Helping Preemie Dads (Like Me) Cope

With my wife’s permission, I have been allowed to intimately write about our daughter Caeli’s struggles and triumphs as she lay in the NICU unit growing. There are so many things, however, that are too private to share with you; those remain within the bond of our marriage. I will continue to blog along the way, celebrating her achievements along the way and thanking God for all of what the journey brings. 

These posts I am writing are not only for my prayer circle, but also as an aide for the future.

Who is my prayer circle? Let me introduce all of you to each other:  our families; my tribe from Henderson and their spouses; the Mount Zion and Greater Friendship Missionary Baptist church families; our neighbors; my brothers from high school; and no more than four people (two I have mentored, one is my wife’s special friend – and a blessing to both of us, and the other goes back twenty years to junior high)I truly trust, love, and value.Oh yeah, anyone who knows the power of prayer. 

Now I got THAT out of the way, what can I do besides fret every time Caeli has a down day? Certainly, writing about it helps, as all of you know. Postpartum groups have been established for both moms and dads – where in central Arkansas are they? – for us to share our experiences both good and bad. I have met mostly moms with preemies, and a pair of dads who do stand out in my memory:  a father from my hometown whose wife gave birth to twins twelve days apart, and another local dad who has stood in the face of extremely difficult decisions with his child. My heart and prayers continue to go out to both of their families.

Every day with my daughter is a victory. #CaeliStrong
— A. Cedric Armstrong (@cedteaches) March 13, 2015

Another thing that can be established is a blood drive. One distinct plus in this is that the blood can not only save the life of our child but also anyone else who needs a transfusion. In this case, Caeli and I are both the same blood type meaning that if she needed blood, I could give some of mine to her as a direct donor [She has her own pint dedicated to her]. What that means is I would be able to directly give to her; however, my blood would not be as stringently tested as that of an anonymous donor. The primary risk of direct donor to patient is infection – why introduce something she would be unable to handle in her fragile state? Keep in mind the most valuable life there is not my own, but the child in NICU.

A third way to help preemie dads cope is reading and research. The fact our angels are in NICU is not our faults, so let’s stop beating ourselves up over things that were beyond our control. I don’t know about anyone else, but I do like being able to understand in plain English what the machines do and doctors and nurses explain to us. I’ve been blessed to have patient doctors and nurses go over Caeli’s progress, all of whom have heard me ask seemingly dumb questions over and over. It also helps to have one or two nurses to keep close contact with, preferably those with a good rapport with the baby and not around the hospital because it is his or her job. To that point, shout out to Drs. Simpson and Hall in addition to nurses Lorrie and Becky for all they do above and beyond for Caeli, and for helping us understand everything a little bit clearer than what we knew before. Truthfully, everyone in the Cubby Den rocks!

Ever heard of kangaroo care? Until Caeli was born, neither had I. Babies do need the benefit and stimulus of touch; studies have shown that they decrease their heart rates and oxygen consumption and have fewer alarms when we do kangaroo care. All I have to do is open my shirt and lay her on my chest with nothing but a diaper. She then gets blankets and voila! Quiet time with daddy’s little girl! It sure beats sticking my hand into an incubator and only using one finger to touch her. I await this day anxiously, as her skin is unprepared for what is out here today. It also means I need to shave my nappy chest hairs.

Unlike my wife whom is on maternity leave, I have an added luxury [or curse, depending on the day] of being able to go to work. Those twelve hours away from home and the hospital are difficult, yet the job serves as a respite from the troubles of the world. Even those I detest the dead-end role it has seemingly become, simply being able to come to work has provided a necessary escape for me. It’s also the place that our family’s health insurance comes through, so I might as well shut up and push. [Next year I’ll evaluate that against Obamacare and make the best/most fiscally prudent decision]. I also have co-workers who are supportive during this different [I won’t say difficult, for I still believe Philippians 4:13] days ahead and their accompanying challenges, as the majority of us have children.

I’m sure there are more ways to help preemie dads out that the ones that are mentioned, as this is nowhere near a complete list. In the coming days, I am going to have to seek out a daycare facility for our princess that exceeds her needs as well as not only being affordable. It also has to be able to provide the necessary one-on-one attention Caeli will need to grow and lead a full life. By being there and taking helpmeet to another level, our wives – and baby mamas – are appreciative when we cook meals, wash breast pumping supplies, help them into our cars, do the laundry, and even attempt to clean the house. I may not always verbally state my wants, but thank you for your continued prayers and support along the way in addition to the buddies I can grab a couple of beers and chat with.

For more information, check out the following links:

Papas of Preemies	www.papasofpreemies.com
Preemie World	www.PreemieWorld.com
Postpartum Men	www.postpartummen.com
Postpartum Dads	www.postpartumdads.org
Postpartum International	www.postpartum.net
Lotsa Helping Hands	www.lotsahelpinghands.org
March of Dimes	www.marchofdimes.org
Dads of Preemie Angels	www.nationalshare.org
Prematurity	www.prematurity.org
Inspire.com Preemie Support Forum	www.inspire.com/preemie

Trust me, it’s not easy, but our preemies and families need us.

Being Dad To A Beautiful Preemie Girl

In the last post, I told you that Caeli was born last Friday morning. She is a week old today and hands down the most beautiful little girl I have ever laid my eyes on. I know she recognizes our voices and the touch from our hands and although we cannot hold her yet, she has become the center of our universe and I thank God for each moment I do have with her. To be 100% honest with you, I really do not want to be at work or at home or anywhere away from her at this point; I just want her with me. Seeing her via Angel Eye from home alleviates some of the worry yet I feel like it isn’t enough. I know the nurses and doctors are doing their very best with her and God will take care of her through the roller coaster of life in the NICU, but what can I do? How can I help Caeli’s growth along that she can come home with us a healthy baby?

To catch the gravitas of how small she is, think back to the Barbie dolls of most girls’ childhoods. If that isn’t enough, I have a picture of my wedding band on her arm as Caeli holds my wife’s engagement ring.

Diamonds are a girl's best friend, even when she's days old.

Traditionally, people come to the aid of the mother – and I am eternally grateful for the outpouring of support for Chastity in every way possible – trust me. She truly thanks everyone who is praying for great health, calling, dropping off food, willing to do laundry, cooking, helping out around the house, etc. I have taken pictures every day I have been with her, made a video, and am simply cherishing every second with her. One thing I have discovered about Caeli so far is she is one resilient little sister! She’s also picked up her mother’s fashion sense of feng shui by rearranging her incubator to her liking and flow.

The hardest thing about being the father of a week-old daughter whose gestation age is 25 weeks is seeing her so helpless and hearing all of those alarms go off for what seems like 24/7, and not being able to do anything to help. Every time I hear a beep, my eyes dart over to the charts and computer screens; I don’t understand everything about what the NICU staff is doing, but I am trying to get it. Those of you who have been receiving my updates through text message surely can sense the uncertainty in my words. I am trying to be the rock my wife needs in this hour, but I need to steal some time away for myself to cry. Caeli needs a strong daddy to reassure her that everything will be all right; Chastity needs her husband to be built Ford-tough and remain like a rock in the way Bob Seger sung about many years ago.

What I have been able to do beyond giving my alms to God is clean and sanitize the breast pump supplies and label the milk as it is being produced. At home, I’ve not been able to be as hands-on because of my twelve-hour night schedule. It is being frozen and goes back to UAMS on the first day off I get so Caeli can have a steady supply of the sweet stuff. We are also creating a shadow box of everything she is using:  tubes, wires, fresh diapers, bottles, etc. as items to treasure when she gets old enough to appreciate them.

O My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; nevertheless, not as I will, as You will. – Matthew 26:39

I know it is too easy to focus on Armstrong and my own selfish wants, passions, and desires of wanting baby Caeli to come home to continue filling our lives with joy. Lord, forgive me of that. Help me to place You first and to look for what You are doing and want to do in my life. Teach me patience in Your ways and remind me that things do not always happen when I snap my fingers or want them to occur. 

The Moment Dude Became Dad

Friday, February 13, 2015.

4:18 am.

It’s also the moment our daughter Caeli (pronounced kay-lee) Elise was born and certainly the scariest moment of my 36 years. Was she breathing? Is she going to be OK? How’s Chastity doing? Those were the questions I pondered as I sat in the waiting room outside Labor and ICU, praying to God that everything will turn out fine in his name and will. In black Starter gym shorts and flip flops, I shook in a chair holding my laptop and cell phone – why did I have the computer with me was beyond me – but it was what I grabbed. Even as a man of God, I admit that I was afraid during those moments as a result of how labor went for us and how helpless I became now that the minute I needed to be strong, I felt queasy. My stomach turned over and over, twisted into knots all because the two females in my life were not near me.

Shortly after she was resuscitated, I finally got to meet Caeli, and you know what? She is the most beautiful, precious little girl I have ever laid eyes on. That head of hair, those eyebrows, the long arms and legs were perfect! Despite her diminutive size (she weighed one pound and eight ounces, and measured 12.4 inches – not much more than a Barbie doll), my mini-me is the blessing we’ve prayed and tried for all of this time. I just hope I can be the dad she needs in this cold world, protecting her from all things and never letting go. In five days, I have only begun to grasp the veracity of dude becoming dad, and it is honestly overwhelming. Will she have a better childhood than I did? (Sidebar: Mine was pretty damn good, if I say so myself. Thanks, Mom and Dad!) Which daycare should she go to? Will she attend public or private school, and what are the ramifications of that decision? Who can I talk to about establishing a 529 plan for her, and at least a legit savings account? How can I prepare her for an environment which presents the world is her oyster, there are people who do not think little African-American girls like Caeli are equal in their eyesight and some parents do not want their children to play with her? I know being a good father is providing far more than a dollars, so how will she remember those moments like bathing, being held, hugged, kissed, and otherwise doted upon if I am constantly working? What if my best efforts aren’t enough? Our home is definitely a God-fearing pad, so how can I teach her the ways of thus said the Lord in a manner that 1) she understands, and 2) will not depart from the teachings when she grows up?

Fatherhood is the greatest challenge I’ve ever endeavored and it frankly scares the shit out of me.

Maybe my concerns are overwrought, but maybe not. I only want the best for her and her mother; therefore, I have to give up the dude mentality. You know, the dude is the one who is willing to take crazy chances such as “hey, watch this!” and doing 100 on the highway just because I can. For three-and-a-half years, I’ve only had to answer to Chastity (let her tell it, I’m going to do whatever I want anyway), but now both of my ladies really need me, I’d better stick around. The absolute last thing I need is to do something so stupid that I’m not around to take Caeli to school, attend father-daughter dances, put the fear of God in her boyfriends (hopefully she doesn’t date before 21, but every guy says that), eventually walk her down the aisle, and grow old with her mother. I love them both dearly and perhaps to my detriment, but my life is no longer my own. While every Christian makes that similar statement, I pray that God makes me the husband and father I need to be in their lives.

I find it funny that I “finally” grew up only two years ago although I’ve largely taken care of myself since nineteen. Aside from attending college at Ouachita Baptist (hey, we’re both Henderson State graduates), I want Caeli to know she can do and be anything she wants. Of course, if she gets full tuition paid across the street, I can vouch for a Tiger. I’m not that rigid.

Friday, February 13, 2015 was the greatest and scariest day of my life for it is not only the day our daughter was born but also the one when this dude became a dad. In addition, Valentine’s Day came a day early for me thanks to my queen and little princess both being healthy. My prayer for today is that our three lives serve as testimonies that are my delight and counselors as Psalm 119:24 indicates. 

Reaching Out For Help

If you remember reading Mother’s Day For the Childless Couple last year, this is a continuation of that post – sort of. Our first pregnancy has been a whirlwind of experiences and emotions so far, and as we crest our midpoint, our prayers are for a healthy baby sans complications. God does what He does for a reason, and all we can do is trust Him no matter how difficult our days may become later.

My wife went on bed rest recently, meaning she is limited to where she can go:  the bed, the bathroom, the couch, and maybe the kitchen. Fortunately for me, Chastity can venture to the kitchen ONLY for leftovers and readily prepared items such as fruit cups, bottled water, and premade salad mixes; otherwise, I would have a harder time staying awake at work. Since we both need the income, sleeping in my office is not an option. Even if sleep were in the realm of possibilities, the shower stalls at work are simply filthy, mired in years of caked-on grime.

Psalm 121:2 tells us that “my help comes from the Lord, which made heaven and earth”. It doesn’t say dig deeper for your self-sufficient strength which already comes from the Lord. I may be built Ford tough, but it doesn’t mean I do not need assistance. He made the heavens and the earth – I only wrote this blog post – proving that every little idea birthed to the piece of paper I take notes on means squat. By acknowledging this simple fact, we Christians know that going it alone is not an option even as it seems that we cannot sit still. In this case, while Chastity is (temporarily) incapacitated, she is receiving all sorts of aid and support from the family as well as our neighbors and friends.

God has brought us too far to the places we dwell from where we once called home. Trust Him to leave the future in His hands and say thank you.

A Letter To Baby Caeli

As you kind of figured out, I am your daddy and I love you, just as your mommy does and always will. There will be a lot of new things to see and people you’ll meet when you get here like grandmas and grandpas, cousins, aunts and uncles, so I’ll try to keep it short.

I want you to know how special you are and what a blessing you are to us from God. Just like you, we were babies once upon a time and I’m sure Gigi and Grandma will show you the pictures of Mommy and Daddy when we were babies like you. More than just our baby, you are God’s baby and it is up to us to teach you all of the right ways to be more like baby Jesus and less like us. You are our first child, so I want to get this right for you.

I want you to know along the road trip called life, we have your back. If you’d rather play lacrosse than the trumpet, I’m fine with that; same thing if volleyball suits your fancy.

I want you to dream on like Aerosmith and achieve all of your goals beyond your wildest dreams.

My hope for you, dear child of privilege, is to afford for you the best of our offerings. I don’t mean only material things, but you’ll be able to connect in ways to make this place better because of your presence.

My desire is that by the time you’re a grown-up, you don’t have to kick down doors to prove you belong.

You can be anything your heart desires – a doctor, a lawyer, a pastor, a basketball player, a programmer, a teacher, the governor, the President of the United States – and I’ll be as proud of you as I am this day.

You’ve given us one of the greatest honors we can ever have: to be your father and mother. As I’ve said before, your daddy and mommy love you in words unspoken and want only the best for you. One day when you’re older, you’ll see this letter and hopefully grasp how ecstatic we are to be your parents.

With all our love, Mommy and Daddy

The Third Monday in January

Nationwide, the third Monday in January marks the observation of Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday as a national holiday. In my home state of Arkansas, it also honors Confederate General Robert E. Lee. How either man is observed is subject to whom you talk to and your view of the larger world:  one is a hero, and the other a traitor. You know where I stand on this one. One man gets a federal holiday signed into law by a very reluctant Ronald Reagan; the other has monuments all over the South and as far north as Winsted, CT (how do I know? I used to live there – mine was also the only black face for roughly thirty miles or so) and a treasonous spirit, yearning for the South to rise again while people whistle Dixie and don the Stars and Bars.

The third Monday in January is why we need to learn our history.

Instead, some students who should be in school are at home or roaming malls aimlessly with ill regard for why they are released from their studies. Their parents – whom you would think would know better – treat the third Monday in January as a shopping holiday. Yeah, I’ve gotta run to JC Penney today for the sheet sale today. I hope they have five hundred count pima cotton, if not better. In those locales that prefer Lee, Civil War reenactments seem to be the default thing. Obviously, those homogeneous centers of bad behavior wish to retain that small mentality; it seems anti-intellectualism rules the day. Even when it reaches the upper levels of state government, that brand of tomfoolery is shrugged to the side as if it had been rote and routine for the past two hundred years. See Secretary of State Mark Martin. Why has no one in Arkansas called for neither his resignation nor a public apology is beyond me. Maybe this is a byproduct of the Republican Party takeover from November. But, this is my home state – the place where segregation has never really died instead taking on newer, more covert forms. Don’t believe me? Look at where you work. Look at where you shop. Spend a day at your kids’ school.

Stay classy, Arkansas. pic.twitter.com/5LmagUDfvp
— A. Cedric Armstrong (@cedteaches) January 18, 2015

The third Monday in January is a day of legacy.

In elementary school, we learned to recite the “I Have A Dream” speech, what happened to Rosa Parks when she refused to yield her seat, the Little Rock Nine, and how King sacrificed the final fifteen years of his life to ensure black America would have equal rights and the opportunity to vote through his advocacy of nonviolence. Even in the 1980s – and I adore all of my K-5 teachers – I certainly picked up more at home because my parents put in the time for my brother and me to become conscious, schools were not really doing much because of the MAT-6 standardized testing was upcoming and maybe the material was not as readily available as a double click on the tablet today. From middle school onward, the questions concerning race and a greater in-depth study became landmines to be avoided. While we were living through the Million Man March, the release of modern classics such as Malcolm X, Boyz N Da Hood and 2Pac’s All Eyez On Me, and the Rodney King and OJ Simpson trials, the schools trotted out King as a historical relic instead of correlating current events with the Civil Rights Movement. Honestly, I probably would not have received the same insight, as I was the only black student in many classes from the eighth grade to senior year of high school thanks to my advanced course schedule. But it would have been nice to catch real-time discussion beyond the book.

The third Monday in January means there is still work to do. Excuse my improper grammar, but we ain’t done.

While we have advanced past a lot of the blatant racism out there – Mena residents notwithstanding, as evidenced during Friday night’s high school basketball games in Arkadelphia – there is still work to do. True, we are better as a society and have come a long way as our children are living proof, but many improvements are inconclusive at best. We may witness a parade, an Alpha Phi Alpha – sponsored step show, live in an integrated neighborhood, drive a nice car, get love at Whole Foods, etc. but the events in Sanford, Cleveland, Ferguson, New York, Colorado Springs, and numerous cities speak to the contrary. I’m pretty sure the greatest thing the Civil Rights Movement gave us was not the opportunity to have sex with white women and live to tell about it.

Well, what how about the bought-and-paid for politicians of both parties, with the help of some law enforcement officers and Fox News criminalize and magnify any misdeed a black person makes as genetic attribution? (For those who have never heard the saying, it means blaming the sum of a group for the actions of one person. You’ll see this again during Black History Month via Facebook and within AD&AD.)No matter how much education is obtained, what titles are added to our names, how assimiliated we feel we have become, there are still people who view us as the help or worse, the N-word. We still face challenges out there (ex. education inequality, medical discrimination, an ever widening economic chasm) that remind us that we ain’t done.

The third Monday in January is one to reflect, yet strive toward achieving King’s dream.

Twenty years ago, the Million Man was a resounding success in part of how much of an impact the black dollar has on the American economy. Civil rights is not a finished issue – ask any gay person – but America treats it as such, claiming the movement as the solution to three hundred years of second-class citizenship and crass racism. Today, I’m sure you will find the real King marching toward justice for Mike Brown, Eric Garner, and Trayvon Martin. The mass-marketed King – the one that gets pushed upon us by the media – is a feel-good fairy tale designed to lessen the man’s impact and make certain Americans feel solace in their treatment and insincere forgiveness. For all of his flaws, which the Lee crowd will gladly promote his serial affairs (hey, if your life is threatened daily, why not try some things? I’m not condoning adultery, but I do understand in that case), the real King took his lumps and publicly suffered for 22 million people to have a better quality of life.

What is the third Monday in January to you? 

A Band Geek's Uprising

Some of you saw us marching band members in the same light as Jim Rome does – and probably still do. If you weren’t out there in the summer heat practicing fully laden – instruments, flags, auxiliaries, etc. – or sloshing around on muddy high school and college fields every Friday night or Saturday, then you may need to read this. Even our athletes who played on Friday nights picked up their sticks and horns to fall into cadence! Keep in mind this upbraiding does not include the hours, I mean YEARS of practice time to perfect our craft in front of 7-10,000 people who largely cheered our labor. Those of you who loved us, supported us even in those dark hours (or in my case, sophomore year in high school – I wasn’t part of the Showband of Arkansas at Henderson), or shared in the bandsman’s struggles to practice or play with our victories in competition, this is for you.

Today's #SitYoAssDown award winner is @jimrome for this offensive nugget. I was a band geek once upon a time! pic.twitter.com/Cb2UT8UL6B

— A. Cedric Armstrong (@cedteaches) January 3, 2015

Why does the band dork insult still live in this day and age?

Far more of us were impacted by choosing an instrument as preteens and joining the marching band than could possibly step out on the gridiron. Why would the coaches want a then-runt (I barely weighed 100 lbs. in the eighth grade, when athletics seemed to matter more) who strained to hoist a water cooler when I could easily join an organization that valued my talents, heart, and effort? For me, playing the trumpet was twofold:  I would blow like the great jazz icon Louis Armstrong; and the State Farm Battle of the Bands between Grambling State and Southern University held annually in New Orleans the day after Thanksgiving. It would be years later when sadly, I finally acknowledged that my feet would not cooperate with the rest of my body. Yeah, I have no rhythm. That year, I honestly wanted to quit – and I think everybody knew it. How could the remaining six periods of the day go so well for me when first period was such a hellish experience? Admittedly it did erode my confidence. I could play all of the notes to their corresponding tempos sitting still or in the stands, yet when it came to moving and playing at the same time, there was an inexplicable disconnect with my feet and my mind. Could it have been a result of growing so quickly (seven inches one summer) that I had no control of the body regarding its direction? Any count, I felt the searing glares of every angry eye and heard every snide comment about and toward me every time we stopped practice. Did it sting? Yeah, but I made it through the year. In addition to the twenty pounds of homework I was already working through on a nightly basis, I had to march at home for half an hour to get to a place of not being such an embarrassment to the organization. Like Cathy and Elmo back in 1994, Jim Rome’s snarky comment in one to belittle the contributions band members bring to the table. It nearly worked then, but not now.

Being a band dork (Rome’s words, not mine) afforded me a number of advantages that would have been unrealized otherwise.

·         Travel. Everyone circled the road trip dates because they were the ones we were released early from class. In the old days of AAAA-Central, we were assured of shows in El Dorado, Mountain Home, and Rogers along with that dastardly town called Russellville and the Little Rock schools; if the football team qualified for the playoffs, there was always the possibility of hitting the highway to another city.

·         Camaraderie. Even then, I always walked to a different beat – ask my Day One brothers Justin or Brandon. Although all 150+ of us came from different worlds and past experiences, there was always someone to share conversation, homework, valve oil, slide grease, music folders (no mouthpieces – keep your own germs to yourself) with as well as the fun times and relationships away. If no one else legitimately had the hook-up at the Taco Bell on 3^rd and Oak streets in the mid-90s, I will tell you the Wampus Cat band did.

·         Discipline. To make the formations and have a successful season, marching band members needed to be disciplined. I don’t mean getting chewed out daily, but you knew your role to keep the show moving without a hitch. In our arena, that meant paying attention to not only the directors and drum majors, but also the person next to you; not doing so would leave you in the wrong position. If we were stuck behind the horses during the Christmas parade and their fresh manure, we trekked through it albeit very carefully; those uniforms have to go to the cleaners sometime. Why else would we spend seven or more years of our lives practicing for that great moment? To fall flat? Band members understand that there is no NFL for us after college – and for me, high school was my high-water moment musically – yet keeping a steely-eyed focus on our best effort is what we aimed for. Sidebar: Over 90% of our band maintained a 3.0 GPA my senior year in some very difficult courses and circumstances. How would a shock jock claim such brilliance?

·         Serious effin’ life skills. While some people became high school band directors, professional musicians, etc., being a band geek has led the majority of us to become far more aware of the world and eventually productive adults. While not being an “official” section leader, my intangibles over the years went way beyond where my two left feet would take me. For example, one of the greatest concepts I understood is to live in the moment yet be prepared to enjoy the fruits of the labor. During contests, you watched – if you were able – and even hooted for the competing band because you wanted that treatment reciprocated. Upon the sweetness of victory (we were first division all three years in All-Region and won the UAM Invitational in ’94) to the bitterness of defeat (not getting to repeat at Monticello the following year, and finishing after Mountain Home twice); keeping it all in perspective was the greatest takeaway for me. Even not retaliating against the racist Cabot fans who threw cigarette butts at us marked a character-defining moment that we would not back down from anyone.

Being a band dork, Mr. Rome, has shaped me into a pretty well-rounded, balanced gentleman. While I was never able to bench press my own weight or make Sportscenter-worthy bone-jarring hits, I would like to think the world was perhaps made a little bit better by an scrawny black trumpet player with two left feet hidden somewhere around the 30 yard line overcoming stage fright and shrugging derision from the bell of my horn.