Chapter Forty
Lucas
After Dr. Russo finishes up with Regan, the nurse helps get her changed into a pair of pajamas.
“When can we see him?” Regan asks.
“As soon as you want,” Mackenzie says.
Regan looks like she’s going to get up.
Mackenzie stops her. “Whoa, there. You may be unsteady on your legs for an hour or so because of the epidural. I’ll send in a wheelchair.”
When the nurse leaves, we’re alone. Alone and without our kid. I sit in the chair feeling overwhelmed by everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.
“He’s going to be okay,” Regan says. “I just know he is. Did you hear his little cry?” Her hand covers her heart.
My phone vibrates on the side table. I’ve been ignoring it for the past few hours.
“Are you going to answer that?” she asks, eyeing it.
“I want to see Mitchell first.” My heart thumps. It’s the first time I’ve ever called him by his real name. He is real. I have a son. I’m a father. Holy shit.
“Lucas, you alright?”
I nod. “I think it just hit me. Regan, we have a kid. We’re parents.”
There’s a knock on the door and then it opens. But it’s not Mackenzie with the wheelchair. It’s one of the team of doctors who whisked Mitchell away.
I stand. “What is it? Is everything okay?”
He smiles. “Everything is fine. I’m Dr. Ford. I’ll be your son’s neonatologist during his stay.”
“I went to high school with your daughter, Leanne,” Regan says.
Dr. Ford smiles again. I get the idea he has to do that a lot to reassure the freaked-out parents of his patients. “Yes, that’s right. I believe you were on the volleyball team together. Anyway, I wanted to update you on your son and tell you what to expect.”
“Mitchell,” Lucas says. “His name is Mitchell Lucas Montana.”
“A strong name,” Dr. Ford says. “Mitchell looks good. He’s just a hair under five pounds. He’s breathing on his own with a little oxygen support to help keep his lungs open. He’s likely going to stay in the NICU for a week, perhaps a little longer. We’ll be closely monitoring his vital signs and providing necessary medical interventions like oxygen therapy and feeding support. Before he goes home, he’ll have to be stable in terms of breathing, heart rate, and temperature regulation. He’ll also need to be feeding orally, breast or bottle. And of course he’ll have to be free of any medical complications that require ongoing monitoring or treatment.”
The door opens again. This time it’s Mackenzie with the wheelchair.
Dr. Ford motions to the wheelchair. “You can contact me with any questions after you’ve seen him. The NICU nurses will also be very helpful in getting you the information you need.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I say as Mackenzie and I help Regan into the wheelchair. Mackenzie gets behind it, but I urge her out of the way. “I’ve got it.”
Regan cranes her neck and smiles at me.
“Right this way,” Mackenzie says.
We’re led through a set of double doors that Mackenzie has to use her badge to open. We approach another door with a sign to the right that reads Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
Intensive Care. My son needs intensive care. My stomach turns at the thought of him struggling in any way.
A woman wearing scrubs with teddy bears on them comes through the door. She’s vaguely familiar. Then again, in a town this size almost everyone is. “I’m Christa,” the woman says. “I’ll be your son’s day-shift nurse for the next few days. Kayla will be here in a few hours. She’s the night-shift nurse tonight. “Do you mind if I see your ID bands?”
We both hold out our arms and Christa scans the code.
“You’ll have to show these every time you come in here, even when all the nurses know you. It’s a security measure.”
“Understood,” I say.
Mackenzie leaves us and Christa leads us to a wall with two sinks, one regular height, and one lower so a person in a wheelchair like Regan can use it. “You’ll wash up every time you come in. It’s important to keep germs out of the NICU, not just for your son, but for all the babies.” She points to a carton of alcohol wipes. “If you plan to use your phone for photos, please go ahead and sanitize it here. Also, put it in airplane mode so it doesn’t interfere with any electronics. And turn it to silent.”
Christa sanitizes the handles of the wheelchair as we wash our hands. I’m not sure I’ve ever washed them so thoroughly.
“Do you mind?” Christa says, touching one of the handles of the wheelchair. “There’s lots of medical equipment.”
I step aside and let her take over. She presses a button on the wall and the automatic doors open.
Sounds immediately bombard me. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I mean, there are fragile preterm babies in here. I assumed it would be quiet and serene. This is anything but.
Regan looks up at me. She’s obviously thinking the exact same thing.
It’s all so surreal as we walk through the large, bright, loud room filled with incubators. Two of them are empty. The other four have babies of various sizes. A couple I recognize as Sam and Kendall Willis are standing over one and talking with a nurse or doctor. Dang, I knew they were expecting, but not for a while. Their baby must be even earlier than Mitchell. Sam sees us pass and lifts his chin at me. I do the same, noticing his red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks.
Christa was right, there’s tons of medical equipment attached to every incubator. The sounds all around us are a combination of beeps, voices, and humming of ventilators. Several staff are conversing over another incubator. A young girl, maybe even a teenager, is sitting in a rocking chair holding a tiny baby with tubes coming out every which way. A nurse hovers closely.
An alarm sounds, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“That’s not him,” Christa says quickly as a different nurse rushes by and goes to an incubator we already passed. “That’s Little Hulk.”
“Um… did you say Hulk?”
She smiles. “We give all our babies nicknames here. Little Hulk is small but mighty.” She thumbs to the left. “That there is Cuddle Bug because she loves being held and won’t let go of your finger. The little princess at the front is Tiny Tornado. She keeps us on our toes.”
“What have you named Mitchell?” Regan asks.
“We haven’t yet. He’s only been here thirty minutes. He’ll earn his nickname in a day or so when we get to know him better.”
Christa pushes Regan up next to the last incubator in the row. My gaze falls immediately inside it. And my fucking heart plummets into my stomach.
“Oh my god,” Regan gasps. “I thought Dr. Ford said he was okay.”
“He’s doing well,” Christa says. “Don’t let all the tubes and wires upset you. These here are his EKG leads. This is his oxygen saturation monitor. The nasal cannula is providing him supplemental oxygen. And the other tube is a nasogastric tube for feeding.”
Regan looks up, clearly as distressed as I am. “I can’t nurse him?”
Christa shakes her head. “Not quite yet. You can pump and we’ll feed him through the tube. Once he’s more stable, we can feed him through a high-flow bottle. Breastfeeding takes a lot of energy, and the little ones wear out quickly.”
“Can I… touch him?” Regan asks hesitantly.
“I’ll do you one better,” Christa says. “You can hold him.”
Shock, surprise, and elation cross her face all at once. “I can?”
“Yes. Of course. Human touch and cuddling are very therapeutic for preemies. You’ll even see nurses holding the babies if they haven’t been out for a while.”
“How often can we come here?” I ask. “What are visiting hours and limits?”
“There are none. You can come anytime you want, day or night, and stay as long as you wish.”
Christa unhooks a few things, gets Mitchell out of the incubator, and settles him into Regan’s arms where she re-hooks everything.
Regan’s whole face changes. I can’t look away. It’s like she’s having every single emotion all at once. Fear. Uncertainty. Nervousness. Excitement. But mostly what I see is love. It oozes from her every pore as she gazes at our son through teary eyes.
“Hey, buddy,” she says, hiccupping her way through the words. “I’m your mom. I’m the one you’ve been kicking all this time.”
As if he understands, Mitchell’s eyes open and his head turns slightly, looking up at her. My heart splits open and love pours out like a fucking tsunami. I had no idea. No goddamn idea how instantaneously it could happen. I knew I loved him. I loved him even before I saw him. But this… this is the most intense feeling I’ve ever had in my entire thirty years. It’s all-consuming. It’s so powerful it actually hurts.
And I know right here and now that for the rest of my life I will do anything for him. My eyes flit back to Regan’s face. And for his mom.
Regan cries in happiness. “Can he hear me?”
“He can,” Christa says. “He can see you, too. Babies love to stare at faces, especially when close like yours is now.”
The floor is hard and unforgiving, but I lower to my knees anyway and lean near her shoulder. I reach out and touch my son for the first time, more emotions catching in my throat as I feel his soft hand. It’s so damn little. His skin is thin, delicate, a bit wrinkly, and slightly translucent, with visible blood vessels underneath.
His tiny hand wraps partially around my finger and I lose all my breath. “He’s holding onto me.”
“He’s got a good grasp reflex,” Christa says. “He’s probably been practicing on his umbilical cord for a while.”
“He’s…” Regan has a hard time finding words. “He’s perfect.”
I wholeheartedly agree. Despite all the tubes and wires obstructing our view of his small face, he is perfect. “Of course he is,” I say. “He looks like me, after all.”
Regan laughs. “On that we’ll have to agree to disagree. He most definitely has a Lucas nose.”
“That’s what I said. He’s all me.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She glances at me with a smile and an eye roll. “Oh, forget it.”
Regan talks to Mitchell. Her voice is calm and gentle, her tone soft and endearing. She was made for this. Made to be a mom.
“You’re a natural,” I whisper in her ear.
When she turns her head and smiles, our lips are inches apart. I long to kiss her. We’ve just welcomed our son into the world. I should kiss her. Her eyes fall to my lips for just a second, but then she looks back at Mitchell, and the moment is gone.
I kiss her anyway. On the cheek. “Thank you,” I say.
“For what?” she asks, touching his little cheek.
“For him.”
“Thank you too,” she says, looking back at me.
Now’s your chance. I lean in. I can feel her breath on me. Is she going to let me kiss her?
An alarm behind us sounds and Regan pulls away, looking back. “Is everything okay?” she asks Christa.
“You’ll hear alarms sounding often in here. Most of the time it’s not a real emergency, just a change in vitals that is easily fixed by altering a ventilator or other piece of equipment. And sometimes leads and wires come loose. You’ll get used to all the sounds soon enough.”
I stay on the ground so long, my knees bruise and my legs go numb. But I need to be close. I want him to see me.
“You want a turn?” Regan asks after holding him for a long time.
I want to. More than anything. But seeing the two of them together as mother and son is the most amazing thing I’ve ever witnessed. She’s earned the right to these moments. And no matter how much I want to take him in my arms, she needs it more than me.
“I’ll have my turn later. I’m good just holding his hand.”
A few minutes later, it dawns on me that I haven’t taken a single photo. I get my phone from my pocket and take two dozen pictures. Of him. Them. Every part of him. His little hand. His face. I open the blanket and take one of his foot. I push back the beanie and take one of his fine, dark hair.
Christa changes her gloves and holds out her hands. “Here. I’ll take one of all of you.”
I shift around on my sore knees, put a hand on Mitchell, and lean close to Regan while Christa snaps another dozen photos.
“You’ll send all those to me?” Regan asks.
“You and the whole damn town,” I say proudly.
She smiles then yawns. Christa doesn’t miss it.
“You need to sleep, Mom. You’ve had a long day.”
Regan frowns. “I don’t want to leave.”
“You’ll be better for him if you’re rested,” Christa says. “And you can come back any time, even in the middle of the night.”
“But he’ll be alone.”
“I promise he won’t be. We’re all here for him.”
“I’ll come back and sit with him,” I assure her. “When you’re sleeping, I’ll be in here. I’ll stay with him. Okay?”
Regan nods reluctantly. “Promise?”
“We have family here,” I say to Christa. “Can they come in?”
“Grandparents only. We have to limit the number of people. More people mean more germs.”
I feel bad for Regan. My parents will get to see Mitchell, but she hasn’t even told hers about him. Will she? Now that he’s here, will she tell them?
“Now kiss your little one goodbye for now,” Christa says. “I’ll get him tucked back into his temporary home.”
Regan lowers her head and kisses him. Then I do. I lean over and place my very first kiss on his little head. I’m not going to be one of those dads who thinks it’s unmanly to kiss and hug and show affection. I’m going to hold him every chance I get. Show him that, like my dad did for me, hugging a child might just be one of the manliest things you can do for him. “I’ll be back,” I whisper.
Christa takes him, and I wheel a sleepy Regan back to her room knowing our lives are forever changed. Because of the little man in the incubator. The tiny human that has ripped a giant-sized hole in my heart and filled it with more than I could have ever anticipated.
Regan reaches a hand up by her shoulder, rooting it around, searching for one of mine as I push her. I grab it and squeeze, wanting so much to say the three words caught in my throat. I do say them, but only to myself. Because I’m not about to ruin the monumental moments we just experienced with our son.
Our son.
I’m a fucking dad.
I still can’t believe it.