It started Tuesday with a sore throat and stuffy nose. By yesterday morning, I was miserable.
Two extraordinarily long nights of blow nose, wash hands, sanitize with antibacterial gel, feed baby, repeat. Scarlett was lacking food, I was lacking sleep and we were both lacking our usual cheerful demeanors.
No baby nurses were available.
Me and my 2 month old preemie sat in a one bedroom apartment.
She was out of her usual formula. After braving the 111 degree heat in a tuk tuk to travel to 5 different pharmacies, I came to realize that all of India was out of her usual formula.
We'll have to use the kind that causes gas.
endless crying
I called the hotel doctor. I'm sick. Sure he'll come. Give him money.
I need prescriptions. More money.
Can you send someone? I'm alone with a baby and I can't go near her. Absolutely, just pay money.
Here are your medicines. Five pills. Not five days worth, like instructed. It's ok, just send someone else tomorrow. And by the way, pay more money.
I really need a baby nurse.
Ok, we'll send someone. Someone Scarlett has never met. Wait, where is the nurse who has taken care of her for the past 2 months?
I'm sick. I need sleep. She needs sleep. And that's not going to happen with someone she doesn't know.
Oh, we had to put her with the new babies who are using her all the time. You are nice. Your baby is good. She can have someone else.
No, NO, NO!
Send me Scarlett's nurse. Send her every day if that's what you need to do. And yes, of course, I will pay you more money.
I need to see Hayden. Through the window. Because I'm sick. My Hayden. On oxygen.
I'll sleep in the car. It's close to two a hour drive midday.
114 degrees
Good, there's my car. Air conditioned, comfortable seats. Precious sleep.
No wait, madam, that is for a new client. You have the other one. Playboy sticker, pleather bench that only reaches mid-back. It's as hot as the pavement outside.
My god, just get me an air conditioned car. I don't care, if I have to I WILL PAY YOU MORE MONEY!
I arrive at the NICU. Seeing my expression, the doctor waves me in.
I sit in the swivel.
60 days together.
He knows.
Today is our "3 week" talk. Can we go home by mid-June? Can my children meet their father before their 3 month birthday? Before father's day? And my job? My leave will be up.
60 days together.
I know.
"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, struggling for words. "I know that by now it is just too hot. "
And I slowly nod my head as the tears stream down my face.
Too. hot.
I will sit in this chair 22 days from now.
92 days in the NICU. How many more?
I want to tell him that we can fix this.
It's India.
I want to tell him that I will just pay him more money.
Only I can't.
Because I realize.
There is none.
Two extraordinarily long nights of blow nose, wash hands, sanitize with antibacterial gel, feed baby, repeat. Scarlett was lacking food, I was lacking sleep and we were both lacking our usual cheerful demeanors.
No baby nurses were available.
Me and my 2 month old preemie sat in a one bedroom apartment.
She was out of her usual formula. After braving the 111 degree heat in a tuk tuk to travel to 5 different pharmacies, I came to realize that all of India was out of her usual formula.
We'll have to use the kind that causes gas.
endless crying
I called the hotel doctor. I'm sick. Sure he'll come. Give him money.
I need prescriptions. More money.
Can you send someone? I'm alone with a baby and I can't go near her. Absolutely, just pay money.
Here are your medicines. Five pills. Not five days worth, like instructed. It's ok, just send someone else tomorrow. And by the way, pay more money.
I really need a baby nurse.
Ok, we'll send someone. Someone Scarlett has never met. Wait, where is the nurse who has taken care of her for the past 2 months?
I'm sick. I need sleep. She needs sleep. And that's not going to happen with someone she doesn't know.
Oh, we had to put her with the new babies who are using her all the time. You are nice. Your baby is good. She can have someone else.
No, NO, NO!
Send me Scarlett's nurse. Send her every day if that's what you need to do. And yes, of course, I will pay you more money.
I need to see Hayden. Through the window. Because I'm sick. My Hayden. On oxygen.
I'll sleep in the car. It's close to two a hour drive midday.
114 degrees
Good, there's my car. Air conditioned, comfortable seats. Precious sleep.
No wait, madam, that is for a new client. You have the other one. Playboy sticker, pleather bench that only reaches mid-back. It's as hot as the pavement outside.
My god, just get me an air conditioned car. I don't care, if I have to I WILL PAY YOU MORE MONEY!
I arrive at the NICU. Seeing my expression, the doctor waves me in.
I sit in the swivel.
60 days together.
He knows.
Today is our "3 week" talk. Can we go home by mid-June? Can my children meet their father before their 3 month birthday? Before father's day? And my job? My leave will be up.
60 days together.
I know.
"I'm sorry," he shakes his head, struggling for words. "I know that by now it is just too hot. "
And I slowly nod my head as the tears stream down my face.
Too. hot.
I will sit in this chair 22 days from now.
92 days in the NICU. How many more?
I want to tell him that we can fix this.
It's India.
I want to tell him that I will just pay him more money.
Only I can't.
Because I realize.
There is none.

.jpg)




.jpg)

.jpg)



.jpg)


.jpg)

.jpg)







































