For the past few hours, I had watched him. Each time he had walked into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, he was a little more undone. I dared not approach him, even though my heart screamed out to go to him, to hug him, and to cry with him. But, that was not an option.
He was the daddy of a brand new baby girl. She was a full-term baby, healthy by all appearances, that for no good reason, was fighting for her life. She was one of a small percentage of Caesarean delivered infants that suffer from hyaline membrane disease. Her lungs were not developed enough to sustain her life. Because of that, she was one of my patients. As a Respiratory Therapist, I was responsible for monitoring the life support equipment, as well as, her heart and lungs, and arterial blood gases.
With two preschoolers at home, I found that the 11-7 graveyard shift worked for me. I would put my babies to bed before I left for work and would be home before breakfast. This night would be unlike any I had ever worked before or since. As I took report that night, the Therapist from the previous shift minced no words. “We’ve got a kid going bad. The unit is full, but this one will take your full attention. Doc is weighing the options at this point, but, it doesn’t look good. And just so you know, Dad has been given to permission to come and go as he pleases as long as his doesn’t approach the bed. He stands over at the nurses’ station and watches. It’s really sad.” These bits of information were passed along so that while we performed our jobs, we could do so with the utmost sensitivity. “Which baby?” I asked.
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