Diapers

What Lies Beneath

/ bperica / 2 Comments

London had just peed out her diaper. I thought it was odd since London had not peed out of her diaper in months. It could have just been that whoever changed her diaper last did not get a good seal.

I couldn’t quite believe it so I dabbed my hand on the big wet spot on London’s right pant leg. This was not some ordinary pee. This was some extremely sour-smelling stuff. As I brought my hand to my nose I finally realized it wasn’t pee.

Let me back up thirty minutes. We were all finishing dinner when London tooted. And by tooted, I mean it lasted five whole seconds. Then a few seconds later, another long toot. A few seconds after that, one more small blast. Kate and I looked at each other and sort of laughed, but London’s toot was not too extraordinary. She had done this before, but it had been a very long time.

We moved into the kitchen. Tonight, we kept London in the high chair as we cleaned the dishes. She kept snacking some, but seemed particularly moody so we decided to get her out of her high chair. And now, we are all caught up to the moment when it dawned on us that London, for only the second time since we brought her home from the NICU, had a poop blowout.

Luckily, we could tag team this. Kate grabbed some plastic bags. I carried London a good two feet out in front of me as we went upstairs to the bathroom. Once there we did a cursory examination of what was in front of us, deciding on how we were going to approach this horribly smelly and pasty mess.

To our benefit, London was wearing a onesie, which she just barely fit in, one that we weren’t particularly attached to. Scissors it is, but first we had to peel her pants off. As we did so little pieces of poo fell to the tiled floor. I could feel the extra weight of the pants as I moved them aside.

Once I returned to the bathroom with scissors, I held London and Kate cut down the back of the onesie and it fell to the ground inside the plastic bag London was standing on. Next, the diaper. A new bag for London to stand on. We just loosened the velcro-like straps of the diaper and let it fall off London. Pushing that mess aside, I grabbed the bathmat for London to lay on while Kate cleaned London up a little bit. She was not nearly clean enough to sit in a tub.

Kate asked, “What about the pants?”

“Oh, I’ll clean out what’s in there and I think they’ll be fine.” I picked them up, started to turn the oozy side inside out and immediately gave up. “They’re done for,” I said, as I plopped them into the plastic bag with London’s onesie.

Kate got to giving London a bath. I thought I’d check out the high chair because I knew it was going to be messy. I had seen some remnants in the seat before we went upstairs, but I didn’t really know how bad it was. First, I attacked it with bleach wipes, a lot of them. It looked good to me after that. Hold on, what’s beneath on the reverse side of the high chair cushion? Well, it was a brown stain bleeding out from the hole in the cushion, which part of the buckle slips through.

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Breakfast cereal, quesadilla, and a little bit of everything else.

I took the cushion off, flipped it over, and hit it with some more bleach wipes. The tag of the cushion read, “Do Not Wash. Hand Clean Only.” Throwing it in the washer seemed necessary at this point. Costco bleach wipes can only do so much. I scrubbed and scrubbed, but that sour smell was still there.

London was out of the tub by now and getting dressed, so I took the cushion upstairs, filled the tub with scalding water, and put in enough laundry detergent for several loads. I threw the cushion in the tub and made sure it was waterlogged before I left it there.

Back downstairs there was one last mess to clean up. I hadn’t fully cleaned London’s high chair in months so when I took the cushion off I discovered a pretty thick strip of food. I saw fossilized quesadilla, Crispix, Cheerios, and other food ground down to unrecognizable particles. I was going to vacuum it, but Kate told me to just dump it in the backyard. I lifted the chair up and out the backdoor and flipped it upside down once I was over the grass. Success. No vacuuming necessary and the lawn got fertilized with breakfast cereal.

The high chair cushion took two days to dry out in the backyard, but now London’s high chair is as clean as it was when we first got it. And, we only lost a onesie and some pants.

Have A Preemie, It’s Such A Deal

/ bperica / 4 Comments

I am here to be honest with you. Having a preemie is such a deal both in cost and effort. Think of all the deals you have come across in your life. Think of the deals you expect to encounter in the future. Let your imagination run wild. I really doubt the deal you have in mind will come even close to being as good a deal as I am about to share with you.

1. Delivery is really fast. You don’t even have time to anticipate it. One night, you’ll be at home watching TV (in our case, I was trying to watch the latest episode of True Detective on HBO), and you will be truly concerned about everyday tasks, leaning over to your spouse and saying, “Oh gosh, we still have to clean the kitchen.” Then the pain will come. You’ll make a smart decision to go to the hospital to get some drugs or something and be sent home. So, still, having a baby won’t even be on your radar. But then the water breaks and well, you know something is going to happen. You’re not quite sure what. And then a few hours later you have a kid. Very little pain. Lots of drugs. A lot of very nice people working to help you deliver this baby as quickly and as painlessly as possible. And it is. The scar will heal up very nicely.

2. No third trimester. “Wow, killer deal!” You might say. Well, you are spot on. From what I hear, that third trimester is just a pain in the ass, or more like the lower back. Fatigue? Ha, you won’t even get to the worst of it. Frequent urination? You’re safe. A two pound baby does not make you urinate more. Heartburn? Okay, you might still get this if you have a preemie, but it’s not what you think. It’s just because you had tacos with the hot salsa on them, not because you are growing a human being. Swelling? Nope. You’ll be able to wear your wedding ring right up to delivery. Weight gain? Are you freaking kidding me? As soon as you develop the slightest baby bump you’ll be hours away from delivery, saved from the expand-a-pants, saved from the waddle, the stretch marks, and the need to have a whole different wardrobe for that third trimester.

3. Best babysitting in the world. As soon as your baby arrives, NICU nurses, will be with your baby 24/7 until the baby leaves the NICU. The earlier the baby, the more days you’ll get this amazing babysitting at a relatively low cost. You can still go out for dinner. You can go home to sleep. In addition to the nurses there are many other professionals checking in on your baby, making sure she is comfortable and developing as expected. You might be a little stressed about leaving your baby in the NICU at first, but, oddly, you get used to it. You still need to enjoy your free time before you have a baby at home. You weren’t expecting to have a baby this soon. You had three more months. Take them. The NICU team has you covered.

4. The lighter your baby the better. Truly, if you have a really small baby, you just qualified for all sorts of assistance regardless of your income. You will learn about supplemental security income. You’ll get a check from the Feds once a month that has to be used on baby things. Easy enough. And then for some reason you’ll get a little bonus check when your baby leaves the hospital. Sort of like the Feds just saying, “Hey, congratulations! And thanks for paying all your taxes all those years. This is how we roll. We actually do some good stuff with the money you give us. Here’s some back.” Then, if you’re lucky enough to live in Colorado, your little, teeny, tiny baby qualifies for at home physical therapy and occupational therapy visits. Three times a month, they come to you, assess your baby, tell you what the baby needs to do better, tell you where the baby might be a little ahead, and, this is all at no extra cost to you. This time it is like the state saying, “Thanks for paying your taxes. You struck gold with this little girl and now we are going to pay people to help you with her development.”

5. People give in emergencies. The more traumatic the experience, the more people you will hear from, the more flowers you will receive, the more food will show up at your doorstep, the more aid in your mailbox, the more touching notes you will receive from people you’ve met once or have never met before, the more baby clothes you will receive, and the more diaper cakes you’ll be gifted. People will feel for you. They’ll fork over some really excellent gifts and meals. Truly, what a steal.

6. Having a preemie could very well be cheaper than having a full-term baby. When you have a preemie, she needs a place to stay. These places are called neonatal intensive care units or NICUs. A night at our NICU costs as much as the Peninsula Suite at the Peninsula, Chicago, or almost $9,000 a night. Multiplied by 109. No one is going to stick you with that bill. Trust me. In fact, when your bill arrives you could end up paying less than 1% of your total stay. I mean, if you have very solid insurance, you might just pay .007% of your total hospital bill. Double-O-Seven.

7. After hours visiting at the hospital. You know, typically when you show up at our hospital after 8 you have to sign in and say who you are going to visit. They give you a sticker that you immediately throw in the trash. What a waste. It’s a real hassle. You don’t want to stop and talk with anyone, you’re going to see your baby for crying out loud. Worry not. You’ll live at the hospital. After you’re stopped once or twice, you’ll just look over at the security desk when you next enter the hospital after hours and you’ll get in with the head nod you always see guys giving each other.

8. You get to write about it and people will read. And maybe, after you’ve gone through all this and cried a thousand times for your child’s life and watched her vital signs plummet to numbers that you just associate with death, you’ll be able to find some humor in the whole experience and put a spin on it like I just did.

Be A Man, Change A Diaper

/ bperica / 2 Comments

The first time I was present for London’s cares in the NICU, I made what was, for me, a radical decision. Instead of standing off to the side and becoming a spectator to my daughter’s care, I joined in and did as much as possible. So often I choose to spectate, deliberately choosing to not try something new and scary. However, when faced with the prospect of handling my two-pound daughter, I didn’t even think twice. I said I would go for it even though I could hardly believe the words that were coming out of my mouth.

All I had to do was take her temperature and change her diaper. That very first time, it was really difficult to do either of those tasks. I needed some coaching but got through it. London’s nurses that morning, Megan and Laura, were excellent teachers and perfectly understood that I was in a fragile state myself. Afterward, I certainly didn’t feel like a pro or anything, but I had this minuscule sense of accomplishment. In hindsight, choosing on the morning of London’s birth to jump right in and help with her care as much as I possibly could set the tone for the rest of our family’s time in the NICU.

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Reaching into London’s little world.

I don’t know if what I had was a very positive outlook in the NICU, but at least from that first morning on I had a tactile connection to my daughter that made things a little more bearable. I know it all started with that first diaper change. So how else could I feel when I saw a father being interviewed about his kids in the NICU and when asked if he was changing diapers he balked, giving the reporter a look that said are you crazy? The father responded: no. The reporter: why not? The reason he gave, with a chuckle: they’re too small.

I felt shock because the babies he was talking about were small, but not as small as London and preemies do come even smaller than London. I was also a little sad. I wanted to reach through the television and tell him my story, why I thought choosing right away to change a diaper on your preemie was such a good idea.

Until I saw this interview on television, maybe I didn’t realize how important my decision to change London’s diaper that first morning of her life was. I learned from my choice that I could become an active participant in this, the scariest thing I have ever gone through. It meant that I actually did get to touch my daughter and not just stare at her through thick plastic all day long. And for her, I don’t think I will ever know all the ways it helped her. I know that it helped her become familiar with my voice and touch. There were a lot of nurses taking care of London, but at least once a day the same person was taking her temperature, changing her diaper, and talking to her in his same, goofy voice.

These preemies need love and attention. As a father, you have to give that too them any way you can. It may seem like nothing at first, but if you keep loving them and helping with their care at every opportunity, they are going to get better. I remember toward the end of London’s NICU stay, the director of the entire NICU floor came over to London’s pod. He walked up to her bed and smiled at her, shaking his head in amazement. He had been an attending the week London was born so he had seen just how far she had come. “She’s made so much progress. She’s looking great!” I nodded in agreement and told him, “She’s amazing. Thank you!” He paused for a moment, “We do all that we can here, but it’s you guys that have really made the difference because you provide the love that she needs and we can’t bottle that stuff up.” We both looked down and smiled at London. He tapped the isolette, as if saying goodbye, and walked off. That love he mentioned, it took so many forms during London’s 109 days in the NICU, but maybe none more important than shedding fear and apprehension and stepping up to change that first diaper.