Jane on feeling like a failure as a mother because her baby had to go to the NICU

My hospital birth experience is not unlike many women’s. My pregnancy was a healthy, relatively uncomplicated one. My labor and delivery was textbook and routine. No alarm bells. No concerns. Nothing prepared me to expect anything different. 

My labor and delivery experience was actually a pleasant one. I had very little discomfort. I pushed for about 25 minutes. It was all over very quickly. But so were the pleasantries. 

I was handed my daughter and after holding her for a brief moment, she was taken away by a swarm of nurses. Doctors flooded into my hospital room. People were shouting. I couldn’t see what was happening. I couldn’t think straight. I was shaking. Someone said they were going to take my newborn daughter upstairs [the NICU].

Related: I’m a NICU nurse, and here’s what I tell parents about caring for their NICU babies

My head was swirling. I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth to ask what was going on. 

The doctor who delivered Olive offered to go find my parents. They were in a waiting room out in the hospital lobby. That was very kind of her. Except, that in doing so, I was left alone.

My husband left with the nurses to head to the NICU with our daughter. The nurses who were tending to me left the room to get something. They promised to be right back. 

I sat paralyzed from the epidural, half-naked, bloodied, cold and shaking; I was alone in this quiet, alien L&D room. The bright light flooded down on me. I sat staring at my placenta sitting across from me. I cried. I called out for my mom. I called out for anyone. I sat by myself in that cold quiet room for over 15 minutes. I didn’t know if my daughter was alive. 

Related: How my baby’s NICU journey changed me as a mom

When they wheeled me to my recovery room, the nurses walked briskly past the button new moms get to press when they have a baby. It sets off this sweet chime throughout the halls to signify a baby was born. I didn’t get to press that button. I had really been looking forward to that. I cried. 

I was handed a menu when we arrived to my recovery room. The nurse told me to hurry up and order some food before the cafeteria closed. I couldn’t read the writing. I could barely hold the piece of paper in my limp hands. And I certainly couldn’t lift the phone receiver.

Where was my baby? What was going on? I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to order food. I wanted my child. I wanted someone to tell me everything would be OK. 

Related: 12 NICU parents on what they wish they knew—and how to make it through

When my husband returned from the NICU, he offered to bring me upstairs to meet our daughter. He forgot I couldn’t walk yet. In fact, it would take days for the epidural to fully wear off.

He seemed annoyed that he had to push me in a wheelchair. He seemed annoyed most of the time while we were in the hospital. He was cold and distant. I suppose it was his way of processing. I took it personally. I still do. 

The NICU is the most alien experience I’ve ever had. For starters, the unit at the hospital I was at is located six stories above the labor and delivery floor. You have to twist and turn through multiple corridors and hallways to find the correct bank of elevators to take you up. You also have to have a security badge to access the seventh floor. Moms are supposed to be given a special key fob bracelet for easy access to the NICU. I never received one.

Related: Dear mama sitting in the NICU: Sometimes you’ll fall apart and that’s OK

Once you arrive to the NICU, you have to sign in. And this is a MAJOR process. Understandably so. But for a brand new mom, choking through my tears, eyes swollen and weak to the knees, I couldn’t comprehend half of what I was being instructed to do.

This is all very foggy to me. I remember signing stacks of paperwork and getting scrubbed in. Someone eventually gave me permission to enter. It was a struggle to get inside. My anxiety was eating me alive. I had a pit in my stomach. All I wanted was to run inside and be there for my daughter. 

Seeing my daughter for the first time in the NICU, hooked up to all the cords and wires and tubes, needles poking out of her little arm, dried blood in the spots where a needle wasn’t successful, medical alarms beeping and chirping as they do. This was one of the most traumatic images of my life. I had failed. I delivered this sweet baby a few short hours ago and I had already failed her. 

Related: You’re not failing, mama

We learned that Olive had suffered respiratory distress. No one was sure why. Over the course of a week, it was determined that she had a lack of pulmonary surfactant. I knew somehow I was responsible. Surely this could have been prevented. 

I should add that my mother-in-law was my primary OBGYN. She didn’t deliver Olive, but she was in the room (against my wishes). This was a rookie mistake. I should have never used my MIL’s practice; this caused a whole bunch of problems for me. A big one being that the doctors and nurses and hospital staff didn’t talk to me about Olive’s condition—they talked to my MIL.

They knew her. They were all colleagues. They talked shop. Used medical jargon that was above my head. This left me feeling, well, left out. It was as if I didn’t exist. I wish I had spoken up. I wish I had fought to be included in those medical updates about Olive. Instead, I cried. I couldn’t find the strength or courage to stand up for myself. Or for Olive. I was a failure. 

Related: You’re allowed to feel the grief and joy of being a NICU mom

Much of the week I spent at the hospital is fuzzy. It wasn’t until the third day that I asked a nurse if I could take a shower. She giggled. I guess I could have taken a shower that first night if I had wanted to. Instead, I was still sitting in the same hospital gown they put you in after you have a baby.

No one told me I could change my clothes. No one told me I could bathe. I needed a caregiver. I needed an advocate. I needed someone to take care of me. 

I’ll end my story with this: 

One of my most formidable memories from my birth experience was probably not what you’d think. Yes, the NICU was terrible. And every time a new nurse walked into my room and unknowingly asked, “Where’s the baby?” I cringed. 

But you know what really got me? It was that cold, dark, sad room I sat in for a week. Not one friend brought me a balloon. Not one card. No flowers. The bassinet had been wheeled out (no need if there was no baby).

I would walk the hallways and peek in the open doors. Babies crying. Moms cooing. Flowers galore. Not only did I feel like a failure, but I had also been forgotten. It’s no wonder why I experienced such severe postpartum depression and anxiety. 

The moral of my story: Always send flowers.