When it comes to health, I’m passionate about family because I have worked in Maternal Child health for so many years. During that time, I have worked to make sure that the baby and mother during labor were safe and healthy. I have worked to keep a mom pregnant, for “a few more days” hoping for a little more maturity of those lungs so baby would be better able to make it without profound BPD and ROP. I have worked to be sure that the neonate, no matter how small, was ventilated as gently as possible, to save all the lung capacity that we could. I have fed that baby, paying attention to the baby’s lead, making sure I did not cause any aversion, always aware that I could be causing lifelong struggles with food if I was not following the baby’s cues. I have worked to make sure that mom knew how to pump well, to preserve her milk supply during the exhausting, endless months of waiting for baby to be able to come to the breast. I have made sure that both mom and dad have the right time and amount of holding and bonding. I have carefully measured the medications and the IV solutions, making sure that the exact small calculations are correct. I have worked to include the siblings in any manner that is age appropriate, so they would get to know their little brother or sister.

There are many other things that I have done as a nurse in the maternal child area of medicine. However, I have had to admit, no matter how careful and precise a nurse I was, no matter how much I smiled and took the extra time to make sure things were done well, no matter how much I taught each parent, guardian, foster parent, how to complete each small task. All that had no meaning if that baby was not able to go home to a loving, healthy family.

There are two families who taught me more than any of the hundreds of others I cared for over the years. The first one was several years ago. This mother seemed very concerned and caring but also hesitant, to talk, to interact, to reveal who she was. One day, as she was visiting, she had another one of her children with her. That little girl had a nasty wound on her hand, which was not as clean as a nurse in a NICU nurse would have wanted. I asked the mom about the injury. She was quiet, not timid, but mild mannered, she answered me openly and in a straightforward manner. Her little girl had reached for a banana peel someone had thrown into the fire, after they had eaten the banana. The little blond-haired 4-year-old had wanted a banana and had reached into the fire to get the one she thought she saw. As the mother told this story, with a tear in her eye, that was the moment that I understood that they were living in a homeless camp. In talking with the mother, I knew where they were living, off of I-5 S, in the trees, I had driven past many times. It was cold in the Pacific Northwest at that time of year, I knew that I had to help this family find some type of housing to protect this little baby who would be going home with them. I also knew, this baby was going to be loved, treasured, cared about, and that was one thing I felt was certain.

The second family I remember from just a few years back. This family had twins, and, as is so often the case in the NICU, the babies did not go home at the same time. After the first twin left the second twin stayed with us for several additional weeks. The second baby was having a hard time getting off oxygen. The mother, a kind, quiet woman, would come and visit when she could, but she had one infant and three other children at home, and she was a single mother. It is common in these situations that a social worker visits the home to determine if the family had the ability to care for the child before the baby is discharged. During that visit, the social worker found a home that was loud, kids running around and mom was not dressed to welcome guests.

When the report was placed in the chart, several on the NICU team began to question whether we would be able to discharge this infant to the mother.  At that time, I was the nurse leader of the unit, and I would visit any families who were visiting their infants and check in on them. This little baby was in a corner bed in a big open unit. It was a busy corner with a lot of traffic. Traffic as nurses fetched medicine and food for the babies or respiratory therapists cleaned machines nearby.

On the days that mother was able to find someone to care for the other four children and come in, she would sit in a reclining chair, take her shirt off, put the baby to her chest, cover them both with a blanket and sit there talking and singing to her baby. As I would walk around the corner, coming out of my office and entering the frenetic atmosphere of the NICU, I would see this scene. The mother’s face nearly glowed, her smile was radiant, focused on her precious little curly haired son. No activity around her could pierce the glow around that chair and that perceptible bond, when observed by me, was the physical definition of love. I knew this family would have a hard time with the physical needs of each child but the perceptible love that glowed told me that this baby was going to be okay, and this baby did go home with this mother.

All the work I did over the years, for the moms, for the dads, for the siblings, for the babies, none of that will ever be as important as a healthy loving family that is formed and will walk through life with these children. That is why family is my passion, not something easily taught in nursing school or medical school, but when there is a family, loving, caring, together, no matter the education level, the economic level, that love and care is what defines a successful course. In the end, that is the most important thing we can do, help these families go home, believing in family and committed to each other.