First Night

Thursday, September 15th, 2016

“You’re going home today, I see,” a nurse chirps as he rummages through the paperwork on his clipboard. Technically, I wouldn’t be going home. I had moved out of my apartment three months earlier, and Josh was still splitting his time between Fort Drum and his duplex near Vermont. Vincent and I would head to my mother’s, where she cleared a space for us upstairs.

Vincent moves restlessly despite his swaddle, so Josh picks him up and hands him to me. I move my fleece blanket and pull down one side of my nursing top. The room has been cold since I was admitted Monday night, and my muscles tighten reflexively to control the shivering. Though the lactation nurse has been in twice this morning, I’m still having trouble getting Vincent to latch. What am I supposed to do when she’s not there to help? I wonder.

After several minutes with no success, Josh sits next to me on the bed to hold Vincent while I squeeze colostrum into a dropper. The adrenaline from the past two days has waned; now, as a prelude to my discharge, exhaustion settles in.

A technician brings in more paperwork. Haven’t we signed these forms twice already? I think.

Vincent squirms, putting his tiny fists to his mouth as I work him into the going-home outfit I bought months ago. It’s five weeks earlier than his due date, so the outfit nearly swallows his 4-pound, 11-ounce body. Even the hat lets in too much air to keep his head warm.

My mother helps me strap Vincent into the car seat secured in the back of her Honda CRV. He’s too small. If we get into an accident, he won’t survive, I think. “I’ll ride in the back with him,” I tell her. My mother is a nervous driver, and my heart pauses over every bump. Josh follows us to her house in his own car. When we pull into her driveway, my heartbeat slows. We made it.

Josh parks across the street. I unbuckle the car seat and lift Vincent out of it. He’s sleeping, so when I get inside, I place him into the cradle my mom has set up in the living room — the same cradle my brothers and I slept in when we were babies. Josh follows, carrying everything we brought from the hospital. “Are you hungry?” my mother asks him. “No, I’m heading out,” he says. “I’m going to pick up Trent.” He turns to me and pauses for a second. “I told Trent I’d pick him up from school since I haven’t seen him for a few days.”

Josh has been toggling between spending time with me and his older son. I don’t want him to leave, but I feel selfish asking him to stay. Despite my disappointment, I manage a weak smile. “Yeah, of course. I figured you’d want to see Trent.”

At my mother’s, there is no nursery — just a shelf full of baby supplies and a co-sleeper next to the bed I’ve been sleeping in. I change Vincent’s diaper on a plastic changing pad, then go to the bathroom to wash my hands.

Vincent kicks his spindly legs as I dress him in the smallest onesie we have and snap it up. I lift him, carry him around the side of the bed, and climb in. Once I’m settled, I take a deep breath. You can do this. Stay calm and he’ll stay calm. He has to eat. I pull down my nightgown. Vincent squirms as he fights to find his mouth with one tiny fist. I move his hand out of the way. “Come on. The food is right here,” I murmur sweetly.

Vincent’s mouth puckers, but he doesn’t latch. He moves his head fitfully as his frustration intensifies. We’ll learn together. This is a bonding experience, I remind myself. After several unsuccessful minutes, I reach toward the nightstand for the dropper to catch a few drops of colostrum. Vincent sucks the liquid from the dropper and then turns his head expectedly. I repeat the process, but it’s not enough.

A crisp breeze blows in from the window behind me. A car door thuds in the distance. Inside, the room is dim, illuminated only by the dull yellow light spilling in from the bathroom. I feel trapped. And scared. And alone. It’s only our first night.

Vincent moves erratically; I lean back against the headboard and pull him closer. We both cry.