LJ Idol Week 2 - Uphill, both ways, barefoot
The first thing I noticed about him was his feet.
It wasn’t the wires, the ventilation tube down his throat, or the needles and syringes puncturing his fragile translucent skin. It wasn’t even the small thatch of dark brown hair, ‘so very much like mine when I was born’, my mum said. Or the tiny eyelashes and small perfect face no bigger than a golf ball. It was his feet.
They were enormous, well at least in comparison to the rest of him. In reality, they were smaller than my thumb, and looking back it is hard to think what I found so amazing about them. But next to his small scrawny legs and tiny needle like fingers they just seemed colossal.
I had been prepared for small, the doctors had warned us during my labour and after the birth, that he would be tiny. At twenty-four weeks gestation, he weighed 760 grams, less than a bag of sugar. His skin would be transparent, there would be wires attached to him, machines beeping out his statistics, taking the breaths his lungs couldn’t manage himself, and he would be small. Each day would be an uphill battle and it was ok to be scared, they said. I wonder if anyone ever told him it was ok to be scared, I know I didn’t. I told him to hang on, I whispered I loved him, and I begged him to stay. I sang him songs and told him how much his daddy and I loved him. I never told him it was ok to be scared, that it would be ok to take a rest.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed them, his feet that is. Over the next few weeks as family and friends came to visit, treading cautiously through the ICU, their eyes carefully avoiding the machines wires, and the other small children around us, each facing their own battle. They commented on his bare feet, large, pink and perfect. Ten tiny toes, and ten tiny fingers, that’s what they say to describe a baby’s heath isn’t it, that as long as he has ten fingers and ten toes, then he is fine.
My son had ten fingers, ten toes, long eyelashes, and a perfect smile, but he wasn’t healthy, far from it. His lungs didn’t work, his oxygen levels were dangerously low, and the machine breathing for him was doing as much harm as good. But he had the requisite amount of fingers and toes, and large feet. So everything must be alright.
It became something everyone associated with him, people clung to this to show that he was ok. The words were repeated so often, that my husband’s three year old brother, whenever he was asked would describe baby Robert as follows.
“He’s in the hospital, he’s sickly and the doctors are making him better. He’s got really big feet, like way big”
He and my eleven year old sister in law were desperate to see him. They had been waiting on this baby as long as us. But hospital policy was strict. No children under sixteen on the ICU unless they were siblings. We tried explaining the situation to nurses and doctors. Kimberley and Kieran were almost as much our children as the little boy in that room. Though technically aunt and uncle, Robert would be raised as their brother. But week after week our pleas fell on deaf ears, until finally one day two weeks after he was taken off the ventilator and placed on a CPAP oxygen machine, we were given permission to let the kids see him, just for five minutes.
On the car ride to the hospital that night they could barely contain their excitement Kimberley glowed. She had bought a blue teddy, a balloon, and brought with her a card she had made herself. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they wouldn’t be allowed in the room, that I would be taking them home that night and hiding them in the cupboard with all the other gifts I had left the hospital with. Kieran asked if the baby could play football yet, his voice echoing loudly in the long corridor of the neonatal ICU. We shushed him and reminded him to whisper.
As we entered the room, and walked over to the incubator that housed our precious son, I noticed how accustomed to the machines and needles you become. A large needle joined to a bank of blood was being fed into his arm, a blood transfusion, his twelfth one so far, a top up we now called it. As I looked over and saw Kimberley’s white face, each of her small golden freckles standing out in stark relief to the pallor of her skin, I remembered that it was all new to her. I waited for her eyes to shift away from the machines, the needles, the wires and tubes and slip to the feet at the bottom on the bed. I noticed absently that there were no machines on my son’s bottom half and wondered, if that’s why people found it easier to see his feet.
Her eyes didn’t move though, they stayed trained on his face. I felt my breath catch as I noticed the brightness of her eyes, the tears threatening. My mouth opened, ready with a comforting word, or to fill her in on the latest, more hopeful prognosis. Before the words could come out though, a small voice beat me to it.
“He hasn’t got big big feet,” Kieran stated. I looked down at him, his face was awash with confusion as he looked from his own feet, to the tiny feet on display in the incubator.
“His feet are teeny,” Kieran continued. “He has teeny tiny feet, and teeny tiny hands.”
My eyes flew to my husband’s face, his mouth was threatening laughter, but his eyes were wet with tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough and husky with an emotion that had been buried for too long now.
“You’re right,” he replied, gathering Kieran in his arms, he hugged him close. “He is very small, but that’s because he is a little sickly right now.”
“But he’s going to get better,” Kimberley finished the sentence; her voice wasn’t shaky at all, it was hard with belief and determination. I noticed she had opened one of the portholes and her hand was stroking Robert’s arm gently. “He is going to get big and strong and then come home, and you’re going to teach him to play football,” she finished.
I smiled at her and agreed, my own voice sounded far less unsure than normal. As she started asking me about the machines and wires, I was reminded of the little girl who had always needed to know the why of things. Why did this work, what does this machine do. I was filled with gratitude as I realised how lucky I was to have such special children in my life. Who didn’t look to avoid the situations, but viewed things both ways, who weighed up the positive and negatives. Who cared enough about the baby in the crib that they saw past the wires, machines, needles and even the big big feet, and saw the child underneath.
This is my entry for LJ Idol week 2
It wasn’t the wires, the ventilation tube down his throat, or the needles and syringes puncturing his fragile translucent skin. It wasn’t even the small thatch of dark brown hair, ‘so very much like mine when I was born’, my mum said. Or the tiny eyelashes and small perfect face no bigger than a golf ball. It was his feet.
They were enormous, well at least in comparison to the rest of him. In reality, they were smaller than my thumb, and looking back it is hard to think what I found so amazing about them. But next to his small scrawny legs and tiny needle like fingers they just seemed colossal.
I had been prepared for small, the doctors had warned us during my labour and after the birth, that he would be tiny. At twenty-four weeks gestation, he weighed 760 grams, less than a bag of sugar. His skin would be transparent, there would be wires attached to him, machines beeping out his statistics, taking the breaths his lungs couldn’t manage himself, and he would be small. Each day would be an uphill battle and it was ok to be scared, they said. I wonder if anyone ever told him it was ok to be scared, I know I didn’t. I told him to hang on, I whispered I loved him, and I begged him to stay. I sang him songs and told him how much his daddy and I loved him. I never told him it was ok to be scared, that it would be ok to take a rest.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed them, his feet that is. Over the next few weeks as family and friends came to visit, treading cautiously through the ICU, their eyes carefully avoiding the machines wires, and the other small children around us, each facing their own battle. They commented on his bare feet, large, pink and perfect. Ten tiny toes, and ten tiny fingers, that’s what they say to describe a baby’s heath isn’t it, that as long as he has ten fingers and ten toes, then he is fine.
My son had ten fingers, ten toes, long eyelashes, and a perfect smile, but he wasn’t healthy, far from it. His lungs didn’t work, his oxygen levels were dangerously low, and the machine breathing for him was doing as much harm as good. But he had the requisite amount of fingers and toes, and large feet. So everything must be alright.
It became something everyone associated with him, people clung to this to show that he was ok. The words were repeated so often, that my husband’s three year old brother, whenever he was asked would describe baby Robert as follows.
“He’s in the hospital, he’s sickly and the doctors are making him better. He’s got really big feet, like way big”
He and my eleven year old sister in law were desperate to see him. They had been waiting on this baby as long as us. But hospital policy was strict. No children under sixteen on the ICU unless they were siblings. We tried explaining the situation to nurses and doctors. Kimberley and Kieran were almost as much our children as the little boy in that room. Though technically aunt and uncle, Robert would be raised as their brother. But week after week our pleas fell on deaf ears, until finally one day two weeks after he was taken off the ventilator and placed on a CPAP oxygen machine, we were given permission to let the kids see him, just for five minutes.
On the car ride to the hospital that night they could barely contain their excitement Kimberley glowed. She had bought a blue teddy, a balloon, and brought with her a card she had made herself. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they wouldn’t be allowed in the room, that I would be taking them home that night and hiding them in the cupboard with all the other gifts I had left the hospital with. Kieran asked if the baby could play football yet, his voice echoing loudly in the long corridor of the neonatal ICU. We shushed him and reminded him to whisper.
As we entered the room, and walked over to the incubator that housed our precious son, I noticed how accustomed to the machines and needles you become. A large needle joined to a bank of blood was being fed into his arm, a blood transfusion, his twelfth one so far, a top up we now called it. As I looked over and saw Kimberley’s white face, each of her small golden freckles standing out in stark relief to the pallor of her skin, I remembered that it was all new to her. I waited for her eyes to shift away from the machines, the needles, the wires and tubes and slip to the feet at the bottom on the bed. I noticed absently that there were no machines on my son’s bottom half and wondered, if that’s why people found it easier to see his feet.
Her eyes didn’t move though, they stayed trained on his face. I felt my breath catch as I noticed the brightness of her eyes, the tears threatening. My mouth opened, ready with a comforting word, or to fill her in on the latest, more hopeful prognosis. Before the words could come out though, a small voice beat me to it.
“He hasn’t got big big feet,” Kieran stated. I looked down at him, his face was awash with confusion as he looked from his own feet, to the tiny feet on display in the incubator.
“His feet are teeny,” Kieran continued. “He has teeny tiny feet, and teeny tiny hands.”
My eyes flew to my husband’s face, his mouth was threatening laughter, but his eyes were wet with tears. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough and husky with an emotion that had been buried for too long now.
“You’re right,” he replied, gathering Kieran in his arms, he hugged him close. “He is very small, but that’s because he is a little sickly right now.”
“But he’s going to get better,” Kimberley finished the sentence; her voice wasn’t shaky at all, it was hard with belief and determination. I noticed she had opened one of the portholes and her hand was stroking Robert’s arm gently. “He is going to get big and strong and then come home, and you’re going to teach him to play football,” she finished.
I smiled at her and agreed, my own voice sounded far less unsure than normal. As she started asking me about the machines and wires, I was reminded of the little girl who had always needed to know the why of things. Why did this work, what does this machine do. I was filled with gratitude as I realised how lucky I was to have such special children in my life. Who didn’t look to avoid the situations, but viewed things both ways, who weighed up the positive and negatives. Who cared enough about the baby in the crib that they saw past the wires, machines, needles and even the big big feet, and saw the child underneath.
This is my entry for LJ Idol week 2