My Daughter’s Isolette

My daughter’s first home in this great, big world was a clear plastic box. An isolette in the NICU. Just the word — isolette — feels so, well, isolating.

I spent many days sitting next to her little box. I listened to the beeps and pings and alarms of the machines that surrounded us. That isolette witnessed every emotion I’m capable of feeling.

It saw my tears. My love. My fear. My strength. My weakness. My courage. My frustration. My hope.

It heard my prayers. My cries. My laughter. My struggles. My songs. My questions. My apologies. My forgiveness.

I became a mom in front of that piece of sterile medical equipment. It watched me when I met my daughter for the first time. As I felt her tiny leg in my hand. When I whispered to her that I was sorry for not keeping her safe.  

Some moments, I only felt strong enough to sit. To stare at my little girl with a thin piece of plastic separating us. She had wires and tubes connecting her to machines — instead of being connected to me.

When I really thought about it, I was jealous of that silly box. I wanted my daughter to be safe. And I wanted her to be back in me, listening to the rhythm of my heart as I felt her sweet little kicks. But that wasn’t our story. Instead, she was fragile. She was small. She was innocent.

But she was a fighter.

So was I.

And we were fighting together.

On most days, I’d stuff my fears into an unknown depth of my body. I’d get to work scrubbing my hands with industrial strength hospital soap. With my skin red and stinging from the constant washing, I’d reach into her isolette and touch her tiny body. I’d tell her how much I loved her. I’d tell her about her bedroom and her puppy dog. I’d tell her how much I missed her every minute I wasn’t there.    

With the help of a nurse, I could hold her. But it was a process. It meant moving medical equipment, untangling tubes and wires, positioning everything just right, making sure that sensors were still connected to her soft, delicate skin.

But I couldn’t do it alone. I always needed help. I needed permission to hold my daughter.  

Somedays, I hated that isolette so much. It stood for everything that separated me from my little girl. It kept me from experiencing the sweet first weeks of motherhood the way I had always dreamed.

But it also taught me that motherhood is not something you do alone. It’s ok to need help. It’s ok to ask for help. And it’s ok if things don’t turn ok exactly how you had imagined.

You can still find happiness in those moments.

In the end, that plastic box brought us strength. It held my daughter when I couldn’t. It helped her get stronger and stronger with each day. It helped us get to take her home. And for that, I’ll be eternally thankful.