Zac Unger is a firefighter in Oakland, Calif. His daughter was born three months premature and is in the neonatal ICU.
More photos from Zac Unger.

My daughter Percy was born two weeks ago yesterday. And because she showed up three months early, there are still about 11 weeks to go until the day she should have been born. My wife Shona and I had planned to use the last trimester to make the spare bedroom into a nursery, take some parenting classes, and go on one last just-the-two-of-us vacation to Hawaii. Instead, my precocious little girl arrived on her own schedule, and my wife and I have spent the last two weeks camped out next to an incubator in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Even if everything goes perfectly, Percy won't be ready to come home until at least her due date in mid-January.
I knew that becoming a father was going to change my life, but I wasn't expecting that it would be like this. The birthday of your first child should be exciting, jubilant, and full of high hopes and dreams for the future. I didn't have any hope that day, only terror. I didn't know if she'd live through those first hours, and I wasn't even sure that we were doing the right thing by fighting to keep her alive. On a day of celebration, the only thing I felt was sick to my stomach with dread.
When she was born she weighed 1 pound and 15 ounces. At weigh-in yesterday I saw that she's put on a little over 2 ounces since birth, but she's still almost indescribably small. Her entire hand is the size of a penny. Her toe is a grain of rice. My wedding ring fits up and over her knee. Her skin is so thin that you can see every blood vessel and almost make out the organs below. She's tiny, but she's perfect. All of her parts are completely formed: She's got eyebrows, fingernails, a minuscule tongue. Twenty-seven weeks of gestation is near the lower limits of fetal survivability. I've always been staunchly pro-choice, but when you see a baby this small you can't help but wonder when life really begins. When Percy was born she couldn't breathe, open her eyes, or control any of her muscles. Babies younger than this are often allowed to make a "compassionate exit," but at 27 weeks there are no longer any choices to be made, and the full assault of a modern medical campaign rolls into place.

At this point Percy's survival is more a feat of engineering than anything else. She doesn't have a single bodily system that works right, and she'd never make it on her own. A baby this small is like an astronaut on Mars. The outside environment is toxic to her, she can't find anything to eat, and she has to have a constant flow of pure oxygen to survive. Machines have total control over her life right now. She lives in a climate-controlled Plexiglas box that's shaped like a sneeze-guard. The nurses spin dials and calculate drug-infusion rates to try and replicate conditions in the womb. Alarms ring constantly whenever one of her vital signs swings above or below narrowly defined parameters.
Minutes after she was born the doctor dropped a tube into her throat and set the ventilator to breathe for her, regular and constant, hiss after hiss after hiss. Her arms are too small for a regular IV, so the nurse practitioner started two lines in her umbilicus and one in her head. The one on her scalp isn't like the regular IV an adult would have. Instead it's a long catheter that threads down the side of her head, through her internal jugular vein, and terminates just a few millimeters above her heart. She's lying naked under high-powered lights in order to jump-start her liver. Soon she'll need a blood transfusion; the few drops of blood that have been drawn for her labs are enough to deplete her supply to dangerously low levels. They hung a bottle of white fat on her IV tree for calories, along with a bag of something that's neon and yellow and is supposed to give her nutrients. They were so busy worrying about her lungs that they didn't feed her at all for the first few days. The first time she ate they threaded a tube directly into her stomach and gave her 1 cubic centimeter of milk. One cc. There are 355 cc's of liquid in a can of soda. She seems to be doing great, though, and I think she must be hungry because yesterday they increased her feedings to 11 cc's every three hours. She's been making fantastic poops ever since her first meal, and I haven't been this excited by bodily fluids since junior high.
A person this young shouldn't have to endure indignities like this. It's not fair. She should be drooling and burping and keeping us up all night, not suffering this endless poking and testing. They've given her steroids to mature her lungs, Dopamine to steady her blood pressure, Lasix to make her pee, caffeine to fire her up, and morphine to calm her down. When she gets wild they tuck her hands under the blankets so she can't hurt herself.
I feel as helpless as she does, and it's awful. I'm a big strong man. I fight fires and rescue people for a living. But there's nothing I can do to help my own daughter, no solution I can create out of muscle and determination and courage. I've got these thick, clumsy hands and I'm terrified that I'll break her, that I'll pull her legs out of their sockets like chicken wings when I'm changing her diapers. The only thing I can do is sit for hours next to the incubator, my hand barely touching her head, willing my love to flow into her. I can already tell that she's tough though, small and mighty like her mom. She pulled out her breathing tube twice and yesterday she made a fist and punched my thumb when I tried to take her temperature. I still get scared every single time I think about her, but now there's plenty of hope mixed in as well. She's my daughter, and I'm going to do everything I can to make her life better from here on out.
All in all she had a pretty good 14th day. She slept a lot, had some milk, and I read her a story through the porthole in the incubator. All of the nurses tell us to enjoy these good days while they last. They tell us it's a roller coaster, and we're still only on the first incline. They tell us they've never seen a preemie this small that didn't suffer a few terrifying drops before going home. Even on the good days Shona and I are so on-edge that I can't imagine how we're going to cope with the setbacks. Percy is at risk for lung disease, bleeding in the brain, and catastrophic blood infections. Since the infection is the only thing that I can even pretend to have control over, I've rubbed my hands raw from the constant washing and disinfecting. I'm terrified to breathe on her. My daughter is 2 weeks old, and I've never even kissed her.
Remark From The Fray (Day 4):
Zac, you need insurance counseling. Your post contains some misinformation that could be costing you a bundle of money. The most glaring is that the insurance company has a rule on whose insurance company has to cover a baby when each parent has different insurance. There is no such rule. Your wife should have been able to pick up coverage of your infant from day one (this is a little complicated, since it depends on a couple of additional facts, but most of the time you can add a dependent upon the birth of one). The so-called birthday rule has to do with the coordination of benefits when someone is covered by more than one insurer, not on whether the insurer owes you coverage to begin with.
Under federal law you have the right to add a new dependent so long as you act within 30 days to add her -- the surrogate thing is a little odd -- but the right applies to adoptive children, so whichever way, if you are the legal guardian of a new dependent there should be no issue with coverage if you act promptly. Finally, ignore those hospital charges. Your insurer, and certainly your wife's HMO should be able to negotiate serious discounts, and I mean in the 30-50% range. Moreover, and here's where you need to keep on top of things: Your maximum -- as well as your copayments and co-insurance -- should be calculated in line with what your insurer is PAYING and not what your hospital is CHARGING. Charges are a hospital's wish list. No one really pays full charges. Unless your insurer is seriously out of step with the California norm. You don't want your $2million maximum being determined by an amount that is being charged if your insurer has only paid half that much. Good luck.
-- Barbara
(To reply, click here.)
Remark From The Fray (Day 3):
Try Hazel's -- very good, will be a nice break for you from the bad strip mall food. Also, take a drive out into the country side sometime. Very pretty and may get your mind off the vagabond. The central valley does have its virtues, and I hope it helps your baby girl to grow strong so you can take her home.
-- Emily de Ayora
(To reply, click here.)
Remarks From The Fray (Day 2)
Am I alone in my confusion? I don't understand why a person would pour thousands of dollars and gallons of tears into the effort of bearing their own child when there are so many children already out there who need a good home and loving parents.
I feel for the author. My prayers are with him, his wife, and their tiny, fragile daughter. But in the back of my mind, I wonder why these people were so desperate to have "their own" child that they endured six miscarriages, paid for in vitro fertilization and a surrogate mother when they could more easily have saved a child from our overcrowded foster care system, or from starvation and poverty in a 3rd world country.
What motivates this difficult, and, to my mind, somewhat selfish choice? Even though I am not a parent myself, I do understand that there are no easy answers, no simple solutions.
-- Miss mae
(To reply, click here.)
You try because it would be YOUR flesh and blood. Surrogate or not, Percy will be their flesh and blood. My wife and I had a difficult time having a successful conception. And while the thought of adopting, possibly from the 3rd world, was discussed at various times, until someone comes out and says "You can't have your own...period", you keep trying. And for better of worse, medical science has given people a lot of things to try.
-- Scott
(To reply, click here.)
I guess some people have a special need to pass on their genetic material, but I can't imagine loving our daughter any more if we had gone through the pregnancy ourselves.
However, I hesitate to suggest adoption too strongly. After all, if someone can't view an adopted child as "their own" or somehow inferior to a birth child, then they really shouldn't adopt.
-- Ferante
(To reply, click here.)
Everyone knows that there are risks involved in the costly process of assisted pregnancies, but there are just as many in the difficult and sometimes process of adoption. People sometimes wait years for a child, or are deemed, for one reason or another, unsuitable to adopt. People who have done all the paperwork to adopt children in foreign countries have suddenly been told that they can not bring their children home due to kinks in the red tape. Young mothers who give up their children for adoption have come back later and taken the child back. Foster care can be equally heart-breaking. Families take in a child and become attached to that child, only to have the child removed at a later date. Surrogacy is a choice. It is one that medicine has made available to us, and no one should be criticized for the decision to take advantage of that advance.
-- Christe
(To reply, click here.)
Remarks From The Fray (Day 1)
This one brought back a lot of memories. As another "graduate of NICU" and as an alumnus of the Life on a Lillypad club (what our mothers-on-bedrest group was called), I watched others go through this and thought "but for the grace of God there go I".
I was pregnant with the twins, and started spotting in class (I was in college at the time). I went to the doctor, and he sent me directly to the hospital where I spent four months on drugs (magnesium sulfate and tributiline) to stop premature labor. Luckily for me, it worked, and instead of being born at 24 weeks and at just over a pound a piece, my daughters were born at 35 1/2 weeks, at over 5 pounds a piece. We spent 16 days in NICU due to hardcore jaundice and a suspected heart murmur in one of them.
I was incredibly lucky, in many respects. My daughters were over seven pounds before they came home - they made up for lost time in a big way. The heart murmur never materialized into anything real and a few days under the lights dealt with the jaundice. The only side effect we had was spending six months on caffeine and periodic monitoring to prevent and monitor sleep apnea (worked - mostly because they didn't sleep!). We took them off it in due time, it took three days for their systems to get to normal, and they have never looked back. That was almost 12 years ago.
I can remember the fear of looking at your child in incubator, afraid every second of loosing her, starting at every beep and red light on the countless machines hanging off her. I only had to do it for a couple of weeks - they have months of this heartbreak in store even if all goes well. I watched other parents looking through the glass at extremely tiny ones, with hope and terror and anguish warring for space on their faces. I can empathise about the pain of not being able to hold the child - that was the hardest part for many of the mothers. I can assure you that the only thing you can do at this point is talk about the baby and pray, and wash your hands all the time (I would swear I still have Betadine stains under my nails).
He has a tough row to hoe, both as a father and as a husband. You are so helpless. If he finds any sort of help and comfort from writing this stuff down, then let him. I'll read, and commiserate.
-- MsZilla
(To reply, click here.)
(11/1)
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