by Maggie Goins

Created on: May 07, 2008   Last Updated: May 09, 2008

SURVIVING THE NICU: LOSS

The telephone rang as we heard the dreaded overhead call of 'any pediatrician to Labor and Delivery stat!' Knowing this could be a very sick baby, the NICU snapped to attention. We turned on the warmer, notified Respiratory Therapy to stand by. Someone set up oxygen, another gathered our equipment and grabbed the crash cart. We watched for the return of the two RNs who had raced down the hall to the delivery. I was running fluid through IV tubing, thinking about all the tasks we would need to accomplish at once. Waiting. Getting ready.

I turned around. Her face was pale, eyes red. She shook her head. "It was a full term baby, a perfect looking baby girl. She didn't make it."

"No," I said. "We can save her! We can...." She hugged me. The IV fluid dripped on the floor.

Our hearts broke for the devastated family. No one had known about the defect. No one could tell the baby was in trouble until the end. Their beautiful girl was not able to live outside of the womb, leaving them with nothing but shattered dreams.

In a very big city hospital, the nurses see so much heartbreak. Too many babies die for too many reasons that should never be. Our hospital has a population of generally healthy people, a population that has good prenatal care. We have our tragedies, though, some unimaginable and completely unanticipated. The 'easiest' pregnancy could produce a baby with serious problems. The seemingly nicest, most loving family could be the most abusive in real life.

When people comment on how fun my job must be, I agree. It is. What could be better than caring for tiny babies and helping them on their way to health? But I have to say, when it's sad in the NICU, it is really, really sad. Our families are supposed to be strong and happy. Our babies are never supposed to die.

We let the parents tell us what they need. If it helps them to hold their baby for as long as they want, we wrap their sweet child in a warm blanket. There are beautiful clothes, bonnets, handmade blankets available. The parents will be provided with footprints, a lock of hair, a special picture to cherish. Support from clergy and social work is available. All parents need time. All need to grieve in their own way. We help however we can, knowing it can never really be enough.

Morning comes, and my night shift ends. I'm thankful for those I have been able to help. I ache for those I couldn't. I will continue to do what I can, for as long as I can.

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