Congratulations they say.

This word congratulations.
I never really thought much of it before,
Kudos for a job well done it means,
But for that mother who never conceived,
And one who left hospital with no baby,
What for the one who had a still birth,
And the other who had a miscarriage,
The word has a new meaning,
A meaning that comes with absence of the word,
She only hears others receive the praise,
But to her, a failure it means,
The job was not well done,
The results not good enough!!

The Baby Oil - My NICU Experience

Today is Thursday, 2^nd August, 2018. It is the second day after delivery; my mum has come to visit earlier than the allowed time at 11.30am. I ask her to go check on baby before we can sit down and talk. Our talk with mom will be long, so I want to know how he is doing this morning. No one from the hospital has come to my bed to tell me how is doing. I do not know about his progress in the NBU. He must be alright though, they must have said if otherwise.

They have refused mom may not get in, she may not see baby. They say she is not the parent. Only parents, mother and father are allowed inside. She asks how the baby is doing. If he is well, if there is something baby needs. “You may not ask. We may not answer. You are not the parent” One of them in a haughty way responds. She tries to explain that I am still weak and the father is travelling from far. They won’t buy in. She is exasperated, “What if the father is not around and the mother is still weak, what if the man no longer exists?” asks mum. “Let your daughter call the man who impregnated her to come see his son”. Of course, they have assumed he is not available. Or he won’t come. This happens a lot in the wardrooms I believe.

Mom is back to my bedside.

I am impatient, I keep calling Jay. He is still held at the gate, the queue at the entrance won’t move. I am pacing in my heart. My liver is quickening. And my kidneys are beating faster. He comes in, senses the anxiety on my face. We don’t talk, he walks straight tothe NBU. He is back, his face is forlorn. The pieces on his face are not set right. “How is baby?” “He is fine” His response is too quick. I know my man, he gives information. “Please tell me what is wrong” After a brief pause, maybe considering how much information to give me he says “It is how he is breathing. His lungs sink too deep when he is breathing”

My mind immediately touches on Baby Blessing, my beautiful gift that went away too fast. He was a beautiful baby given briefly to me ten years ago. My mum had described his breathing the same way, deep sunken chest. I am now restless. My kidneys and pancreas are now beating in unison. They will not let me catch breath. I want to see my baby. I want to hold him now. I want to see his lungs sink as Jay says. My chest is growing hot. I want someone to take me to see my gift, my rainbow baby, the little man who has crowned me a mother.

I ask one of the nurses to take me. You see, I cannot walk still, I need to be wheel chaired. She asks me to hold my horses. The horses I no longer have them, but I hold on all the same. They discharge me from the labor ward, they take me to the maternity wing. I still insist. “Please someone take me to NBU” The nurses say they are busy. No one has time, they are addressing other poignant matters. I walk my self painfully to NBU. I must see him. They have moved him. No one bothered to tell me they have moved him. He is now in the NICU. You see I have been reading a lot, I know a lot of hospital stuff now. Immediately I am aware he is having respiratory issues. I connect with Jays words of sinking heart. I am crushed, crushed no one told me. No one bothered to brief me of this development.

I get to see him. He is not alright, but I can tell he is struggling to fight this battle for me. To stay with us. I have so much fear in my heart. I hold my chest to try to calm myself. I beg God, I beseech the heavens, I beg the universe, I beg Mother Nature to take away the looming black cup. I ask God to give me a white cup instead. Please keep him God, keep him for me. I try to touch him, talk to him. I need him to be strong, to hold on a little more as I try to get him help. I promise him I will do everything I can for him. I touch him slowly, maybe my touch will make him feel better, maybe my voice will soothe him. He pushes my hand away. The worst of fears hit me. Is my baby rejecting me? Does he feel I abandoned him when he wanted me most? I am wounded, I am guilty, I am torn. Why is my touch not welcome?

The nurse asks me to try more.

I realize it’s the pain. His chest hurts, his breathing hurts so bad, his lungs are sunken. The lungs must hurt too. My touch disturbs him now, my voice is probably noise. I stop and kneel down. I pray to the heavens. I pray for mercy, I beg for a chance. I beg the sun may stay still if that is what it will take to grant me this miracle, I beg for grace, I plead for favour.

The paed has walked in. “Please do something! Anything!” I am tugging at her. She says there is little to do now. “He needs oil, a surfactant for his lungs. The oil is expensive, about 40/50k and we need to get consent from the parents before administering. You see, it is a KNH policy”

“I will pay for it”, I quip.

“Do you have insurance?”

“I will pay cash right now” I am already fumbling with my phone to call my mum to get the money to me right away. We can afford the oil, we can afford baby oil.

“We are already late. We should have done it earlier, within 24 hours of birth. You should have come earlier. For now, we must have a life support machine to support his lungs as we put in a pipe and put the oil. It will help his lungs from collapsing. But we only have one machine here and its already in use.’’ She concludes.

I cannot believe she is telling me this. I am angry. I want to slap her and hit her into a pulp. I want to scream and hold her clothes in my fist. No one told me, no one sought my consent. No one even told me baby had been transferred to NICU. How could I have known my baby needed baby oil. How could I have known the cost of buying his lungs backs was only 50 thousand. How was I to know that my baby had developed respiratory distress? How was I to know what he needed? I did not choose to be late, I did not choose not to be present for my baby. I was from the theater, getting strong for motherhood. The very people who should have told me failed to do so. And yet I was only one floor away, in the labour ward.

I cannot cause mayhem. There are other little babies around, and my baby is there too. I cannot scream in their presence, I cannot cause them more distress than they already have. I have to tuck in my shock, my anger and my disappointment. This is a regional hospital, sorry it is a national hospital. It only has one life support machine for new borns. What a country, I cannot believe this.  They had said they have a well equipped NICU. Having only a NHIF cover, that had informed our decision to choose KNH for our delivery. I look at the other baby currently on the machine. Almost jealously.

“Can they share? Can they take turns?”

“No”

“Can we move him to the private wing? Can we try other hospitals? Can we go to Agha Khan? Nairobi Hospital? Anywhere else with a free life support machine?” All my questions are not alternatives. They all hit naught. “There is no free machine in the private wing and he is too weak to be transferred” She tells me to hold my faith, she says we still have 72 hours within which to get a machine. The paed says she has put in a word for me. The next turn of the machine will be for Belinda’s son.

I walk out, I need to consult. I need air. I call my gynae and ask for his advice. He says the surfactant is very important. The earlier, the better. He has another patient he says, he is getting into theatre. I go back to the pediatrician. I am begging her to save my baby. She asks me to pray as we wait. She tells me all we got now is prayer. Only prayer. I am distraught.

Jay is with baby, I had asked him to keep him company. I am back by their side, we spend a little more time before the monitor machines start beeping. His heartbeat has come low to the range of 40s, there are question marks on the machine and a red line. We compare with other children and we can tell baby is getting darker. “We are losing him Jay. We are losing baby”. His hands and feet are getting darker, there is no oxygenation taking place. I ask the nurse why the machines are beeping. She says our baby is very sick, but God can save him.

She asks that we leave him to rest, we can go and come back later. We go back to the wards, no one speaks. Thirty minutes later, we receive a call from the NICU. So the telephone from the NICU to the wards actually work! Apparently, they also got someone to handle the calls. I know, I also wondered why they could not call me when it mattered. We rush to the NBU, there is a new NICU nurse, cold as it can get. She doesn’t allow Jay in, she says he is not indicated as the next of kin. The next of kin is my mother, the one they had refused entry before. They ask I should ask my mother to come instead and be with me. They cannot allow him inside.  I try to explain that Jay lives out of town. It degenerates into a long argument. I am tired.  I do not want to talk about it anymore. Finally, they let him in. I can feel sweat on my forehead.

We see our baby. They have removed all pipes, needles, and oxygen. His body is still in motion. The nurse says he needs us. “He is dead Jay; our baby is dead” I say. Other mums console me. They try to convince me he is still alive. I know he is gone. I can see he is dead.

I ask to have him. I hold my baby.