought him over for Kate to see. He was the sweetest little thing. Then they whisked him away to the NICU. Come back!

Kate was still in surgery. Putting her back together seemed to take longer than taking her apart, and appeared to be more uncomfortable. I did the best I could to ease the situation, but because she is incredible, she got through it with composure and grace.

We had a baby.

The people in the OR, as they wheeled Kate out, were saying “Congratulations!” It didn’t feel like the right thing to say. At that moment, my heart was so conflicted. We had just spent weeks in Anti Labor, doing everything we could to keep the baby inside. We were doing our best to give him as much time as possible to develop! But now he was on the outside, out in the cold! Had we failed? Was he going to be okay? We couldn’t know. At that moment, I just didn’t know how to feel. But I was definitely thrilled with and in awe of our little son.

After a couple hours of contemplation, and just a little time to recover from the overwhelming everything, I have decided that Congratulations is a good thing to hear. We are full of hope for Cole. He is doing well, and was born with more weight and better lung capacity than we could have hoped for. And just because he’s outside in the world doesn’t mean he won’t grow and flourish.

We love him.