Life in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) was completely unknown to us. Honestly, hospital life in general was something we had never experienced. So we took it day by day. By the third day, with the relief of having temporary custody signed, partially moved into a house around the corner from the hospital, and our remote jobs organized, things began to feel a little less stressful, less intimidating, like we had a plan.
Little gestures that warmed our hearts
That morning, when we arrived at the hospital, one of the nurses surprised us with something I still remember with so much emotion: she had hand-drawn a sign with our baby’s name on it. It was a pink princess castle, with her name written in big letters. She placed it above the incubator, and for the first time, we felt a sense of belonging. It added a touch of warmth to that cold medical environment.
That same day, they gave us two tiny hearts made of fabric, one for my husband and one for me. They instructed us to wear them close to our skin throughout the day so they could absorb our scent. Later, they would place them inside the incubator, near our baby, so she could recognize us, smell us, and feel our presence, even if we couldn’t hold her as much as we wished. It was a way to bond
Learning the NICU system
Our daughter was assigned to NICU Level 3, where babies requiring intermediate care are placed. In that room, I remember seeing micro-preemies born at 24 weeks, as well as full-term babies needing intensive care. The room was dimly lit, and contact with her was very limited. Everything followed strict protocols. That day, we were introduced to something called kangaroo care or skin to skin contact.
We had never heard of it before, but I remember it as a deeply healing moment, just what we needed that day. They placed our baby on our bare chest, covered only by a blanket. She was so tiny she fit perfectly inside my sports bra.. Sentir su calor, su respiración, cómo se calmaban sus latidos… como se quedó tranquilita es una sensación indescriptible.
They explained all the medical benefits, body temperature regulation, stabilizing her heartbeat, helping her gain weight, lowering stress levels. But what they didn’t mention was how healing it would be for us too. It became one of our favorite moments.
Seeing her in the incubator felt like watching her grow inside a transparent womb. A space filled with cables, lights, and monitors, but also filled with life, hope, and love. A place where we could witness her development and somehow be part of it, help her, and care for her until she was ready for the world.
Tiny big milestones
A few days later, we received news that felt like the biggest victory yet: she had been moved to Level 2. She was still in an incubator, but with fewer monitors, fewer wires, and for the first time, no need for that tiny sleep mask.
The environment was lighter, there was more natural light, and a bit more background noise. There, her progress became more visible and tangible.
Las enfermeras empezaron a permitirnos participar en su rutina de touch time. Una rutina que se hacía cada 3 horas, que consistia en cambiarle el pañal, tomarle la temperatura, pesarla, medirle la barriguita con una cinta métrica… y tener más tiempo en kangaroo care. By the end of her stay, we even got to bathe her and dress her.
Between each touch time, we’d go back to the house, eat something, work a bit, and then return.
Our focus during those weeks was to celebrate every achievement. Every extra gram she gained, every stable temperature, every added milliliter of milk, everything felt like a celebration.
Our family and friends were a huge part of that time too. Even though we were out of town, they all came to meet her whenever they could, some even surprised us with visits. Those were unforgettable, beautiful moments.
The hardest milestone
The most difficult challenge came when she had to learn to suck, breathe, and swallow at the same time, something I had always taken for granted, but that babies typically learn in the womb after week 34.
For the first two weeks, she was fed through a feeding tube that went through her nose into her stomach. Slowly and with great patience, we started trying bottles, tiny amounts of formula, adjusting feeding times, and testing different options to see how she responded.
One night, I decided to go back to the hospital for the midnight touch time routine. . When I arrived, I felt like I was reliving déjà vu: several doctors were gathered around her incubator. This time, her belly was severely bloated. They suspected a possible intestinal complication that could require surgery.
Gracias a aquella enciclopedia de bebés prematuros que había comprado la primera noche y que había estado leyendo, entendía de la condición que los médicos hablaban, y aunque mi experiencia médica se resume en ser fan de Grey ‘s Anatomy. Me basé en lo que había aprendido del libro, y de estar alimentando a mi bebe, recordé que justo ese día le habían cambiado la fórmula a una de más calorías, con la idea de que agarrara peso más rápido.
I talked to the doctor and explained my concern, they discussed it, and decided to switch her back to the previous formula for two more feedings. If she didn’t improve, they would operate in the morning. That night, I stayed at the hospital. I sat next to her incubator, measuring her belly, monitoring her feedings alongside the nurses, talking to her, telling her how strong she was, and praying she wouldn’t need surgery.
A las 6 am, recuerdo que apenas amanecía y llegó la ronda de médicos… la inflamación intestinal le había mejorado un poco, los médicos nos informaron que no sería necesaria la cirugía, que íbamos a continuar con la fórmula que le habían dado esas 2 oportunidades, pero debido a que esta tenía menos calorías el tiempo de salida del NICU podría extenderse.
I tried to have my sister donate breast milk (she was breastfeeding my 5-month-old nephew and had offered to help) but unfortunately, the hospital didn’t allow it.
NICU Graduation
Thanks to God and our little warrior princess, her recovery was faster than expected, and we were told she’d be discharged a week earlier than planned.
I remember that day like it was yesterday. We arrived early to the hospital, hearts racing with joy and nerves.
The nurses gave us a folder with instructions and recommendations. When we said goodbye, one of them told me something I’ll never forget: “Remember, your baby was born premature. She is not premature. Don’t be afraid. Don’t hold her back. The NICU is behind you now.”
I took it literally, and I’m so grateful for those words, because they planted a confidence in me I truly needed.
One of the nurses who had been with us the most, the same one who found me a room on the second night when I emotionally collapsed I share more about that [here]walked us to the car. She was our greatest support through this journey. At the parking lot, we hugged, cried, and said goodbye.
We placed our baby in her car seat. I remember how big the seat looked compared to her tiny body. We had to use rolled-up cloth diapers on the sides to support her. I sat in the backseat with her. I couldn’t stop staring. My whole body trembled, a mix of excitement and nerves about driving away with her, fresh out of the NICU.
But it was official: Our time in the NICU had ended. Three weeks and four days after being born weighing only 3 lbs, our baby was discharged weighing almost 6 lbs. We could finally go home. Our baby had graduated from the NICU.
Silent feelings that stayed with me
Even though I tried to keep a positive, strong attitude, something inside me had changed.
During those NICU days, new fears began to surface, feelings I didn’t understand and found hard to describe. I started feeling a strange kind of jealousy toward the birth mom. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, imagining running into her in the parking lot, in the elevator. I even avoided the hospital cafeteria…
Sometimes I’d dream I arrived at the hospital and the baby was gone. I’d call at 3 a.m. just to check that everything was okay. Some nights I didn’t want to go home. I was consumed by the fear that the birth mom might change her mind. Even though I had been reassured that, legally, that was no longer possible, the fear stayed with me… until we left the hospital the three of us, together.
I remember that moment vividly: my husband was driving, I was in the backseat next to the baby, silent, lost in thought. We passed the sign for our home exit off the highway, and that’s when I finally took a breath without a knot in my throat. I felt like we had crossed a line of safety.
An emotional labor
When we got home, I was emotionally drained. Completely happy, but exhausted. I couldn’t put it into words because I didn’t even understand what I was feeling. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, nervous, holding my baby close, clinging to the feeling of her next to me.
I know that physical labor can last many hours and brings a kind of pain I haven’t experienced, and I don’t try to compare. But for me, this was my labor: emotional, mental, spiritual. Those first 48 hours. Those weeks in the NICU. That roller coaster of emotions and constant uncertainty.
It all made me dig deep to find strength I didn’t know I had… while also forcing me to bury feelings I couldn’t yet process. And even in the midst of all that, my biggest dream had come true ♥️.
I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling back then. I held it all inside. And it wasn’t until three years later, when we began a new adoption journey, that I finally understood. I was able to transform that fear into love, into gratitude and begin to heal.
But that… is a story for another cafecito.
Grateful to have you here, heart to heart.
Melli
