Life Tips for a One-Month-Old

“If there’s a NICU rocker in the house, can you come to Bay 3?” I heard on the hospital intercom. The baby girl I was rocking was asleep in my arms, so I returned her to her bed and answered the call.

When I walked into Bay 3, I saw the familiar, relieved smile of a tired nurse who desperately needed help with a fussy boy so that she could finish charting before her shift ended.

She was about to go home.

And when I saw a car seat sitting on the floor near his bed, I knew Fussy Boy would be going home soon, too.

“He’s doing really well,” the nurse said. “REALLY well. We’re so happy he turned a corner.”

I settled into my rocker with a pillow to cradle my elbow. When she handed him to me, Fussy Boy was warm. Baby warm. I don’t know what the exact temperature is of Baby Warm, but if you hold enough babies, you quickly discover that they have a special warmth: A physical feeling, but more notably a spiritual warmth that melts your heart.

Soon the nurse was off to her computer station, typing away to update her patients’ charts for the next shift. And Fussy Boy, although wonderfully warm, was uncomfortable. Irritable. Fidgety.

So we worked on the first thing that usually calms restless souls: body position. Rocker protocol is to always start with a flat cradle, making sure the baby’s chin is tilted upward enough for good airflow through the throat. So I cradled him flat. He fussed. I moved the pillow to raise his upper body. He whimpered. And then I hit the sweet spot (every baby seems to have one): I held him upright against my chest, patted him gently on his bum, and began humming a slow “Love Will Keep Us Together.”

He couldn’t hear my hums for his crying, but I kept humming anyway. My experience is that at some point, the baby takes a breath, and can hear other things going on besides his own cries. He hears a soothing hum, a vibration from my chest to his, and then his cries slowly lessen.

So I kept humming, patting, and rocking. After that song was over, I moved on to “Muskrat Love.” And when that song was over, he had become quiet. I could tell by the pace of his breathing (and the monitor) that he was falling to sleep.

I was quiet for a long while, enjoying listening to him breathe. I noticed that he had a big 1 on the side of his bed. He was one month old already!

Since I knew he’d be going home soon, I suddenly felt compelled to give him some advice. So I just started talking.

“A lot of what I’m about to tell you is from a book I wrote, which you may never read, so I’m going to give you the CliffsNotes version.

“1. Always respect your parents. At first, you’re going to love your parents. They’ll do everything for you: feed you, clean you, play with you. Then when you get older, they’ll teach you things, take you to the park, and tell you what to do. You may not want to do what they tell you to do. In fact, you’ll probably get really mad at them at times. It’s O.K. to be angry at someone you love. But be respectful. They’ll be mad at you some day, too, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love you. No matter how mad you get, even if you’re right about something even though they say you’re wrong, show respect. I’m saying a prayer for you right now that you have a good, strong, loving relationship with your parents. I didn’t have that. It was hard for me. And I don’t want that for you.

“2. Always say hello to your mom and dad when they come home from a long day at work. Until you’re old enough to take care of yourself—pay for your own food, shelter, transportation—they’re going to work hard to provide for you. They may have had the most absolutely horrible day, and you saying hello and being present might just be the love they need at that very moment.

“3. Never lie. Unless your life is in danger. Seriously, just don’t. It’ll get you in so much trouble and cause pain for you and those around you. It’s so hard to remember a lie, anyway, but you always know the truth, so just stick to that. Now, when you’re older, if you decide that you like to write stories, then it’s O.K. to write fantasy books (hint, hint). But, dude, just don’t lie. Life’s so much easier that way.”

Fussy Baby became fussy again, but he was well on his way to a good nap, so I switched to cradling him in my left arm.

“Do you have siblings?” I asked. “Well, No. 4 is a real challenge. Always try to have a good relationship with your siblings.”

He made a sour face.

“Oh, so you already know what I mean?” I chuckled.

“Yeah, this is a hard one. It’s hard for me, and, boy, I’ve made some mistakes. But your siblings are training-wheel relationships—practice for how to communicate, collaborate, and cooperate with others. You’ll build puzzles together and maybe have sword fights in the back yard. And you may tell them your fears and dreams. Then sometimes they’ll be annoying. So try to be patient.

“5. Eat your fruits and vegetables. When you get old enough to chew and digest real food, you’re going to LOVE to eat. And there’s some really tasty food out there. But don’t forget to eat stuff like broccoli, spinach, apples, bananas, oranges, cauliflower. This stuff is really good for your body, and will help you grow and stay healthy. Your parents may want you to try certain foods. Don’t be stubborn. Try it. You might like it!

“6. Speak up for yourself. Tell others when they’ve done or said something that hurts. If they love you, they’ll hear you, apologize, and not repeat the behavior. If they ignore your words, you might want to walk away. And make sure you apologize when you've done the same. Never be afraid to own up to your mistakes.

“7. Trust your instincts. And if adults tell you to keep a secret, just between you and them, that’s a sign that you DEFINITELY need to tell someone. Go to someone you trust and tell. You won’t get in trouble.

“8. Don’t do drugs. Just don’t. Trust me on this, nothing good comes from it. I did it. O.K.? Full disclosure here, I drank a lot and experimented with drugs, and it didn’t turn out well. Now I’m better, but I wasted a lot of Earth time with chemicals. I know that when you get older, your school friends are going to want you to try drugs and alcohol. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to plant a little seed here. You ready? ‘I don’t like drugs and alcohol. I don’t like drugs and alcohol. I don’t like drugs and alcohol.’ If you stay away from that stuff, you’ll bypass a lot of pain.”

Fussy Boy was no longer fussy; he was now snoozing a soft, nasally hum. The monitors indicated that he was in a deep sleep when the new shift’s nurse came over to check on us.

“I see a car seat on the floor over there,” I said. “I know what that means!”

“That’s right,” she smiled. “He’s about to go home!”

“Did you hear that?” I asked No-Longer-Fussy Boy, though he was fast asleep. “You’re about to go home, where there won’t be so many noises, lights, beeping monitors, and round-the-clock assessments. You’re going to love home. You’ll get so many more cuddles from your parents.”

No-Longer-Fussy Boy smiled. Or burped, depending on your interpretation. I slowly rose from my rocker, placed him gently into his bed, and tucked the baby blue polar bear blanket under his body.

“Have a great life,” I said as I left. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

I Hear You

Last Wednesday night, I sat with Uncle Marvin on his death bed in a nursing home in Llano, Texas. He struggled to breathe. He was dying, and he knew it. He was frustrated, and I knew it.

I haven’t told many people about my experience with my uncle during his last few hours, but because of what happened last night in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) of an Austin hospital, I’m telling it now.

Saying goodbye

Uncle Marvin had Stage 4 lung cancer. He was a big man in his younger years: tall, strong, and opinionated. A Vietnam vet. He was the person who sat beside me in my family's dining room as I read a story I wrote called “Clink Clank” about a talking dog. He told me, “Keep it up, kid.” (I was in the third grade then, and I never forgot those words.) Now he was reduced to lying motionless in a nursing home bed, eating pureed meals, and receiving oxygen to help him breathe.

When I sat with him that night, his decline from a few days before was remarkable. He was no longer eating or drinking. He couldn't talk. He didn’t have the energy to move, yet he was still somehow able to communicate his feelings: He was irritable. Frustrated. Powerless. Then suddenly he’d stare out into space at something and take hard breaths.

I knew I had to say goodbye, so I positioned my chair in his line of sight, held his hand, and started talking, just like I do with the babies in the NICU. Sometimes, the most comforting thing you can do for people who might be feeling powerless and afraid is to talk to them.

Because they hear you.

I told him how incredibly grateful I was that he took the time to say those four simple words—“keep it up, kid”—to me, and about how I have kept up the writing, and how I’ll continue to do so. I told him that his disabled brother, Ronnie, would be O.K., and that in no time, Ronnie would be getting speeding tickets for running his motorized wheelchair up and down the nursing home hallways too fast.

Marvin raised one eyebrow.

I knew he heard me. So I continued.

I told him that I’d recently gone out to his house on the outskirts of Llano to check on things, and that though the yard was overgrown, everything looked just fine.

Marvin took a deep breath.

He owned several properties before going into the nursing home but had to sell them off one by one to pay for his care. The nursing home wanted him to sell this homestead too, but he insisted on keeping it in case he got better and could go home.

Everyone knew he wouldn’t return. HE knew he wouldn’t return. But, by golly, he was a stubborn man who wasn’t going to let go of his home because someone said he should. Marvin fought them every step of the way, and in the end, Medicare officials allowed him to keep it.

“You can go back home now whenever you’re ready. It’ll just be in a different realm,” I said. “And, by the way, nice job! They never took that place from you!”

He raised both eyebrows—twice.

For hours, I held his hand and talked about all my childhood memories of him. I thanked him again for his service in Vietnam. And I thanked him for taking care of Ronnie for the past 40 years.

He raised an eyebrow.

I continued to talk, and though I knew Marvin was already halfway in another realm, I sensed that he could hear me perfectly.

He died a few hours after I left his side.

Now, about last night

I have a routine when I rock babies at the NICU. After scrubbing up, I head to the nearest bay to see who needs comforting. There are seven bays, and the lower the bay number, the sicker the babies. Bay 5 is the nearest bay to the entryway, so I usually pop in there first. But not last night.

Last night I intuitively changed my routine and headed first to Bay 1.

It’s less common to rock babies in that bay. Most are too sick to be held. Many have a lot of wires and tubes attached to their tiny bodies, and they’re just trying to survive. But I go there anyway to talk to them, hold their tiny hands, hum, and sing off key.

In a room off to the side of the bay, I came up to a little girl who I’d seen many times before, but who was always off limits. A sign posted in the entryway said to be quiet and ask the nurse before touching her. She was very sick and needed her rest.

Last night I walked over to her bedside to see how she was doing and to greet her primary care nurse. The poor little girl was upset because the nurse had just run some assessments. But you didn’t hear her cry. She couldn’t cry; she had a trach tube in her neck. The tube helped her breathe, but she was frustrated.

So I put on the required purple latex gloves and held her hand. At first she didn’t want it and pushed my palm away. (My ving tsun kung fu sifu would be impressed at her pak sau.) So I asked her if I could just sit and talk, and I just held my hand out in case she changed her mind. She seemed to settle.

“I’m Cathy,” I said. “I’ll be your guide tonight.”

She curled the fingers of one hand around my forefinger.

And so I talked: I told her about my four dogs—two with three legs—and my predatory cat. I told her about the hospital and how it was a really safe place for her, and that she could relax and rest here.

“You’ve got the best nurse ever and she’d going to take good care of you.”

She was listening.

“She really likes you,” the nurse said.

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Her oxygen levels are higher when you talk to her,” she said, pointing to the monitor. “Her heart rate is always pretty low, but it’s great now.”

“Well, I’ll just keep talking then,” I said, turning toward the little girl.

She was dressed in a cute pink elephant onesie. She had a clean diaper and clean bedding. She was warm and safe. Yet she was irritable. Frustrated. Powerless.

Just like Uncle Marvin.

So I told her about him, then suddenly realized that I was sitting by his side exactly a week ago—to the hour.

“If you see a big guy, and he says he knows me, that’s my uncle. Don’t be afraid. He’s here to help you. He’ll watch over you to make sure you’re O.K.”

She raised an eyebrow.

In shock and exhilaration, I continued: “He knows exactly how you feel! It’s so hard to feel like you can’t breathe. He understands.”

She squirmed in a frustrated attempt to say something, her one free hand flying in the air like a bull rider in a rodeo. But she couldn’t make a sound.

So she squirmed some more, moving her eyebrows, ears, and forehead. She was talking to me via facial expressions—so fast that I couldn’t keep up with the conversation.

“I’m listening,” I said. “Tell me all about it.”

Though I didn’t understand what she was saying, I wanted her to feel heard. I wanted her to know someone cared and that someone was listening.

This little girl was a joy to watch. She had a fascinating ability to contract and relax her facial muscles. She was even able to move the skin on her skull forward and backward.

“How do you even do that?” I asked as I tried to mimic her facial expressions. All I could muster was a double raised eyebrow. (I stopped when a nurse walked by, fearing that she might think I was odd.)

What was that little girl trying to say? I don’t know, but after the flurry of activity, she calmed a bit, and her eyes began to slowly close and open until they remained closed and her breathing settled. I stopped talking, holding her hand until she fell asleep. Ten minutes later, I quietly left the room.

I walked away feeling so lucky—fortunate to have sat with my uncle while he was dying and fortunate to sit with this little girl while she was fighting to live. It seemed the perfect example of yin and yang, and it made me realize something profound:

Sometimes you don’t have to necessarily understand everything a person says for them to feel heard. You just need to listen.