Between Cries
A Day in the Life
My creative non-fiction response to London Writers' Salon’s October 12th Weekly Writers’ Hour contest prompt, A Day in the Life.
I’m posting this a day later than intended because today is World Prematurity Day, and this piece was inspired by a day in the life of a NICU nurse (me).
Between Cries
by Paige Quinton
Cries penetrate my dreams, and I wake not knowing where I am.
My gaze focuses on the baby monitor. My son is gripping the bars of his crib, wailing to be let out.
The clock reads three p.m. Frustration sharpens the pinching migraine behind my right eye. I only slept for half an hour—not nearly enough rest before a night shift.
I walk across the hall and pick up my son, his shrill cry halting the moment he’s in my arms, face burrowed in the crook of my neck. I inhale the subtle baby scent still clinging to his one-year-old body, and the throbbing in my head dulls.
“Shnack,” he says, wiggling to be let down.
I trail him to the kitchen and prepare his snack while the kettle boils.
If only I could stomach the taste of coffee—this tea won’t sustain me all night.
After a spaghetti dinner, half of which is fed to the floor, I’m grateful my husband arrives for cleanup.
Sneaking away to don my scrubs and brush my teeth, I’m back before he notices and plant a goodbye kiss to his mostly clean face.
He cries “Mama” repeatedly until I lock the door behind me, my first tear falling once I’m seated in the car. This has to get easier eventually.
I scrub in and speed-walk into the NICU with two minutes to spare.
“Thank God! It’s been a day,” the outgoing nurse huffs before diving into report.
I read through the chart, scribble down my tasks for the night, and enter my patient’s room.
“Hi, I’m the night nurse. You must be Theo’s parents?”
We make small talk as I assess, weigh, and change their baby.
They say goodnight, lovingly stroking the small area of their baby’s skin not covered in IVs or medical equipment.
Their eyes are teary as they leave for the night, to sleep in a quiet house next to an unused bassinet.
Theo wakes every hour until I have time to hold him. He sleeps deeply in my arms; the gentle whir of CPAP air every time he opens his mouth is the only noise.
His warm weight threatens to lull me to sleep, so I gingerly transfer him to the isolette.
As I’m settling Theo for what feels like the hundredth time, the pastel skies announce quitting time.
I drive home on autopilot, too drowsy to recall the journey.
Walking into the kitchen, my son is exactly where I left him, now covered in oatmeal rather than spaghetti.
I kiss him on the one mess-free patch of skin and say goodnight.
Crawling into bed, the drag of sleep pulls me under as cries for “Mama” drift into my dreams.
Fun Fact: I’ve been a NICU nurse for the last decade!
P.S. I haven’t submitted to any Weekly Writers’ Hour contests since this one, so I won’t have anything to post for a while. I’ll hopefully be back with more posts in the new year!
Love the little recalls of the patches of kissable spots. <3
I love how you pull the reader into a world most don't get to see. It's a quiet, ordinary story, but it pulled me into another person's life and that's what I love most about reading fiction.