Time In The ICN

Time moves differently in the ICN.
On the top floor of the big hospital, 15 flights up, we are nestled in the sky, sometimes even above the fog that floats by.
On a clear day - and we've been blessed with some gorgeous sunny ones lately - Tikva has a view of much of the city, the San Francisco Bay, the Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, parts of Marin, Dahlia's preschool at Temple Emanu-El, Golden Gate Park, the Presidio, the white sails of sailboats on the bay.
It's really beautiful, a blessing that when we need to get away from all the machines and medical conversations, we can just look out the window.

Tonight at 2:22am will be two weeks since Tikva's amazing arrival.
Babies have come into the ICN, babies have moved to the less critical care unit, babies have gone home with their parents, and I assume a few babies haven't made it.
I've watched a lot of parents interact with their small children, watched their faces as they take it all in, felt the love oozing out of them, sometimes the fear and sadness, the hope and faith, deep connections with their partners.
I've listened to doctors explaining different anomalies and challenges, procedures and surgeries, with parents.
Watched the babies closely, seen their vivid souls, each doing their important work, each on their own journey.
Reflections and sometimes contrasts of our own journeys.

There is a rhythm to the flow in the ICN, and I've gotten used to it in this short time.
Nurses are on from 7am until 8pm, or 7pm to 8am; changing shifts between 7 and 8, the day nurse exchanging info with the night nurse, the night nurse letting the day nurse know how things are going.
Throughout the day Tikva's nurse makes adjustments, gives her her medication, turns her machines up or down as the numbers on the monitors indicate her needs, changes her diapers, gives her feedings of my milk, draws blood to be tested for its oxygen content, makes notes in a big binder about every tiny little thing.
I told Tikva the other day that I look forward to the day when nobody cares how much her full diaper weighs, how much or what kind of fluid comes out of her lungs, how much milk she is taking in at each feeding.

I've learned a lot in the last two weeks - definitely getting a head start on all I will learn one day in nursing school, and also on the job when I have my first nursing job.
I ask a lot of questions, take notes about the day's events in a journal, and surprise myself by all that I am able to understand and retain about the inner workings of the body.

Then I get oversaturated and I need to turn off all the medical conversations.
I look at Tikva, I look at my amazing little girl surrounded by machines and IVs and tubes and sensors, and I see a being who is the purest form of spirit.
Closer to God than I am 37 years after my own birth, where I find myself returning to that closeness, more and more through each moment of this experience.
I feel as though I would be doing Tikva a disservice if I weren't learning from her.
If I were going through this in agonizing misery, feeling sorry for myself, terrified, holding only to the estimations of all the medical professionals around us.

Instead I look in her sweet face - and she really does ooze sweetness from every cell of her body - and I see her pure soul.
I see the huge journey she is on.
I see the incredible work she is doing to bring her essential energy - all of it - deeply into her body.
I see her healing some very old stuff she brought with her into this life.
I see her doing work that many people don't even accomplish in a lifetime (or more).
I see her desire to trust - herself and God, and the interweaving of the two.
I see her learning to allow herself to be held.

Dave and I are her witnesses on this journey, and this is our gift to this incredible girl who is our own greatest teacher.

And there are days when I feel so sad.
When watching her struggle in her physical body is just so hard and it makes me weep deeply.
There are days when I am terrified of losing her, this child I love so deeply.
There are nights - like last night - when I just cry for a long long time while Dave holds me and feels the familiar warmth of my tears on his face.
There are moments when I am putting my full bottles of pumped milk into the freezer and I see just how much milk is there, waiting for Tikva, and I wonder when she will be able to take it all in.
There are days - like today - when I wish they would stop poking and prodding her and just let her rest.

How would you feel if all in one day you...

* Had a chest tube put in to drain the fluid from around your left lung.
* Been pricked a bunch of times in your wrist while the doctor tried for the umpteenth time to find an arterial line.
* Had two x-rays that required your being lifted up while you were sleeping to be placed on a metal plate.
* Had a long echocardiogram ultrasound to check for pulmonary hypertension in your heart.
* Had your feeds of Mama's milk stopped because they are concerned about lymph (fat) leaking into the space around your lung.

Yes, my Tikva - if I had been through all this today, my stats would probably be down too, and I would be wiped out.
You go through so much in one day, and even if it is all for your wellbeing, I can feel how exhausting it can be.
I look at you and I see someone so much mightier than myself.
I wish you didn't have to be so strong all the time - and I remind you that you can drop into God's palm and let yourself be held, take a break from all your hard work and just BE.
I think about Red Tail Hawk, your animal guide, that power and vision that transcends the physical here and now.
I am in awe of you, Baby Girl, and I hold you all the time in the warm protective arms of my heart.
Hold me in your heart for those times you need a reminder that I am right there with you.
Still corded like we were when I carried you inside me.

One last thing: Dave told me a story the other night that our friend Dave M. told him. It was about a man from South Africa who was the winner of a double marathon there. 52 miles, and he crossed the finish line first. This man only has one lung. That is the only kind of story I want to hear. I told Tikva the story, and assured her she didn't need to run a marathon to prove her might. I am pretty sure she liked what she heard.