“Bassinet,clothes, diapers, wipes …” I stopped writing my list of essentials for thebaby, to readjust the pumping flange over my nipple. I moved it half acentimeter too far to the right and winced in pain.
“Dammit,”I whined, pulling it off to attempt readjusting it. Again.
Sincebeing in the hospital, I had diligently tried pumping breast milk for the babywithvery littleevidence of my efforts. Thebreastfeeding consultant and NICU nurses all insisted it would take time to getthe hang of it and build my supply. But over a week of tireless pumping andfeeling like a dairy cow was beginning to take its toll on my sanity. Not tomention my nipples. But the very moment I began to wonder if I should throw inthe towel, was the moment I reminded myself that a couple of weeks wasn’t thatlong at all and that I needed to try harder.
So,when it seemed like the flange was on correctly, I went back to work writing mylist.
SinceAlexander had made his appearance much sooner than expected, I never got thechance to have a baby shower, and now he needed things—or he would, once he wasout of the hospital. Mom insisted that we would still have one, but the truthis, I didn’t really care to have a party now. There was a lot to celebrate,sure. He was alive, and so was I. But I knew as well as anyone how easy it canbe to settle into a false sense of security, and I didn’t want to celebratesomething that still had so much room for sadness and fear.
So,instead, I wrote a list of things to buy myself, with the hope that one day I’dfeel secure enough toactually purchasethem.
“Bottles,pacifiers …”
Itook a peekat my watch. 5 o’clock. It was gettinglate and I still had to shower, pump again, and grab something to eat on my wayto the hospital. I sighed and impatiently stared at my nipple as it was suckedin and out, in and out of the flange. Time management had never been my strongpoint but lately I could never seem to find enough hours in the day. What wouldI do once the babycamehome and I had to get back towork? The last thing I wanted to bother with was hiring a babysitter,especially when money was already tight, but I wondered if I would need toconsider bringing someone in to help. Would I need it, or would Alexander beone of those good babies who sleeps well and lets me get stuff done?
Ibottled the little bit of milk I’d pumped and put it in the fridge. The shelfwas full of little bottles, each one holding a little less than half an ounceof breast milk.
Glancingat Mrs. Potter, I said, “A whole lot of effort with not a whole lot to show forit, huh?”
Sheblinked.
“Yeah,I hope I can make more, too,‘causethis is ridiculous. What the hell am Igonnado whenhe starts drinking more? I won’t be able to keep up.”
Ilooked across the living room and into my bedroom, where my bed waited inall ofits comfortable glory. It beckoned me with promisesof soft blankets and sweet dreams, and all I wanted to do was take a nap. But Ihad showers to take and babies to see, so with a sigh, I headed into thebathroom and turned the water on.
***
“Hey,Mama!” Elle greeted me with a grin.
Everytime I saw this woman, I wanted to wrap her in a tight hug and thank her forthat night about two weeks ago. In some way, I believed she had saved me, and Iwasn’t sure how I could ever repay her for that.
“Hey,”I replied, holding out my freezer bag of breast milk. “I brought presents.”
“Forme?!” She feigned girlish glee, clapping herhandsandbouncing on the spot. Then, she took the bag from my hand and said, “I’ll justgo put these in the fridge. You want me to grab you a chair?”
“Nah,I got it.”
Sheeyed me skeptically, knowing I’d just been through major surgery and shouldn’tbe lifting anything substantial. But the chairs were light, and I dragged oneover with no problem.
“Well,will you look at Superwoman over here,” she jabbed playfully. “I’ll be rightback. Then, I’ll give you the rundown on your little man, okay?”
AsElle ran off to put the milk away, I situated myself at Alexander’s bedside. Hewas sleeping; he usually was. But that didn’t make me any less happy to seehim, and it didn’t make me any less sad. His color was coming in a little more,and I could see it in his ears more than anywhere else. He was also gainingweight at a steady pace. But he was still intubated and too unstable to hold.So, I opened one door of hisisoletteand held hislittle hand with two of my fingertips, and we sat just like that, until Ellereturned.
“So,Alexander the Great is doing pretty well today! He had gained a bunch of weightovernight, but then, he had a really big poop today, that got all over his bed…” She laughed, shaking her head, and I laughed with her.
“Wereyou a bad boy?” I said, lightly stroking my fingertip over his impossibly smallknuckles.
“So,he might’ve lost a couple of grams,” she said, resting her hip against the baseof his bed.
“Isthat a big deal?”
“Oh,no,” she replied, shaking her head. “It's normal for him to fluctuate. It’s alla part of the process. Other than that, he's doing great. I think we might tryto get him off the vent soon.”
“Really?”The thought of seeing my baby's mouth without a tube shoved between his lipslit me up like a Christmas tree. “When?”
Elleshrugged, looking down into theisolette. “I'm nottotally sure. I think we might give it a shot next week, but I'm not making anypromises. This is all up to little Alex here.”
Igently squeezed his hand, not too hard, butjust hardenough for him to know I was there. I wanted him to know I was rooting for him.And even though he only had me in his corner, I hoped that would be enough.
