Page 116 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

The door opens again. This time it’s Mackenzie with the wheelchair.

Dr. Ford motions to the wheelchair. “You can contact me with any questions after you’ve seen him. The NICU nurses will also be very helpful in getting you the information you need.”

“Thank you, doctor,” I say as Mackenzie and I help Regan into the wheelchair. Mackenzie gets behind it, but I urge her out of the way. “I’ve got it.”

Regan cranes her neck and smiles at me.

“Right this way,” Mackenzie says.

We’re led through a set of double doors that Mackenzie has to use her badge to open. We approach another door with a sign to the right that reads Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

Intensive Care.My son needs intensive care. My stomach turns at the thought of him struggling in any way.

A woman wearing scrubs with teddy bears on them comes through the door. She’s vaguely familiar. Then again, in a town this size almost everyone is. “I’m Christa,” the woman says. “I’ll be your son’s day-shift nurse for the next few days. Kayla will be here in a few hours. She’s the night-shift nurse tonight. “Do you mind if I see your ID bands?”

We both hold out our arms and Christa scans the code.

“You’ll have to show these every time you come in here, even when all the nurses know you. It’s a security measure.”

“Understood,” I say.

Mackenzie leaves us and Christa leads us to a wall with two sinks, one regular height, and one lower so a person in a wheelchair like Regan can use it. “You’ll wash up every time you come in. It’s important to keep germs out of the NICU, not just for your son, but for all the babies.” She points to a carton of alcohol wipes. “If you plan to use your phone for photos, please go ahead and sanitize it here. Also, put it in airplane mode so it doesn’t interfere with any electronics. And turn it to silent.”

Christa sanitizes the handles of the wheelchair as we wash our hands. I’m not sure I’ve ever washed them so thoroughly.

“Do you mind?” Christa says, touching one of the handles of the wheelchair. “There’s lots of medical equipment.”

I step aside and let her take over. She presses a button on the wall and the automatic doors open.

Sounds immediately bombard me. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I mean, there are fragile preterm babies in here. I assumed it would be quiet and serene. This is anything but.

Regan looks up at me. She’s obviously thinking the exact same thing.

It’s all so surreal as we walk through the large, bright, loud room filled with incubators. Two of them are empty. The otherfour have babies of various sizes. A couple I recognize as Sam and Kendall Willis are standing over one and talking with a nurse or doctor. Dang, I knew they were expecting, but not for a while. Their baby must be even earlier than Mitchell. Sam sees us pass and lifts his chin at me. I do the same, noticing his red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks.

Christa was right, there’s tons of medical equipment attached to every incubator. The sounds all around us are a combination of beeps, voices, and humming of ventilators. Several staff are conversing over another incubator. A young girl, maybe even a teenager, is sitting in a rocking chair holding a tiny baby with tubes coming out every which way. A nurse hovers closely.

An alarm sounds, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“That’s not him,” Christa says quickly as a different nurse rushes by and goes to an incubator we already passed. “That’s Little Hulk.”

“Um… did you say Hulk?”

She smiles. “We give all our babies nicknames here. Little Hulk is small but mighty.” She thumbs to the left. “That there is Cuddle Bug because she loves being held and won’t let go of your finger. The little princess at the front is Tiny Tornado. She keeps us on our toes.”

“What have you named Mitchell?” Regan asks.

“We haven’t yet. He’s only been here thirty minutes. He’ll earn his nickname in a day or so when we get to know him better.”

Christa pushes Regan up next to the last incubator in the row. My gaze falls immediately inside it. And my fucking heart plummets into my stomach.

“Oh my god,” Regan gasps. “I thought Dr. Ford said he was okay.”

“He’s doing well,” Christa says. “Don’t let all the tubes and wires upset you. These here are his EKG leads. This is his oxygen saturation monitor. The nasal cannula is providing him supplemental oxygen. And the other tube is a nasogastric tube for feeding.”

Regan looks up, clearly as distressed as I am. “I can’t nurse him?”

Christa shakes her head. “Not quite yet. You can pump and we’ll feed him through the tube. Once he’s more stable, we can feed him through a high-flow bottle. Breastfeeding takes a lot of energy, and the little ones wear out quickly.”

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