Fatherhood

How’d This Happen?

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A couple of weeks after we returned from our beach vacation last summer, Kate expressed to me that she thought she was not pregnant (we had been trying for a couple of months). She was deeply saddened by this, even starting to worry about us having fertility problems. I did my best to calm her, telling her that on average it takes six months of trying after coming off the pill before the woman becomes pregnant.

Two more weeks passed. In the days before Kate’s family arrived (on August 30), Kate told me that something didn’t feel right. Hearing this from Kate, along with her smelling “horrible smells,” which I couldn’t get the faintest whiff of, I encouraged Kate to just take a pregnancy test to confirm that she wasn’t pregnant. This was on August 29th, the same day we received a box of pregnancy tests from my sister, who had officially decided her childbearing years were behind her.

On the 30th, I woke up around 6:15 in the morning. I noticed Kate wasn’t in bed, but that wasn’t unusual. I sleepily walked into the bathroom to pee and right as I started, I heard Kate’s loud footsteps. She was running toward me and yelling, “Wait! Wait!” When she got to me she shoved an empty and clean peanut butter jar straight into my stream of pee and yelled, “I need some of your pee!”

In Kate’s other had was one of the pregnancy tests from my sister. I was not quite with it yet that morning so I just thought she was seeing if they work properly, although with a level of excitement I did not expect. As my brain warmed up in those few seconds the obvious reason for her behavior came to me. She had already taken a test, it came back positive, and so she was testing the accuracy of these pregnancy tests due to their expiration 18 months ago.

My test came back negative (surprise!) and Kate explained to me that she had taken one before I woke up and it had been positive. She had her doubts though because she read only that morning about how expired tests were not be used and/or trusted. Nevertheless, we had one positive test. Kate even tested the tap water. Negative. Kate said she would try to get in for a test at work.

I spent the day doing some last minute errands and getting ready for our company to arrive, but I could not stop thinking about the possibility that Kate was pregnant. I thought about it all day until the afternoon when Kate got home and set a bag on the counter, telling me it was a card and book for Kendra (her sister) and her boyfriend. She then nervously walked straight out of the room, but added that I could look at the card and book. Flipping the book over first, I saw the title, something about the first year of fatherhood. In a daze, I looked at the card, not even reading the front, flipping it open, saw that Kate had already written in it and signed, “Kate and B.” In my current state, I still thought that it was a card for Kendra and Jake and that Kate had already signed it for us, Kate and Bryce. I didn’t even read what else she had written._BKP1683

I ran to Kate, who stood at the doorway to our room and asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” Kate said through tears and a joyous smile. I hugged her close and lifted her off the ground.

Kate said something about reading the card and I told her I hadn’t. Oops. I ran over to the kitchen and read it. “Cute as a button” graced the cover. Had I bothered taking the split second to read the card, I would have known that it was a card for us. I truly felt sad about botching her efforts to tell me. The daddy book made it pretty clear though. The rest of the afternoon we basked in the news and finalized how we were going to share it with Kate’s family.

Toward the end of our family dinner that night, I stood up and signaled to everyone that I wanted to take a group picture. Once I had all of Kate’s family in the frame Kate commenced with a countdown, “One, two, three, we’re pregnant.” I had the camera take a burst of pictures, catching everyone’s reactions. The first picture didn’t record any remarkable changes in facial expression.

_BKP1684In the next picture, my father-in-law is looking at the ground. He doesn’t look disappointed, but it does look like the weight of the news, that in nine months he would become a grandparent, is hitting him pretty good. Next, my brother-in-law, and Kate’s sisters are all looking at Kate with huge smiles. Kate’s mom is looking at Kate, still, amazingly, holding her wine glass. And in the next photo, pandemonium.

I set the camera down and joined in. Kate was making her way over to her dad to hug him. He was as happy as anyone there, but still, his first question was, “How’d this happen?”

The rest of the evening is sort of a blur. I know we discussed what we knew about the pregnancy at that point. Four and a half weeks along. Due May 4th. The next nine months were pretty clearly laid out. We thought.

The NICU’s Empty Rooms

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Not all NICU stories have happy endings. We did not know the parents in the pod opposite London’s pod. They were very young, teenagers probably. Their baby seemed to arrive in the NICU around the same time London did. For nearly two weeks we were neighbors, who at most acknowledged each other’s presence, but did not speak to each other. We were just getting into the groove of having a baby in the NICU and I was not in the mood to chat it up with strangers. In addition to that, I did not identify with this couple. It seemed like the only thing we had in common was that we both had a baby in the NICU.

As London entered her second week of life, Kate and I noticed that anyone entering the pod across the hall had to gown up. One afternoon some doctors were working on this baby. Some sort of operation. Looked serious. One can only guess what was wrong, but it did not seem like a standard procedure.

Two days later, as we joined London for the day, I took notice of the parents. They looked especially worn out as they spoke with a doctor. We overheard a bit and they were being encouraged to call their parents. I should have taken that as a sign that things were not going to end well for them, but I remained optimistic. Maybe things have just gotten a little more serious, but the baby is still doing okay. Those hopes eroded a few hours later as I returned from a coffee run and heard a fellow speaking to other staff members. A chaplain had been called and most of the family was already here.

I entered our pod and told Kate what I heard. A little time passed and then I stepped outside our pod and stood at the sink in the hallway. Kate stayed inside holding London. As I washed breast pump parts I could hear the mom and dad across the hall starting to say goodbye to their baby. My back was turned to anyone else in the hall, so I did not hold my tears in. I wept for the parents out of sadness. I wept out of fear. I wanted to finish up cleaning as quick as possible so I could go back in our pod and sit a little closer to my baby girl.

Less than an hour later the baby across the hall was moved to a private room, where the family could spend the last hours of the baby’s life in privacy. This practice seems to be as much a benefit of the family with the sick baby as it is for the other NICU families.

Another hour later, I was getting water down the hall from the NICU front desk when I saw someone walk by with a professional camera. I recognized some of the people with the photographer as family of the sick baby. I don’t know for sure if the baby was still alive at that point, but there was still time for one last family portrait.

By the time we left and walked out of London’s room, the pod across the hall had been emptied of medical equipment, mopped, and sterilized. The equipment had been cleaned and put back in the room, but draped in plastic, protected and ready for use when the next little patient arrived. The room looked inviting with its giant windows and rocking chair, like it had already forgotten the family who was in there hours earlier. I remember thinking, the secrets these rooms keep are sometimes for the best.

Leaving Her Doesn’t Get Easier

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*Originally written on April 22, 2014.

You don’t grow used to visiting her at the hospital. Some might think that happens because she’s been there for nearly 3 months, but not true. Everyday we see her grow. We track her progress. We see her struggles. And eventually you start to see her supreme strength and a little personality emerge. We love her more every single day we see her. She becomes our daughter more and more every day.

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Holding London on April 22, 2014, right before saying goodbye for the day.

You realize there are hours in every day that she might be alert and you won’t be there. Sometimes you have to leave right when she is super alert and scanning the NICU air space for a familiar outline or voice, but you have to go because you have to eat, you have to sleep, and all that is at home, not at her NICU pod. So, yes, at some point you have to pry yourself away from her isolette, watching her as every step you take, takes you closer to that corner where you will lose sight of her until you’re back the next day. You can see that her eyes are trying to track your fading image. Her forehead wrinkles as she does. But sometimes you still have to walk away. No, it doesn’t get any easier leaving her at the hospital. It gets harder.

Every time you round that corner and she disappears, you instantly start thinking about seeing her the next day. How will she have changed between one visit and the next? How long will she be awake while you are gone? Every day you have to round that corner and leave your heart there in her NICU pod. The only time of day you feel complete is when you are by her side. Her NICU pod is the site of happy reunions every morning and angst-filled goodbyes every night.

Some thoughts keep you going. One day, you will get to carry her out of the NICU with you. She will get her first breath of fresh air. She will squint from the sun’s glare for the first time. She’ll see the crisp, blue sky, watching as clouds drift overhead. She’ll hear birds chirping and singing. Maybe it’ll be raining. You will have the honor of introducing all of that and more to a little human being who will have spent her first 100 days of life inside a hospital. You will then have the terror of driving her home, but with the reward of carrying her into that home, where you’ve dreamed about her every night since she was born, where you’ve been toiling in her room to get it just right, where, finally, you will feel complete.

 

Forget About Stress Eating, We Forgot to Eat

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A few words about food. If you have found yourself in a situation similar to ours, you will know that really simple things, like grocery shopping, cooking, eating…heck, even bathing, become so overwhelming that they don’t get done. Of course, that is if you even think about them. There were quite a few mornings that I did not think about them at all as I sat in the NICU holding London. Then, around noon, when I would start to think about lunch, I’d realize I hadn’t had breakfast. I hadn’t thought about it at all. Trust me when I say this, I have to be extremely stressed out and busy to completely forget about eating.

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Coq au vin, prepared by my mom. With Odell beer and Highland Park 18 Yr Scotch.

Things were like this for a while. Kate and I did not have the time or energy to sit down and plan meals for a week and then figure out the necessary items to pick up at the grocery store. It was never going to happen.

We had so many people asking us how they could help. I don’t know about you, but it feels weird to say things like, “Well, we could really use a dinner tonight,” or “Do you want to go vacuum our house?” “Do our laundry?” “Bring us lunch at the hospital.”

Luckily, we have some amazing friends who know from their own experience or the experience of others that stepping up and providing a meal is the best thing you can do for parents who have a baby in the NICU.

We had meals in the freezer for weeks. Friends even came into our house while we were still at the hospital and made dinner, so when we got home there was soup in the crockpot, bread on the counter, and salad in the fridge. There were meals on our doorstep, driven in from Boulder. There were strangers at the door, well, someone who knew someone who knew Kate, dropping dinner off and telling me, “You look tired. Be sure to get some rest.” There were people showing up at the NICU to meet London, but also handing us a meal. There was a Trader Joe’s gift card in the mail. There were parents who cooked amazing meals for us at the end of a long day in the NICU.

I did not do a big grocery shopping for four weeks. I occasionally had to get a few items like milk (of course), eggs, and bread, but other than that, we survived on peoples’ kindness and generosity for weeks, even months. I want to write that we could not have made it through the NICU days without them, but that is silly exaggeration. We would have made it, we just would have survived off countless Chipotle burritos, Einstein bagels, and Panera sandwiches. For bringing a home-cooked meal into our home, we thank you. For keeping us far away from regular fast food stops, our tastebuds, waistlines, and digestive tracts thank you.

For Your Eyes Only

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The hospital handout we received on Retinopathy of Prematurity (ROP) after London received the diagnosis describes it this way:

The retina is the inner lining of the eye that receives light and turns it into visual messages that are sent to the brain. If one thinks of the eye as being like a camera, the retina functions as the film. Blood vessels that supply the retina are one of the last structures of the eye to mature; they have barely completed growing when a full-term baby is born. This means that a premature infant’s retina is not yet completely developed. For reasons not yet fully understood, the blood vessels in the immature part of the retina may develop abnormally in some premature infants. This is called ROP.

Every NICU employee did a fabulous job explaining this to us. However, as a parent, this little bit about ROP tends to stick with you more than anything else:

In the most severe cases, the abnormal blood vessels form scar tissues, which pull the retina out of its normal position in the back of the eye. This problem results in severe loss of vision of blindness. Fortunately, this occurs only rarely and laser treatment can often prevent the retina from detaching.

That “fortunately” is so reassuring. If you aren’t catching my drift, I am being sarcastic. Perhaps, if ROP was the only thing we had to worry about while London was in the NICU, the “fortunately” would have been more promising to us, but it was hard to take any comfort in the prognosis of ROP after we were already dealing with chronic lung disease, fluctuating sodium levels, and a brain hemorrhage.

A week or two after London’s ROP diagnosis I wrote an email update to friends and family:

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Shielding her eyes from the bright lights. This photo was taken on the day London decided she no longer wanted to be vented.

Kate and I found out today that London will most likely need glasses throughout her life. There are worse problems to deal with, but I haven’t taken that very well. Glasses are just another thing on her poor face, which has never been truly free of clutter.

We received many responses, but a few stood out. These were the responses that assured us that glasses are not really a big deal and they do not look bad. I know these people were trying to comfort us, but I don’t remember any comfort to be found in their responses. What does stand out about that moment was the realization that these people will never fully understand what London, Kate and I are going through because their babies did not have the same start to life as London. I thought I had made it clear in the email why I did not like the idea of glasses, but let me try again…

As a parent, no matter how long your child is in the NICU, you long for a time when that child won’t need some medical accoutrements to stay alive, to function normally. You crave a purity for your child, the purity many full-term babies get to have, the purity of a perfectly functioning, little body with no attachments, IV lines, or patches on the face. You want your child to experience this and you want to look upon your child when they do. When we heard glasses were a possibility, we were moved further away from that purity. After months in the NICU, something as simple as glasses can be a heavy burden. That’s why I did not take the news well.

What Not To Read

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Once London arrived, I was intent on researching preemies because I did not know a thing about them. The very kind nurses gave me a book on day two or three, cannot remember exactly, but I took it with interest. It was The Preemie Primer, written by an MD who gave birth to preemie triplets. Interested in what I would find out about our situation, I opened to the prologue and started reading, right there in the NICU. But how could any brand new parent of a preemie get past this passage detailing the very premature birth of one of the author’s triplets:

And then the worst words that I have ever heard, “Do you want to hold your son? He is dying.”

That is the first sentence of a paragraph. I did not make it to the second, at least not right then. I started to cry and quickly shut the book and put it aside, not touching it for weeks to come. Now, half a year later, I think I can enjoy what this book has to offer. However, I would not recommend it to brand new parents of preemies. At the very least, I would skip the prologue altogether. The thing about a book like this and others (like What to Expect When You’re Expecting) that aim to guide you through a critical time in your life, is that they do present all the worst case scenarios. There are good intentions, I am sure, but reading through them all is like getting on WebMD and self-diagnosing every time you come down with a weird rash or a string of very serious headaches. In other words, reading them can do more harm than good.

That said, Preemie Primer seems to be enjoyed by many readers, so I do intend to read relevant passages in the coming days, weeks, and months. Just don’t crack it open when there is even a chance of hearing those same words (quoted above) spoken to you.

All the Helicopters

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One thing I always noticed once I became familiar with the medical campus London was on were the helicopters. I spent so much time at the hospital that I saw so many arrive there and, from London’s pod, I could see them arrive at Children’s. Every time, if I could, I stopped what I was doing and focused on the helicopter when I saw one and thought of the person arriving in it. What is wrong with them? Is it an adult, a child, a baby? Of course, I never got answers to those questions, but it did not stop me from feeling a connection to that person. Perhaps it was more of a connection to their situation, rather than the person, because if they were arriving by helicopter, they most likely were not in great shape. Whoever it was in that helicopter had an emergency and for the first time in my life I could identify with them.

I developed a newfound appreciation for people whose job it is to transport, via helicopter or ambulance, people who are in a medical emergency. Not surprisingly though, it was the helicopters that grabbed my attention as they flew toward the hospital, slowed down, and took one last perfect turn to line up with the roof of the hospital. I took a short video of one in February as I left the hospital one afternoon. Said a prayer, too.

 

London’s Emergency Extubation

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A distinct feeling came over me as I looked at Kate’s eyes, huge and unblinking, staring straight ahead at London, the feeling that I could say nothing and do nothing to comfort her. I had never felt this. Though there seemed to be little value in it, I stood next to her and put my arm around her shoulders and held her tight while we both looked on, wondering if we were watching London pass away in front of us.

Thirty minutes earlier Kate had been holding London. It was a less than comfortable kangaroo care for mom and daughter. London never seemed completely content on Kate’s chest. She would squirm every other minute and toward the end of Kate’s hold time, as we bumped up to another of London’s cares, London was desatting more than usual. Eileen, London’s primary that day, was not too concerned. Neither were we. London did this every once in a while and usually when we placed her back in the isolette or changed her position, she would stabilize.

We got London back in her bed and proceeded with her cares. She initially checked out fine, a little desatting still, but nothing too serious. We had moved on to her diaper change. London decided to fill up the new diaper before we even had it sealed, so we slid a freshie underneath that one and took the soiled one away. She did the same thing with the next diaper so we got a third. Her bowels were working just fine. Before we were able to seal up the third, London started to desat again, but the saturation number was dropping further and faster than we had previously seen. I saw it in Eileen, not panic, but a flicker of concern across her face that told me she seemed to know that turning around to crank up the oxygen on the ventilator was not what London needed at the moment.

I stood at the foot of London’s isolette and watched as Kate handed Eileen the resuscitation bag and mask as Eileen had requested. Eileen quickly placed it over London’s nose and mouth and began squeezing oxygen into London. There was no response. London’s saturation numbers were still dropping. Another nurse stepped up and asked Eileen if things were okay. I had heard nurses ask this of Eileen before, but had never heard Eileen request help until then. The second nurse came in and took Kate’s spot next to London. I took a step back, not wanting to be in the way, but probably out of fear as well. The nurses worked now with a sense of urgency we had not seen since London’s first minutes out of the womb.

London was not responding to anything, looking quite a bit more lifeless than a normal desatting episode. Not just her lips were blue, but her face was starting to turn ashen. More nurses had come to help. I am not aware of how many stood just outside of London’s pod, but I saw Eileen look at one and sternly say, “Go get the doctors.” Kate and I knew then that we would have to make way for more people in the pod. We stepped out to a position where we could still see London and the numbers on her monitor.

The doctors were at London’s isolette within seconds. They were talking fast. Eileen updating them on what had happened so far. I strained my head to see London’s face through the team around her bed. I got a glimpse of her body, she looked like she was shutting down. Her oxygen saturation number was a single digit and her heart rate was very low. I saw the fellow extubate London in what seemed like a half second. I strengthened my hold on Kate. We did not speak to each other, just stood, watching. Like the night London was born, my mind was in two places, there next to London’s pod, where I took in the frantic sight of my daughter’s life being saved, but also somewhere else, where I was cycling again and again through possible outcomes of all of this.

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London minutes after her emergency extubation, totally oblivious to what she had just put her parents through.

A resident approached us and calmly informed us that they were moving London to CPAP. A minute later London’s stats had rebounded halfway. Nothing was breaking my gaze from that monitor. Her numbers kept creeping up as a doctor explained to us what might have happened. Her endotracheal tube might have been out of place or she might have just clamped down on it somehow. They did not know for sure. The pod had cleared out somewhat and we took steps toward London. Eileen, stoic and so professionally cool, was there helping London back up.

London’s stats were almost back to normal. Her color was improving. She did not have a clue about what just happened because she was inexplicably calm. Kate held out her hands to grab London’s arms. I took a picture. The episode was over. Moments earlier there had been 8 to 10 people around London’s isolette, she was blue, and Kate and I were watching and crying. The whole event was probably over in 8 minutes, but it felt like 20 for us. I did not know if this was par for the course at the NICU. It certainly did not seem like it. Over the next three months I did not see or hear about any other emergency like this happening in the NICU. The whole matter was boiled down to one line in London’s discharge report, “She was extubated to bubble CPAP of 8 on DOL 23.”

As I left the NICU on DOL 23, I did not know what else to say to Eileen that afternoon. I had said thank you a couple of times and felt so dumb saying it. Couldn’t I have come up with anything else to say to the nurse who had just helped save my daughter’s life? That was all I had then so I walked out of the NICU for the afternoon, thinking about how I have watched London’s life saved twice now and distilling that down to its bare bones:

I am a dad.

My daughter is incredibly small and fragile.

I just watched 8 people save her life, like I had three weeks prior.

The weight of that hit me like a strong kick to the chest as I walked out the hospital’s main entrance. I lost my breath and inhaled deeply. Then I exhaled, holding back a wave of tears and emotion fighting to come out. And then, when that emotion overcame me, it came out as a big, deep whimpering sigh of relief followed by an upward glance to take in the beauty of the crisp, blue February sky. I thought, wow, what a ride. Never thought I’d be on a ride like this. Don’t know where it’s going. Don’t know how many ups and downs are left, but I just experienced the nadir of our NICU stay so far and perhaps one of its highest points, London stabilizing on CPAP, all in a matter of minutes.

I found myself asking, did that really just happen? What’s next? I did not even want to know. I was enjoying my victory walk that afternoon, trying as hard as I could to not think of the battle we would inevitably fight the next day or the one after that. One day at a time.

The First Hold

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Due to London’s umbilical artery catheter (UAC) line and her general fragility, we could not hold her until she was a bit stronger so the UAC line could come out. They pulled that line on February 10, a Monday, and we were told that the next day we would most likely get to hold our daughter for the first time. Just the thought of that was tear-jerking and, I admit, a little intimidating.

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A new and improved family portrait.

The next day everything went as planned. So it was on DOL 12, that we got to hold her for the first time. I wrote in our journal:

I teared up as I saw you placed on your mom’s chest. You are so fragile and small. So helpless. We are absolutely in love with everything about you. After mom held you for a couple hours, I got to hold you. Kate took an amazing photo with one of our phones. It’s the best photo of us together so far…We reached a new level of love and connection to you today and it was all because of getting to hold you and be with you as we were meant to be with you at your birth.

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The picture Kate took. My favorite.

That photo Kate took is still one of my favorites. It will be for the rest of my life. It is such an explicit reminder of London’s beginning. That day I barely had to provide support with one hand to hold London up on my chest. She is wearing the smallest diaper available at the NICU. We have a couple of those diapers (clean ones) in our keepsakes bag from the NICU. When we show them off, most women compare the size of the diaper to a maxi pad. Folded up, the diaper is about the size of a kleenex, albeit slightly thicker.

The first picture of all three of us with London out of her isolette was sent out to everybody that night we got home. From February 11th on, there was not a day in the NICU for London when she was not held by one of us. Another of my favorite pictures is below.

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When Kate held London for the first time was when Kate transcended all previous definitions of beauty I held. It’s a moment that will be with me for the rest of my days.

London’s Email Updates

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I sent the first of many emails updating family and friends about our situation at 2:43am on January 30th, one hour and nineteen minutes before London was born. It reads:

Hey Dear Friends,

We‘ve spent the night at the hospital because our little girl is coming early, really early. Kate felt some pain last night around 10 and we thought it necessitated a trip to the hospital. We are very thankful we came here because Kate’s water broke about an hour after we arrived. Kate is stable and the baby is doing okay for now, but Kate won’t be leaving the hospital until the baby is born. We don’t know exactly when that will be. It could be a day, weeks, or over a month.

We all need your prayers, happy thoughts, and whatever positive vibes you can send our way.

Love,

Bryce

Of course I had to send out another email very soon after that:

Update. The doctors needed to go forward with a c-section. Kate is doing great in recovery. Our daughter, London Grace Perica is also doing well. She was born at 4:02 this morning, 2 lbs 6 oz, 14.75 inches long. She’s stable. Very crucial period right now and I am so thankful for all your prayers and support.

Love,

The Perica Family

From that point on, email was the way to keep everyone in the loop regarding the many ups and downs of London’s NICU stay, but especially during those fragile first weeks. We received so many responses from these two small emails that it has taken me hours to scroll through them and the brief exchanges I had with some of you who asked specific questions about London’s health and how exactly you could support us through this time. The email conversations with some of you never stopped for the entire time we were in the NICU. Sitting down to write weekly updates about London’s progress or sometimes lack of progress was therapeutic for me. Writing the emails allowed me to calm down some after an especially frustrating or scary day. I wrote them next to London’s side, or during dinner at home, and sometimes they were the very last thing I did at night, tapping out emails on my iPhone in the dark with Kate sleeping beside me. It was a form of meditation. It is something that I would recommend to parents in a similar situation. Whether you are just emailing your parents or a huge group of friends, sending updates may trick you into thinking you are spreading the burden around. It may have had that effect on me.

Inevitably, I grew tired of sending out email updates about London in the NICU because all three of us just wanted the hell out. Writing the last update on May 22, three days after London came home was the best email I have ever sent. I have shared it below. Thank you for responding to emails throughout London’s stay and for reading further on this blog about her time in the NICU and raising her there and at home.

May 22, 2014, 11:34pm

Friends,

On Monday, after 109 days in the NICU, Kate and I walked out of the hospital with London. We were helped out to our car by one of our primary nurses, Megan, who was there the morning London was born and admitted to the NICU. By Monday, we had shed enough tears with Megan (and London’s 3 other primary nurses) throughout London’s NICU stay that there were only smiles on our faces as we loaded London into the car, hugged Megan goodbye, and drove home very carefully.

London has come home with an NG tube since she was not taking 100% of her milk through bottles. Kate and I both placed NG tubes in London before she was discharged. London has the tendency to yank them out so we need to know how to insert a new one. When necessary, we use a pump to give her the rest of her milk. She is on oxygen, as are most preemies in Colorado when they come home. At this point, it’s also necessary to hook her up to a monitor at night. Baby came home from the hospital with a lot of hardware, but we’ve got it all figured out.

London had a follow-up head ultrasound before discharge. We received the results on Monday before we left. The bleed in her brain has been completely reabsorbed. However, her ventricles are still enlarged. At this stage the doctors would like to see them a bit smaller, but they aren’t concerned enough at this point to do anything clinically. They will monitor her closely in follow-up appointments. At this point, we wait it out a little bit and hope the ventricles decrease in size. This was not 100% positive news, so it was a little unsettling to receive it the day we left, but it does not really change London’s outlook at this point. Other news we received before London was discharged…She had one more eye exam before going home. Her ROP continues to improve.

Though we are sure to face quite a few more challenges with London’s health and development, we are of the mindset that the biggest and scariest obstacle, the NICU stay, is behind us. Thus, I am finally ending this long email chain. Thank you so much for all the meaningful and loving replies and for your interest in London’s progress while she was in the NICU. Thank you for the prayers. It was always humbling to know how many people were lifting us up. I could say thank you for so many more things, but it would be a long, boring list, which would fall short of expressing our gratitude for you and the profound joy that has come to us in our little girl and finally getting her home.

Our Love,

bryce, kate, & london grace

Little London’s Nurses

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When I first met London’s primary NICU nurses I did not know just how special they would become to Kate and I. In hindsight, that I would come to think of them as extended family in a way was inevitable. NICU parents have to get away from the unit for their own health, but for many other reasons as well. Life goes on. Jobs don’t wait. Other responsibilities don’t disappear just because you find yourself in this incredibly hard situation. So, when it comes time to leave the hospital, you leave your preemie first and foremost in the hands of your NICU nurse. Of course, there is other support, other nurses on the floor, nurse practitioners, residents, fellows, and attendings, but the one who is on the front lines, the first responder, is the primary nurse for your child.

London had four primaries. From the start they were the most comforting, knowledgable, and loving people. They were her first, and they will always be her best, babysitters. They taught Kate and I most of what we know about raising a preemie. They explained every twist and turn of London’s treatments. I could go on and on and write a long list of the many things they did for London and for Kate and I, but why should I when I can just write this: they ushered me into parenthood with such grace that when it was time to leave the NICU with London it was hardest to say goodbye to them.

As I continue to write about the experience of having a preemie, I will write more about London’s nurses. But for now, I will end this short post with this thought that I had long before London was discharged:  London’s primaries are people who, no matter how well we stay in touch for years to come, I will treasure for the rest of my life because I will never forget the way London was introduced to this world and thus, I will never forget the people standing by her bed during that tumultuous beginning.

 

NICU Noises

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As we settled into the NICU routine we started to accustom ourselves to the environment there. The NICU is a far cry from a nursery (pun intended), but one thing we noticed right away were the noises. They came from everywhere. Every preemie is on a monitor and every monitor has the potential to make some very loud, annoying beeps. The NICU we were in can hold somewhere around 50 babies. Combined with the beeps from the monitors, the cries, the noises from the staff and the visiting families, there really is no quiet time in the NICU.

London’s monitor alone made four different noises. Right away, you learn to fear and hate the beep for a brady (short for bradycardia) when the baby’s heart slows and blood flow decreases, followed by dropping oxygenation levels. The noise itself leaves no room for peace. I suppose that is the goal. It gets everyone’s attention and makes you want to hit all the monitors in the place with a golf club. Good thing I am not a NICU nurse. It took a while to get used to the bradys. They sound like a horrible thing, and they can be, believe me, but bradys are quite common for preemies. London bradied quite a bit. Occasionally we had to rub her on the back a little bit to get her to snap out of it, but most of the time she climbed right back up into a normal range without any stimulation. There were days when London barely bradied at all, but then there were the horrible days where every baby in our corner of the NICU seemed to have made a pact to all brady at the same time or take turns. Like I said, a parent gets used to it, but you don’t quite realize how normal the bradys can become until you have visitors and your baby bradys while they are there. The visitors looked way more concerned than we did after a while, especially if they are in healthcare and are used to taking care of adults.

The noise for when the baby goes apneic, or stops breathing temporarily, is slightly different than the brady noise. Don’t worry though, when you hear it you will still want to jump out of your seat and break the monitor over your knee while simultaneously appreciating the notification that your daughter is not breathing. London did not have many apneic episodes and, when she did, they were mostly false alarms. The monitor would tell me London’s breathing at 2 breaths per minute, but her oxygenation was at 99. Note: just get clarification from your nurses about the quirkiness of the particular monitor your child is hooked up to.

_BKP2265The most common noise we heard from our monitor is for desaturation, aka desat, meaning there is a low blood oxygen concentration. London struggled with chronic lung disease throughout her NICU stay, so she desated a lot. Some days the alarm seemed like it was always on and the nurse would have to come into our pod every five to ten minutes to silence the alarm or tweak London’s ventilator settings. Not as alarming as the brady beep, but the desat beep had a way to bore itself into my brain. I would here it in a song on the drive back home from the NICU. I would hear it in my sleep. I would hear it come from the TV. It sends a strong message that your child is not oxygenating like she should be. It does not let you forget and it never leaves your head as long as you have a baby in the NICU.

The last noise is really the only happy noise your baby’s monitor makes. It’s a gentle beep that notifies those around your child that she is oxygenating very well, with levels around 98-100. If this is the case, then the oxygen can be titrated down to see if your baby continues to oxygenate well on a lower flow. For us, this noise was the rarest, but toward the end of London’s NICU stay we did start to hear it a little more often.

The main takeaway from this post: the NICU monitors are always making noise. Some are deeply alarming and others you shrug off after a few weeks. How do I know this? Because after a while the only alarm that could wake me up out of a little nap in London’s pod was the brady beep. In fact, the other noises can lull you into a little nap when you are stretched out in the recliner next to your baby’s pod. And then, BAM, a brady alarm makes sure you don’t get too comfortable.

Life Goes On, But Something Was Lost

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“I love you, my child. My Child. Still can’t believe it all. Wishing you were still safe inside me and that I could feel you. I miss you, little girl. Be strong.”

– From a letter Kate wrote to London on January 31, 2014. London was one day old.

 

I start today’s post with this quote because in a few sentences Kate conveys the sense of loss mother’s have when they have their baby so early. Sense of loss is somewhat misleading (London was stable in the NICU), but Kate knew and I knew that the safest place for London and also where she would still be developing the best was lost. That was not the only thing lost though. A full-term pregnancy was now just a dream.

Kate was just starting to look pregnant when London arrived. Our closet was full of maternity clothes waiting for months 7, 8, and 9. In fact, the day we got home from the hospital I helped Kate up the stairs and followed her into our room. Shortly thereafter, I heard Kate in our closet and walked in to see what was going on. Kate stood staring at a rack of maternity clothes with tears running down her face. I listened to Kate and held her. Seeing Kate so sad about not getting to wear these clothes even made me cry.

As a father, I do not know the sense of worry and loss a mother has when, without any warning, the human being growing inside of her is out over three months early and exposed to a world she wasn’t supposed to see until spring. But now, having a wife who has gone through that, I have a decent understanding of what that is like.

The sense of loss manifests itself in a variety of ways. One of the strongest, at least in the first week after London was born, but one that also fades over time, is how painful it is to see pregnant women who are full-term or damn near close. To be honest, both Kate and I hated seeing very pregnant women for a while. We were comforted to know this is completely normal. In the two days after London was born, we received a slew of emails, calls, texts, and cards from people who wanted to let us know that they were praying for us and for London. A few of those contacts had preemies themselves. And in one particular email, a mom wrote, “you will hate seeing very pregnant women.” She nailed it. We both did. One of the first days out of the hospital we went to Baby’s R Us to stock up on some breast pump supplies. There were couples everywhere and it seemed like every single woman was about to pop. It was extraordinarily tough. I ran out of dagger eyes to give.

Being bothered by the sight of very pregnant women was the product of our envy during those early days. I remember I would see a couple who is clearly having a baby very soon and think, damn, they’ve got it so easy. They really have no idea. Look how they’re wandering the aisles at Baby’s R Us without a care in the world. Of course, our attitudes have since changed and I no longer think that those soon-to-be parents had it so easy. Having a baby is a lot of work, no matter the gestational age at birth. However, if having a full-term, healthy baby was exactly the same as having a preemie, I would be lying to you and severely devaluing our experience, the experience of thousands more, and the NICU and everyone who has ever worked in one.

I am so sensitive at times to other people’s feelings that it took me a long time to realize that even though this is our first time around with a baby, I know it has been more difficult than if London had been born full-term. Sharing that in the months since London was born and even now, I feel sort of like a jerk because it boils down to me saying, “Well, we have had it quite a bit harder than you.” I know that can sound like I am devaluing the difficulty of having a full-term baby, but that is not my intention. I am just trying to speak truth from our experience and that of the other parents in the NICU right now, who also know that with the littlest life they were blessed with comes the most terrifying and stressful days of their lives and the knowledge that although life goes on, something has been lost.

Super Bowl Night in the NICU

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*For the most part I am trying to post about the NICU events chronologically to avoid confusion, but I have skipped ahead in writing about the day Kate and I came home from the hospital. Now, I’m jumping back a day, to the stretch of time all three of us were still spending our nights at the hospital.

Kate's mom and Kate's sister (Angela) pose next to London's isolette before they depart.

Kate’s mom and Kate’s sister, Angela (at right) pose next to London’s isolette before they depart.

It was Super Bowl Sunday. February 2, 2014. It was also the first day London got an echocardiogram (or echo). It revealed that she had a PDA, aka a patent ductus arteriosus, which the NIH describes as this, “The ductus arteriosus is a blood vessel that allows blood to go around the baby’s lungs before birth. Soon after the infant is born and the lungs fill with air, the ductus arteriosus is no longer needed. It usually closes in a couple of days after birth. If the vessel doesn’t close, it is referred to as a PDA.”

PDAs are not an unusual condition for preemies to have. Girls are more likely to have them as well. Sometimes the PDA naturally closes and other times drugs are necessary to encourage closure. If the PDA is large and resisting drug treatment then surgery is an option. The staff at the hospital was very good in describing the treatment options we had and the prognosis. We decided to treat it with drugs, which are similar to ibuprofen, hoping it would seal up on its own. That same day we decided to stay in the hospital one more night. We loved being just steps from London. Going home didn’t mean we would be so far away, but for one more night we could be across the hall.

Kate’s family left this day as well, but Kendra stayed an extra day. With London resting well, it was time to for

Hanging with London during the Super Bowl.

Hanging with London during the Super Bowl.

me to go home and prep for the game. I brought back bean dip and smuggled in a couple of beers for myself and a cosmo I made for Kate, the first martini she had after giving birth to London. There was also a bottle of Prosecco. Sadly, smuggling the drinks into the room was more exciting than the Super Bowl itself. I knew it was just the first snap of the game, but I had a gut feeling the Broncos were screwed. From there, things just sort of went downhill. I held on until halftime, but then I wandered over to London’s room and just looked at her, this is something you do a lot of when your kid is in the NICU. Sometimes it is all that you can do. Stand and stare. Worry. Marvel. Pray. Take pictures, like I did that night. Try to let them know you are there, but at the same time wonder if it is really making a difference. To just be present in body, mind, and soul is the best thing you can do for your baby at this stage, but it is the most exhausting thing I have ever done. More on that and the PDA to come…

 

Hospital on the Horizon

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Before London, I never really liked being in a hospital for any reason. Even if I was there for a flu shot or to pick Kate up from work. I only saw hospitals through a narrow, ignorant lens. I thought they were places where sick people go to stay for a while and at the end of their stay those lucky enough to leave are still sick or don’t know why they are sick. Those without the luck, arrive at a hospital and stay there until their death. This is a morbid way to think about a place designed to get you better, but I had this view for a couple reasons.

When your spouse works in a hospital they tend to convey some sad stories to you about things they have seen at the hospital. The stories could be worse depending on what unit they work in. For example, stories from the outpatient wing probably aren’t going to be as horrific as some from oncology. Well, I used to hear some pretty sad stories and they were very difficult to hear. I did not hear enough of the good stories because I always found myself thinking, how could you work at a place like that? How depressing. So when I would go into a hospital I would maybe just choose to see the very sick and that made hospitals nearly impossible to be in.

And then I got very sick in 2007…The short story about that experience is this. I had a bunch of weird things happening to me, headaches, Bells Palsy, partial, but temporary hearing loss in one ear, and iritis were among the most troubling issues. I had a CT, an MRI, X-rays, blood draws of all sorts, and I spoke with a lot of doctors and specialists. I never received a diagnosis. I got better, but I could not attribute that to treatment I received at a hospital, except for the steroids for the Bells Palsy and later for the iritis. I probably had a virus of some sort that was working its way through my body. Doctors never knew when it would be over. They couldn’t tell me what it was. And all those tests…negative. I had a big scare and I felt like it was just dumb luck that I got better, when really my body finally overcame whatever serious bug was screwing everything up.

My opinion of hospitals changed very quickly in January. The morbid thoughts were, for the most part gone. Of course I worried for the health of my wife and daughter, but for the first time the hospital was no longer a place where you go to die. It was a place of healing, of miracles. It was where you went to live. Even the sight of the building became a comfort to me. This particular hospital is huge and easy to see from many parts of Denver and so, when I wasn’t at the hospital with London, I could often look to the horizon and see her home and know that she was surrounded by the most professional and loving staff I could have ever dreamed of. This was our family’s fortress now. Not all rooms in it have a happy story to tell. Hope is sometimes scarce in this place, but I knew of an OR tucked away on the fourth floor where not just lives were saved, but dreams, hopes, and a future were salvaged because of a hospital. I will never think of them the same way.

Letter to London On My 31st Birthday, Her Day 4

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Dear London,

You will remain for the rest of my life, the best birthday gift I have received. I did not expect to become a dad at 30. I thought I had a few more months, a little more time to prepare for your arrival. IMG_2967

On this birthday, your mom and I checked out of the hospital. It was extraordinarily tough leaving there without you, but getting home did make us smile. We can’t wait to bring you here. Aunt Kendra cleaned up the entire house. There was a giant balloon that said, “Baby Girl!” (a note from the present day: the baby girl balloon was still aloft, but slightly deflated, three months later when we finally disposed of it) and there were two smaller balloons that read, “Happy Birthday!” and “Welcome Home.”

Kendra left a birthday cake in the fridge for us too. It was about as good as a homecoming could have been without you there.

Your  mom and I were very tired so we fell right asleep for a nap before Nana and Papa arrived. Their arrival woke us up. I brought them upstairs aIMG_2968nd we all talked about you for a while in our room before we went downstairs for dinner. During our meal, I retold the story of your birth and what it was like seeing you for the first time.

After dinner, we took Nana and Papa to meet you. They instantly fell in love with you. Nana called you a miracle and of course they both shed tears. After a while we prayed over you, like we have been doing every night since you first arrived.

We eventually went home. What I want you to know about home on my birthday and, until the day you come home, is that it is just a shell where we eat and sleep. It is incomplete without you. Our hearts are always besides yours at the NICU. Here at home, we fall asleep trying to fill the void with videos and pictures of you. And then we dream of you. Sometimes we cannot sleep because of the worry at our core for you. As soon as we wake, you are our only concern. Our home’s potential is latent. We bought it just weeks ago with you in mind and it is only you who will make it what we so badly want it to be.

Goodnight London.

Why Was London Early?

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*In which I try to fill in some medical details I left out of the posts regarding London’s birth.

The doctors never exactly figured out why London was born early. London’s premature birth may or may not have been related to a very small blood clot seen in one ultrasound quite a few weeks before London was born, but the doctors never seemed overly concerned with what they saw.

We don’t know why Kate started to have contractions, but we were very thankful we went to the hospital when they started. As noted in an older post, once Kate’s water broke we knew things were very serious, but we learned shortly after her water broke that doctors can successfully put fluid back into the uterus so the baby is once again protected. They tried this for Kate and, obviously, it didn’t work.

The next option the doctors had was to simply stabilize London and Kate so they could theoretically rest for a week, hopefully, until London was delivered. This would have given London a huge boost. She could have received all the benefits of betamethasone, which would have drastically strengthened her for the outside world and would have better protected her from the stresses of delivery.

London’s heart rate kept dropping due to her funic presentation, this is “where the umbilical cord points toward the internal cervical os or lower uterine segment.” In the most serious cases, this can lead to an umbilical cord prolapse. This is when the umbilical cord “protrudes into the cervical canal,” and why London’s heart rate would occasionally drop due to Kate’s contracting cervix. A medical website describes the situation as “an obstetric emergency that in a viable fetus necessitates an expeditious delivery.” The same medical website, radiopaedia.org, reports that umbilical cord prolapse occurs in 0.2 to 0.5% of all pregnancies.

So we will never know what set this all in motion, but we do have a clear reason why London needed to come out as quickly as possible. On January 30th, had we not been near a hospital that could perform an “expeditious delivery,” I would not be here today writing about raising London. Kate and London’s treatment in the hospital was miraculous, a true marvel, but it was just as miraculous to us that we were a ten-minute drive from a top-of-the-line NICU.

London’s Birth: Part XII, Mom meets Daughter

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*This is another post in an ongoing series. Scroll all the way down or click to part I to get to the beginning.

We had to wait to go see London until Kate’s nurse came in and checked up on her. We had heard it was a male nurse and we were initially uncomfortable with that, but we were somewhat relieved once he came in and introduced himself and started to talk about what things he would look for. He was a dad himself. Very short hair, pretty much bald, and of average height with a warm demeanor. He was going to apply pressure to Kate’s stomach to feel for the top of the uterus. He would also check for blood coming out of Kate, which so soon after the C-section was completely normal. He would also handle the catheter and switch out the bag if full. He did all that and I thought he did an exceptional job. The uncomfortable feeling was gone and we were just minutes away from getting to go see London together for the first time.

The nurse and I helped Kate into the wheelchair. It was a very slow process, but the nurse seemed impressed by Kate’s progress, having been stitched up just four hours earlier. Once Kate was ready to roll, we were off.

I knew Kate would be happy to see London for the first time, but I was a bit nervous, hoping she wouldn’t break down. There was absolutely nothing I could say to Kate to prepare her for the sight of her daughter.

As we arrived at London’s isolette, Kate reached out to delicately put her finger in London’s hand and she whispered her very first words to London, “Hi, baby girl.” That was all she got out before we both were tearing up and looking on London with wonder and fear, a combination of feelings that is right at home in the NICU.

After some time, we were composed enough for a picture, our first family portrait. I handed my iPhone over to Megan and she captured the moment. It was 8:58 in the morning. London is sprawled out in the foreground. The top of her isolette is popped open. ThereIMG_2912 are tubes of varying widths coming out of her and wandering all over her tiny little bed. The white sticker on her right cheek is visible (it’s holding her endotracheal tube in place). Kate is right behind London, with her right index finger in London’s right hand. Kate is still in a hospital gown and has a blue bag on her lap in case she loses her breakfast. I am crouched behind Kate with my left arm resting on the back of the wheelchair. We both have masks on, but you can tell we are beaming behind them. Kate’s eyes are squinty, a tell that she has a huge smile on her face. In the background, over Kate’s left shoulder, you can see some nurses, who were strangers then, but who are nearly family now.

We weren’t with London that long before we had to get Kate back and comfortable in bed. We still hadn’t slept at all. Resting at this point was very important for Kate’s recovery. Shortly after we left London’s side, we shared that family portrait with family and then on Instagram and Facebook. And now, here.

London’s Birth: Part XI, Changing a diaper on a two-pound baby

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*This is another post in an ongoing series. Scroll all the way down or click to part I to get to the beginning.

While in the waiting room a doctor came in to talk with us about London’s condition. She sounded positive, being clear to us about what our expectations should be. We had to stay there for a while until Kate’s room was ready. When it was time, I helped push her bed over to the new room with nurse Amy, from earlier in the evening. We were on the fourth floor, facing south over the main entrance to the hospital. Kate was a little disappointed we didn’t have a mountain view. If you looked off to the right you could see the mountains bending southward, but it wasn’t very majestic like it would have been with an unobstructed view west.

I was able to go be with London once more before Kate was ready to head over there. That’s when I met nurse Megan and the new employee she was training, Laura. They were immediately helpful and gave me so much information I couldn’t keep track of it all. They pointed to line after line telling me what it was and using acronyms that I quickly forgot. “This is where she is getting her TPN.” “This is the PICC line.”

London was in her isolette, which was ridiculously hot and humid inside. Megan started to tell me about these things called “cares.” They are at certain times of the day, every four hours to be exact, and that is when we would take London’s temperature, change her diaper, listen to her, poke and prod and make sure she is doing well. Megan and Laura were just about to start and asked me if I wanted to jump in and take her temperature and change her diaper. Megan emphasized that if I was not ready, she could do it this time. This surprised me, but I did not take her up on that offer, I said, “I can do it. Just coach me through it.”

They showed me the one button on the isolette I was allowed to touch. It activated a heat shield so when I opened the little openings for my arms to go into the isolette it did not cool off in there. They gave me a thermometer and told me that I will take her temp in her armpit. They showed me how by placing the thermometer and holding her arm against the side of her chest. I put my hands in the isolette and immediately noticed the jungle like feel to the air in there. I had not touched London yet. I was so afraid. I felt like a simple touch of her arm would snap it. Because I felt that way I was much too gentle with her and failed to get a good temp reading. I didn’t have the thermometer truly in her armpit. The nurses corrected me and told me I could be a little firmer with her. They were right. London was so small and looked extremely fragile, but I could apply enough pressure to get the job done correctly without causing her any harm.

I had changed diapers before, but never on a two-pound baby in an isolette with really low arm openings for someone who is 6’9” and with intimidating wires and tubes everywhere. At this stage, London’s skin was so delicate that I could only touch and release with my hand or finger. I could not rub her skin because of the risk of it breaking and sloughing off. Yeah, that was easy to remember. Do not rub your daughter’s skin off. Check.

My hands are not monstrously big, but they fit my frame, so one of them could completely cover London’s body. During the diaper change I was using giant tools for a micro job, but because of the nurse’s help I changed London’s diaper. The nurse said, “Once you learn to change a diaper on a preemie like this, every diaper will seem easy.” I knew she had a point. This was harder and slower going than any diaper change I had ever done or thought I would ever have to do. Megan wrapped up the rest of London’s cares. I walked back to Kate’s room, thankful that when I returned to London’s side I would be with her mom and we would all be together for the first time.

London’s Birth: Part X, Into the NICU

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*This is another post in an ongoing series. Scroll all the way down or click to part I to get to the beginning.

Right outside the double doors the charge nurse introduced herself. She guided me through a winding path of at least sterile-looking hospital hallways. Now was as good a time as any, “Can I get a new mask?”

“Of course,” she said, stopping at a counter and getting me one and several tissues. I pulled my mask away and took a peek at the inside, not a pretty sight.

I followed the charge nurse to a pod. Each baby in the NICU we were walking into stays in a pod, not a room necessarily, but more like a cubicle with walls nearly to the ceiling. We walked the length of the NICU, took a left and there was London, skinny, vented, cleaned, and holding on. The doctors kept telling me she was receiving surfactant, which is a mixture of fat and proteins made in the lungs, but preemies are often born before their lungs can produce enough surfactant. The mixture coats the alveoli, or air sacs in the lungs, and this prevents the alveoli from sticking together when the baby exhales. A nurse said London’s lungs were like a hardened sponge right now, not ready for life outside the womb.

I stood there for five to ten minutes, all the while an occasional nurse and doctor would tell me about what they are doing or what they plan on doing. I did not retain that much. I was just locked to my daughter and I was in sort of an emotionless state, unable to fully register the last six hours. I was thinking enough to take my phone out and snap a picture of her. I was hesitant to get close. I had the same feeling I had earlier in the OR, stepping up to the bedside and taking a picture of London meant I was getting closer to her. I was letting my guard down. I was starting to realize that five and a half months ago we embraced the idea of creating a life we ultimately had no control over. The unknown and deeply frightening future belonging to my daughter was coming into sharp focus. I took two quick pictures. London with a full head of hair turned to her left, eyes fused shut, gaping mouth with the endotracheal tube snaking out of it, monitors on her chest, blood pressure cuff and pulse ox on right arm, umbilical chord clamped shut, plastic covering her lower body to keep it humid, and a nurse’s blue-gloved hand holding her legs down. I said a quick prayer when I took the picture, please God, do not let this be the only picture I get to take of her.

Sometime later, the team was prepping London to place a peripherally inserted central catheter or PICC line and an umbilical catheter. They told me it was a good time to go check on Kate because they would be working for a while. I thought that sounded great. I took a picture of London’s pod number, “Pod 3, 423,” not knowing if I would be able to find my way back or if I would need that information later on. I started stepping away from the pod and realized I had no clue where Kate was now. Someone took me to a room, which looked like it was used to just house patients in limbo who might be fresh out of surgery and do not have a room to go to. There were four hospital beds and four curtains, but none of them were drawn. Kate was the only patient there. She looked great to me because she was still here, conscious, and strong, but she looked amazingly tired, which is to be expected. I know I looked like hell. We chatted about London and where she was placed in the NICU, what they were doing to her, her weight and height. 2 lbs, 6oz and 14.75 inches long.