One Day at a Time
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Oh Baby!
The NICU (Newborn ICU) at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital is a quite a sight to behold upon first glances and discoveries. State of the art and secure, the unit itself has room for more little patients than most post-natal wards. Aside from the sheer elegance of the hospital staff and obvious organizational aptitude fortified by this group of elite caregivers, you can’t help but feel awed by the observable responsibility placed on these nurses and doctors on a day-to-day basis. Upon closer examination of one of the more critical incubators within the ward, anyone can immediately see what I’m talking about (you can distinguish the more critical cases by the exorbitant amount of wires and IVs running in and out of the plastic box). The average newborn that will spend at least three months in the NICU is no larger than a size-eleven foot and has a footprint no larger than an average adult thumbprint. Interestingly and in all practicality, the size of the baby is inversely proportional to the amount of tubes, wires, and IVs aiding the infant in his or her daily fight for survival. For me the most hauntingly vivid image is that of the tube that must be inserted in the tiny infant’s throat to pressurize the lungs to prevent alveolar collapse.
Understandably, the picture looks bleak, especially for the new parents who exit the NICU sobbing and struggling to speak and breathe at a normal tone as they validate their hospital parking passes and head home for yet another night just to wonder if they will have a newborn to visit the next day. Surprisingly though, this NICU has a better than ninety percent survival rate which is a huge testament to the undermanned and underappreciated nursing and administrative staffs who work enormous blocks of time per work shift. These are the nurses that I have the privilege of witnessing for a few volunteered hours of my free time each weekend. On one instance I observed a nurse inform the parents of a newly-admitted infant that they had to insert an IV into their child’s forehead for lack of being able to find another vein that could substantially transport needed nutrients and medication. The tact and reserve of this particular individual was not only evident by her own actions but also by the parents’ overtly calm acceptance of this news as they courageously stepped in to the unit to see their son for the first time after delivery.
To complement their professionalism and expertise, the NICU staff is explicitly dedicated to keeping the NICU as upbeat as possible. Athletic coaches will tell you that traits like speed and instinct will set an athlete apart from the crowd in sports because they are attributes you can’t coach in to someone. Like an athlete’s instinct, the ability to make a parent laugh and smile in a place like the NICU is one of those things you just can’t teach. For example, one nurse in particular has a new getting pooped-on story practically every week that is required sharing with me and everyone else. And I’m not talking about a woes me diatribe about how life-scarringly and distgustingly-horrible it was to get shat on. I’m talking about a celebratingly badge-of-honor wearing divulgement of a tale worthy of the annals of South Park. Come to think of it, I don’t know what’s worse, my overly stylized descriptions of top boob and farting or her exploratory narratives on how to keep feces out of your eyes while you get shat on so you can deliver a baby. Naturally this light-hearted attitude in dire circumstances can’t help but aid in the parents’ struggles in the NICU, and this particular nurse is merely one shining example of a select group that call the NICU their place of work. ¶ 12:02 PM 0 comments
The NICU (Newborn ICU) at the Brigham and Women’s Hospital is a quite a sight to behold upon first glances and discoveries. State of the art and secure, the unit itself has room for more little patients than most post-natal wards. Aside from the sheer elegance of the hospital staff and obvious organizational aptitude fortified by this group of elite caregivers, you can’t help but feel awed by the observable responsibility placed on these nurses and doctors on a day-to-day basis. Upon closer examination of one of the more critical incubators within the ward, anyone can immediately see what I’m talking about (you can distinguish the more critical cases by the exorbitant amount of wires and IVs running in and out of the plastic box). The average newborn that will spend at least three months in the NICU is no larger than a size-eleven foot and has a footprint no larger than an average adult thumbprint. Interestingly and in all practicality, the size of the baby is inversely proportional to the amount of tubes, wires, and IVs aiding the infant in his or her daily fight for survival. For me the most hauntingly vivid image is that of the tube that must be inserted in the tiny infant’s throat to pressurize the lungs to prevent alveolar collapse.
Understandably, the picture looks bleak, especially for the new parents who exit the NICU sobbing and struggling to speak and breathe at a normal tone as they validate their hospital parking passes and head home for yet another night just to wonder if they will have a newborn to visit the next day. Surprisingly though, this NICU has a better than ninety percent survival rate which is a huge testament to the undermanned and underappreciated nursing and administrative staffs who work enormous blocks of time per work shift. These are the nurses that I have the privilege of witnessing for a few volunteered hours of my free time each weekend. On one instance I observed a nurse inform the parents of a newly-admitted infant that they had to insert an IV into their child’s forehead for lack of being able to find another vein that could substantially transport needed nutrients and medication. The tact and reserve of this particular individual was not only evident by her own actions but also by the parents’ overtly calm acceptance of this news as they courageously stepped in to the unit to see their son for the first time after delivery.
To complement their professionalism and expertise, the NICU staff is explicitly dedicated to keeping the NICU as upbeat as possible. Athletic coaches will tell you that traits like speed and instinct will set an athlete apart from the crowd in sports because they are attributes you can’t coach in to someone. Like an athlete’s instinct, the ability to make a parent laugh and smile in a place like the NICU is one of those things you just can’t teach. For example, one nurse in particular has a new getting pooped-on story practically every week that is required sharing with me and everyone else. And I’m not talking about a woes me diatribe about how life-scarringly and distgustingly-horrible it was to get shat on. I’m talking about a celebratingly badge-of-honor wearing divulgement of a tale worthy of the annals of South Park. Come to think of it, I don’t know what’s worse, my overly stylized descriptions of top boob and farting or her exploratory narratives on how to keep feces out of your eyes while you get shat on so you can deliver a baby. Naturally this light-hearted attitude in dire circumstances can’t help but aid in the parents’ struggles in the NICU, and this particular nurse is merely one shining example of a select group that call the NICU their place of work. ¶ 12:02 PM 0 comments
