A young mother tells us the story of her very premature baby son, Brandon Ricardo, who still continues to struggle for his very life. At birth, he weighed only 12 ounces, as much as a can of soda pop.
I sit here in the N.I.C.U. ward, and I am physically, spiritually, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. I have been here for over a week, sitting at the bedside of my impossibly tiny little son, Brandon Ricardo, who still is fighting valiantly for his tiny life.
Brandon was born 4 months too early, and he was born just 1 1/2 weeks ago. I am starting to feel a little better, but I am wondering why my little one had to be born so early. He wasn't supposed to be born until August; it is only April, and he was born way before his scheduled due date. Now he lies here in the N.I.C.U., struggling for his very life, and it kills me to see him struggling for each and every breath.
Doctors don't know if Brandon will ever get out of the hospital alive--or without some sort of physical or mental damage. He was born so sick, so premature, and he is at risk at developing serious problems as a direct result of his earlier-than-expected birth. In the meantime, I sit here, at the N.I.C.U., closely watching my little son, scared and uncertain as to what his future may hold--that is, if he even HAS one.
When born, Brandon weighed just 12 ounces, only as much as a can of soda pop--and is just about as big. He is incredibly tiny, and he is so small he only takes up a very small space on the warming table he is lying on; and he is hooked up to a myriad of tubes and wires that monitor his temperature, blood pressure, oxygen levels, pulse, and other important vital signs. So far, he has managed to stay alive this long, but he has had spells of apnea, where he has stopped breathing, but then the nurses have been so good at getting him breathing again; and they have been watching him like a hawk. He is susceptible to infections, and any little problem can crop up unexpectedly. In fact, I am just waiting until the bottom falls out; and I am scared to death at leaving Brandon behind, for fear that he is going to "crash" on me and die when I am not there, by his side; and that would positively, absolutely, KILL me!
Brandon may be hooked up to tubes, and he may be incredibly tiny, but to me he is the prettiest little baby I have ever seen. He looks just like his daddy, Marco (he has his daddy's nose, hair, and mouth), but he has my long, tapered fingers and toes, my eyes, and delicate body structure. He has a headful of fuzzy, black hair that sticks straight up, and he is the cutest little thing I have ever seen in my life!
~LATER~
Oh, God..what have they DONE? What is going on with my little Brandon? Why is he looking so bad?
I had just stepped out for a minute, to go down the hall, to get a drink, and I heard the call go out over the intercom, the call that meant that a baby in the N.I.C.U. was in serious trouble. I heard the call, "Code Blue, N.I.C.U; Code Blue, N.I.C.U.; all help to N.I.C.U., STAT!", and right away, I felt my heart drop to my toes. When I got to the entryway of the N.I.C.U., I was horrorfied to find a slew of doctors and nurses surrounding the bedside of a tiny baby, and..it happened to be my little son, Brandon. They were working on him, and they were valiantly trying to bring him back to life. He had apparently stopped breathing, and the alarms were screaming, making my ears ring; and the very noise of the alarms pierced my innermost soul. I felt for sure that Brandon was dead, or was quickly dying.
Luckily, despite the fact that Brandon had "coded" and had stopped breathing, they managed to "bring him back", and he was now alive; but he was in a very serious way; and to look at him caused the tears to flow anew. He lay on his back, his small chest was punctured and bloodied, and his mouth was open in what appeared to be a scream of pain. His little arms were bruised and bleeding, and his tiny little body was restrained with straps and was trembling uncontrollably. I wanted to reach over and pick up his battered little body and hold him in my arms and take him away from all of this torture and pain he was having to endure; but I knew I coulld not. He was way too sick, and way too fragile, to leave the N.I.C.U., and he was still way too tiny to withstand any more trauma. I felt a rush of guilt and fear consume my body, and in spite of trying, I could not stop the fresh torrent of tears that poured from my eyes as I wept over the demise of my little boy. He didn't deserve to be born so soon, and I felt that it was my fault that I had gone into premature labor when I had fallen over the cat. I didn't think that my little boy didn't need to suffer so badly, and I was at once angry at God, angry at myself, angry at the hospital for torturing my child, and I was even angry at Brandon for bringing me such worry and stress to me. I didn't need all this fear, and I wanted my son to live; but at the same time, as I looked at his broken, beaten little body, I was wishing that Brandon would die so he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. Only a baby, and yet he had suffered more than most people do in their entire lifetime. It didn't make any sense at all, and it still doesn't.
You captured the feeling and thoughts of a mother of a sick child very well, as far as I am concerned. Exceptional Write! I couldn't have done it better myself.
ohhhh, karen...this is a very descriptive, dramatic story...can't wait to read more...it grabbed my attention and wouldn't let go...well done! (((HUGS))) and love, karla. :)
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