“You’ll take him home and he’ll be just like any other baby,” the neurologist said.
As we looked ahead to the day Theo would leave the hospital, the staff at the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU, “nick-yoo”) all seemed in a gentle but firm conspiracy to ground us in reality and help prepare us to become the parents we needed to be. Everyone referred to us as “Mom” and “Dad.” The nurses kept telling me what a beautiful baby Theo was. The scaffolding of doctor appointments and the beginning of home visits for early intervention services had been scheduled and prepared. I felt lucky to work for a company that gave three months of maternity leave.
“Just like any other baby.” The doctor meant to be reassuring, but it sounded chilling. Theo would be “just like” any other baby—but he really wasn’t. And he’d seem just like any other baby—but for how long? There was no blueprint for this, no way to know what exactly would happen.
On the second day Theo was in the children’s hospital, we heard more about what had happened and possible outcomes. The doctors explained to us that since MRI technology was relatively new, it had not been that long ago that these kinds of events had occurred without being able to see the effects on brain activity. There was not a large body of research for predicting outcomes.
They explained that Theo might be blind, since the damage had occurred to the occipital lobes, which control vision, though that was not known to be a likely outcome. He might be unable to walk or talk. He might have cerebral palsy. He might have developmental delays and learning disabilities. He might exhibit “autistic-like” behavior. We had a meeting with one doctor especially about mental retardation, as it was still called then.
In terms of timing, the neurologist said we should have a better picture by preschool. “Preschool? You mean by the end of kindergarten?” I said, but it turned out that she meant by the age of three.
While I tried to grapple with this influx of information amid an ongoing feeling of unreality, for my mother the situation was simple.
“There is a gray-haired woman holding Theo,” a nurse said to me slightly nervously while we were in a meeting in an inner room of the NICU. “It must be my mother,” I said. Visitors were limited to two at a time aside from the parents. Everyone had to pause before the entrance to wash their hands, reminded by a large sign saying, “Don’t hesitate! It’s a Neonate!” Once through the door, visitors were supposed to notify someone of who they were and who they were there to see. But my mother had walked in, scooped up Theo, and seated herself in the rocking chair next to the crib, looking down at him adoringly.
It's not love that is complicated; it’s life.
Next: Post-it Reminders: Overtalking
Love is so simple. For me it’s as natural s breathing. It’s when life keeps throwing curveballs that it feels like loving is hard.
Loving the child that throws things at you. Uses such awful profanity…. You wonder to yourself “why and how can I love this person?” But we do. We figure things out. We let it roll off our shoulders. We cry alone. We pull up our big girl pants to love them another day. Over and over. Unconditionally. Cuz that’s how we roll