Baby, you can drive my...

Finn was born when most people are making decisions about pediatricians, day cares, vaccinations, circumcisions, and other life transforming issues. Once he was here, all those decisions were pushed away as we waited, worrying that he might die. Then, we were told that we could expect him to be in the hospital for 100 days or his due date, and that seemed like a long way off. We developed a routine based on what we had available to us, and though things were hectic in their own way, it was pretty smooth sailing with an even rhythm to the waves. There were occasional times when the stress would foam over the decks, especially for me, and then I would freak out, let it go, and start all over again. But we knew what to expect at the NICU; we liked the people, and we felt secure.

On Monday the 28th of July, he was transferred to Special Care, and we went from sailing to speedboat. To flagrantly mix my transportation metaphors, it's been a high speed train to Babyville from day one, and not a nice, nonpolluting, highly efficient train, rather a smoke belching, clunking wreck, trundling along rusty tracks through an uncertain and indifferent landscape.

It's rush rush, push, shove, what do you want to do about this, and what do you want to do about that, and do this, do that, blah blah and blah. When we were admitted, the nurse told us that we would be learning, which would make you assume that they would be teaching.

Now, my dad is a professor, and my mother is a nurse. I have worked with some excellent educators who really care about students. What I experienced at SCN was not teaching unless teaching is someone ticking through a checklist and talking to you about bulb syringes while you are changing your baby's diaper or going over a discharge form while you are breastfeeding your baby after being up all night for the first time with him. Oh, and while that baby chokes on a big gulp, stops breathing, and turns blue. Teaching is awesome. No wonder kids love school so much.

The last week of our stay at SCN was terrible. Pete took it better probably because he had to, being that I was so miserable and tense. Someone had to hold it together.

I can't understand why it had to suck so much, and I am guessing that many parents feel the same way. They must assume that everyone will be overjoyed to be told on Tuesday that they should expect to take their baby home on Saturday, but the nurse in the apnea program said that 90% of the familes she sees are just like us: rushed, angry, shell-shocked, and filled with stress.

I felt like I was in the checkout counter at a busy grocery store, and I was fumbling with my purse while a line of mad customers built up behind me. We were shuttled around, rescheduled, scheduled, stood up, bombarded with information, and pushed to make snap decisions about important things.

I did not want to give him bottles, but I was made to feel as if I was being cruel because the longer I held out on bottles, the longer they would have to leave the feeding tube in, and "that's cruel, don't you think that's cruel?" "You want him to go home, don't you?" the lactation consultant said.

No. I want him to stay here, consuming resources in this disposable, cold environment, out of my control. Of course I wanted him home; that was never the issue. I was just trying to have some say in the things that I thought I could control. In the end, I was just so ready to get him out of there and away from them that I just wilted and nodded or made Pete handle it. Once we got him home, it would be up to us.