This article is a continuation from Premature Panic – Hitting Rock Bottom

Lori and I were sitting in the cafeteria when her cell phone rang. It was the doctor calling from upstairs in the NICU. She told us that the PICC line procedure was successful, and they confirmed by x-ray that the placement was good.

Finally, some good news. Now Caitlin could get her five antibiotics, total parenteral nutrition (TPN) and lipids via one intravenous line; and, more importantly, the IV sticking out of the top of her head, inserted into her soft spot, could be removed. Looking at that thing sticking out of her head was one of the few things that truly made me squirm!

The doctor said that Caitlin was resting after the surgery, but we could come up and visit with her now. We quickly finished eating, then headed back upstairs to the unit.

When we got to her area inside of the NICU, the first thing we noticed was a sign posted to keep people away: “Stop – Contact Restriction Area.” There were gloves and disposable yellow gowns for everyone to wear, including the nurses. Lori and I each put one on and went to Caitlin.

She still had some reddish residue on her sides and arm from the iodine swabs used to sterilize the area around the PICC line insertion point. The nurse said I could use some sterile water and a pad to clean it off of her. While I was doing that, Lori held her hand, tried to encourage her, and, periodically, cried at the site of our little girl in so much pain.

Caitlin winced at nearly every touch. She would crinkle up her forehead, squeeze her eyes and stiffen her legs. Her belly was particularly tender, and they asked us to limit our contact with her to just her hands. It was obvious she was in excruciating pain.

After about an hour, the nurse consulted with the doctor about giving Caitlin a dose of pain medication so she could rest peacefully for a while. The doctor agreed and wrote an order for Fentanyl, which is a member of the morphine family yet many times stronger. The medication was administered, and Caitlin seemed to relax. Within a few minutes, she drifted off to sleep.

This gave Lori and I a chance to relax for a bit too. Until….

“Hey Lori – I’ve got to go to the bathroom; I’ll be right back,” I said, and I started to walk away. Just then, the bells started going off like crazy on Caitlin’s monitor. I looked around and all of the nurses were busy with other babies. I went back to Caitlin’s area, opened the curtain and immediately noticed Caitlin turning blue - she wasn’t breathing!

“Shit! Lori get the nurse, NOW!” I said. She ran out of the area and got our nurse. I instinctively picked Caitlin partially up and began patting and rubbing her back vigorously, trying to get her to breathe. The screen on the monitor said Apnea, which I’m pretty sure is Latin for ‘Oh Shit, I need air right f#cking now!’

“C’mon baby girl, breathe! Breathe!“ I yelled.

Within seconds, the nurse came over and pulled Caitlin straight up in bed; patted her back a few times harder than I was; put her back down; and, then she got the hand respirator out and began artificial respiration.

Several more nurses and doctors rushed over, and we were caught up in the middle of a flurry of activity to revive her. It was like in the movies when everything turns into slow motion: voices slur, noises fade, the world is moving yet you are standing perfectly still. I was focused on one thing, and that thing was my little girl Caitlin.

Unfortunately for me, in that moment, it brought back a rush of memories buried deep in my heart and mind. It was like a tempest of emotions swirling around my head, clouding my ability to process exactly what was going on in front of me. You see, I’ve been here before. I lived this scene 16 years ago, with my first daughter Laney.

Laney was born with hypoplastic left heart syndrome. At the time, the only solution given to us was a heart transplant; however, I understand that there are other options available now, depending on the severity of the condition. This story does not have a happy ending.

The final scene I witnessed was exactly like the one I was in now, only Laney died.

When I looked at Caitlin, it was hard for me not to see Laney. It was a dark moment for me.

I could feel myself starting to shut down completely. Lori cries when she is upset; I just get numb and, sometimes, angry. When Laney died, I was numb for years. My emotions, my empathy, my optimism were all gone, buried with the memory of that little angel deep inside of me. I couldn’t go through that again.

Reality kicked back in, and we were forced to snap out of our stupor. Two nurses shuttled us to a private room in the lobby, while the doctors stayed busy working on Caitlin. The nurses went around the entire NICU and asked all of the visiting parents to leave. I held Lori in the doorway – she was sobbing with her head in my chest – while the processional of parents walked by with their heads hung low and not saying a word. I don’t think I could have said anything either; everyone was scared that something like this could happen to their child too.

The next hour went by very slowly. The doctors and nurses worked on Caitlin. Lori and I sat in the room, holding each other’s hands while praying for a miracle.

“She’s going to be alright, isn’t she?” Lori asked, in between the tears.

“Yes honey, she’s going to be alright – they’re going to take care of her – she’ll be alright,” I said.

The truth was, though, I didn’t know what was going to happen. All the memories of the past were clouding my mind. I needed to focus, and it took everything I had to force the bad memories from the past back into their little lock box in my heart.

“Caitlin is not Laney,” I kept telling myself.

“God, you already have one of my kids,” I thought with a mixture of anger and fear, “you don’t need another one!”

The spectrum of emotions I felt were irrational and overwhelming, so instead of indulge them, like I said before, I just shut them down and focused on Lori instead.

“Everything is going to be alright,” I said, “you’ll see – Caitlin is going to be just fine!”

Once again, Lori and I found ourselves sitting alone in a room, waiting for word from the doctor to tell us that everything was really going to be OK with Caitlin.

But, was it going to be OK…..

I’ll post more about our story soon. In the meantime, feel free to get caught-up by reading the Related Posts below and see pictures of our baby girl Caitlin Arielle.

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