As I look back on the roller coaster that began with the diagnosis of our son’s rare condition, Apert Syndrome, my mind is still pulled again and again to the delivery room. The hushed voices of doctors, the dimmed lights, the constant beeping of machines. Aiden was quickly whisked away to the NICU, where he spent the next two weeks, while Ricky and I tried to hold ourselves together inside the quiet, concrete walls of the Ronald McDonald House Family Room tucked into the lower level of the same hospital. For 14 days, I walked those halls—back and forth, upstairs and down—exhausted, delirious, grieving. I knew no one could fix it, could fix him, yet I began to notice the gentleness of the nurses who cared for our boy while we struggled to figure out how to heal our own hearts.
Dear NICU nurses who were there when our son was born,
It’s been seven years, so this thank you is long overdue. In those early days, there didn’t seem like much to be thankful for. Our expectation of welcoming a healthy second baby boy was suddenly replaced with shock, fear, anger, and heartbreak. Beginning life with a sterile NICU stay is not how most families imagine meeting their newborn, and I know you are used to the flood of emotions that parents bring through those doors. Looking back now, though, I can finally grasp the depth of gratitude I’ve carried in my heart all these years.
Thank you for being there for my son. When my hands shook and my fear felt paralyzing, your calm, steady touch soothed him when mine could not. I was simply too scared. It sounds unbelievable—to be afraid to touch your own baby—but with wires, leads, and tubes attached everywhere, I worried that one wrong movement might hurt him. You stepped in when I couldn’t, and you never made me feel ashamed for my fear.
Thank you for your tenderness. You saw how terrified we were. Scrubbing your hands and arms up to your elbows for a strict three minutes may have been routine for you, but for us, it was a painful reminder that this experience was nothing like our first. The first time, we held our baby freely, listened to his breathing all night, and felt like parents—not visitors. When we stood outside the NICU doors with tear-streaked faces and heavy hearts, you paused your work to welcome us in. While others met us with uncertainty or guarded expressions, you didn’t. Even behind your mask, I could see your smile in your eyes. You walked us to Aiden’s isolette, decorated with a large construction-paper heart bearing his name, and gently reminded us that this was only temporary. In that moment, you gave us hope when we had none.
Thank you for your respect. You spoke to us honestly, in terms we could usually understand, and when we couldn’t, you never made us feel foolish for asking. When I was too nervous to give my own son his first bath, you guided me patiently, step by step. When I voiced my fears or concerns, you listened—truly listened. You never treated us like victims, even when we felt like ones. We were simply Aiden’s mom and dad, and you made sure we never forgot that. You never made us feel small, and that helped us find our confidence again.
Thank you for your patience. Every night, we showed up with a long list of questions, and you stood there answering every single one as we crossed them off. Sometimes we returned at three or four in the morning, sleepless and anxious, asking the same questions again just so our minds had something to cling to. When my sobs drowned out your words, you gave me space to breathe and quietly continued caring for my child. When I lashed out or demanded answers, you understood it as fear, not disrespect, and you never returned that frustration to me—even when I may have deserved it. I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I was just scared. Thank you for allowing me to be scared.
Thank you for your encouragement. In those early days, I heard more frightening possibilities than I ever thought possible. Doctors moved in and out, sending Aiden from test to test. Conversations were filled with words like brain bleeds, organ issues, breathing problems, severe delays. My world felt like it was collapsing under the weight of worst-case scenarios. I searched desperately for something normal. When I was told I likely wouldn’t be able to nurse him because of the anatomy of his mouth, something inside me still needed to try. Once he was no longer intubated, you let me. You showed me tricks, brought over a rocking chair, and gently cleared the room when frustration set in. You may not know this, but I successfully nursed Aiden for four months. If you had told me no, like so many others did, I would have missed an invaluable lesson in perseverance—one that has shaped every chapter of Aiden’s life since.
Please let this long-overdue letter serve as a reminder on the hardest days, when fear-filled words and exhausted emotions from parents make you question your purpose. We didn’t find hope in rushed explanations, complicated medical jargon, or constant warnings to “prepare for the worst.” We found it in you. Without you, we would not have survived. He would not have survived. Our gratitude will never fade.
Every year on his birthday, I think of you. And at last, I’m telling you.
With love,
A NICU mom
