I sit in a chair, looking at the 9th edition of the infant resuscitation guide. How lucky am I to be in a room with the 9th edition? The clarity of each hard-won step, the accumulated knowledge and wisdom packed into one page. I am thankful that we do not need it.
A woman in green scrubs comes in. She is a respiratory specialist, helping the nurses to set up the bubble CPAP to run a steady flow of warm, moist, pressurized air to Cameron’s lungs. 50 years ago, an invasive ventilator may have caused lung damage. 100 years ago, we would have simply kept him warm and prayed. A respiratory specialist returns every two hours to check on him.
No fewer than twenty people directly took part in Cameron’s care. Nurses watched over him 24/7. Three neonatal doctors on-call prescribed care. Respiratory specialists supported the nurses. Lab techs took blood samples, x-rays, and ultrasounds. A cardiac specialist analyzed his heart and will see him in outpatient care.
Process is sacrosanct. 07:30, 19:30, the shift changes. New (or familiar) faces take over our fragile charge. Every detail of the last 12 hours is recounted with focus and attention. The handoff completes, and the new nurse takes stock of the area and prepares it: Sanitizing, organizing, reviewing, preparing for eventualities that do not come to pass but I am thankful that they are ready for, day in and day out.
Equipment, food, medicine, supplies, all conjured from the aether. “Do we have the right antibiotic?”, “Will we have enough donor milk or formula?”, “Are we certain this internal tubing is sterile?” These thoughts do not cross my mind in our land of riches.
The guardrails and guidelines start to grate towards the end of the stay. He’s fine! He’s doing normal baby things! Let us take him home! I remind myself that there are good reasons for the steps to follow, even if pattern-matching from generalities to our specifics feels overbearing. This long-tail risk is worth insuring against.
After seven days, we bring our baby boy home. Welcome, Cameron!
