Rain drops patter on the rooftops in a soothing rhythm. I can barely hear the loudness from my house thanks to the thick ceiling. It’s 7 minute before my 5am alarm goes off and there is no better feeling than waking up before that annoying alarm tone does. I, however, don’t go back to sleep. A big day lies ahead and for the 7 minutes I go through an imaginary checklist to make sure I was ready.
An hour and a half later, I sip my coffee as I watch school going kids hop on puddles of muddy water. The rain has long ceased leaving a wet and muddy trail. The pigeons on my balcony huddle together hoping to generate some heat or at the very least retain the little they have. I tip my mug to get the last of my overly sweetened coffee and tell myself, ‘today will be a long day.’ I pick my backpack, my packed mug of coffee (one is never enough), my coat and my keys and leave.

Today is my first day in The Newborn Unit.

The newborn unit (NBU) is the ward for babies who are less than 28 days old and need a little more care. When I say these babies are tiny, I mean like 800g tiny. Or two loaves of bread tiny. Some are incubators, some are under phototherapy for jaundice (blue light treatment) and some are in baby cots wearing a calm and perfect facade that masks the tubes around them. The NBU is a concophony of tender but tough love.

I walk through the doors and a warm wave hits from my face. I bet my face fogs up from the temperature outside. It is warm, a kind relief from the callous cold. Beeping monitors and occasional cries maintain the liveliness of the rooms. It’s a slow morning, the babies have just been fed and most are sound asleep. Everyone is working in silence.

I change into my scrubs, grab my newborn protocols pocket book ( I am yet to get a hang of the do’s and don’ts) and quickly scan the inpatient files. One particular one stands out. Baby Z. Baby Z is 19 days old and has been in the incubator since birth. From that batch of files, he has stayed the longest in there. Twin B is written in red on her file. She has a twin! I continue flipping through the files hoping to see twin A but nothing. I make a mental note to find Twin A’s file and continue reading through Baby Z’s medical notes. She is fighter!

A few minutes later I go looking for incubator number 4 (her incubator). Tucked in a corner, her incubator is conspicuously blue. She must have had jaundice ( yellowing of the skin). Her eyes are covered to protect her from the light and she only dones diapers. A pink name tag is loosely strapped on her left leg.  A tubes runs from behind her nose and disappears into her nose, her feeding tube. Her lips are held in a tight putt but occasionally change into what seems like a smile. She must be having a good dream. Her right hand is hidden in mittens and her left hand is held in a fist. She must have removed the mittens on that side and held a fist to make sure they are not put back on. Mmmh, she is sassy! As if reading my mind, she slowly moves her head and does her Baby Z smile. I fist bump her through the glass incubator cover. I made a friend!

She weighs only 1.4kg, read it as 1 kilo of sugar and a loaf of bread. She has gained 300g  only and in medical world that’s a little too slow. Despite being born underweight and having caught an infection along the way, she fights on. See, she is a fighter! I watch Baby Z, taking into memory her tiny nose, her small feet, her small hands, her tiny head. I take in every detail of her tiny torso moving up with every breath. Then, she is the definition of a strong fighter and how unfortunate would it be  if I missed a detail.

For the rest of the morning, I walk round the nursery talking in the small faces and trying to understand what their small bodies are fighting. A few times, I dish out my protocols to figure out their fluid requirements or what electrolytes they need or how much expressed breast mild they should take. About 2hrs later, it is feeding time and the mums swarm in, eager and excited to once again meet their babies. The silence is soon replaced with chatter, cooing sounds and occasional laughter. More life is added to the room.

I notice nobody moves to Baby Z’s incubator. In the corner , she remains alone unaware of the visitation. I walk towards her and she is still sound asleep. I enquire about her mum’s whereabouts and learn that she was discharged with her twin , Baby M and is finding it hard to commute to the hospital for the hourly feeds. So what happens? The nurses take care of her, God bless them. Her mum must be having such a difficult time.

Time passes by and two more feeding breaks happen. Baby Z is fed via her tube. After a feed, he moves her hands a little, maybe in a celebratory dance, and then slowly slips into sleep. My day proceeds uneventfully and by the end of it, I am overwhelmed by the knowledge I have gathered. I go to say bye to Baby Z and this time she holds her hand into a fist and even attempts to lift it to meet mine for our fist bump.
“See you later,” I whisper and leave.

What a day!

In the coming days, I meet her mum. The eyebags under her eyes, the hair held in three untidy braids, and her color crashed outfit tell a tale.
Baby Z’s health takes a turn for the worse. 
Nine fist bumps, eleven baby Z signature smiles, and only five days later, she silently picks her wings and flies away.

I bet even the strongest fighters have to take a break.

****
Heeeeey you
Thanking you for reading through this. I know Baby Z would give you a fist bump too.
In the wards, some days are good while others are not as good. Nonetheless, pediatrics is calling my name and I might just answer.

Leave your thoughts down below, like and share them with a friend.

Yours,
Faith.