By Mark Axmacher

The only way to survive a stay in the NICU is to lean on those who arrived before you. In the NICU, the nurses and doctors refer to a group of babies born around the same time as a class. Much like high school or college. And much like high school or college, the bonds you form with your classmates will last the rest of your life. The support you receive from your friends and family is tremendous, but it will never replace the support, in the NICU and after, of the other new parents facing the same terrifying and life changing situation of a premature birth.

My wife and I arrived at the hospital, three months before we were due, and ninety minutes later our son was born. At two pounds, five ounces, we didn’t even know it was possible. But from an empty hospital room, there we were. I was a new father, dressed in full scrubs and alone. I was asked to leave the delivery room because my wife was having a C-section and they needed to sterilize the room. I expected to be back in less than five minutes to hold my wife’s hand and support her as we entered the most traumatic experience of our lives. I had time to call four people and leave desperate voicemails that I only imagine were indecipherable.

Then a nurse came in with a cup of orange juice. My only thought: Why? Then I learned my son was born without me, because the doctors didn’t have time to get me from the next room and save both of them. The nurse told me to drink the orange juice because it would calm my nerves. It didn’t. I was able to see my son for about thirty seconds before I was escorted back to the hospital room. My wife was in major surgery, my son was fighting for his young life, and I was alone. I had to keep it together.

The only way I could was to accept the immediate bond created with the other new parents, and fathers especially, that we met in the NICU. I remember feeling betrayed, confused, angry and hurt. And I remember a new friend reaching across the waiting room to shake my hand. “I’m Bryan, everything will be fine”, he said. I stared in disbelief, but shook his hand, and felt a little better.

From there, we formed an incredible bond with the other families in our class. We faced similar challenges, fought the insurance companies together, and encouraged each other to enjoy the journey. We realized together that if we looked at our situations as dire, then they would be. So we decided, as a group, to look at this as extra time with our babies.  Fathers learned together how to be supportive and how to provide for a new family with extreme challenges. We learned together how to keep the home running and to keep each other calm when doctors gave us worst case scenarios. We learned together that we were our best support, and I’ve been lucky to call these other fathers friends, even after we all left the NICU.

No matter where our lives, and our thriving babies, take us, we know we wouldn’t have made it out of the NICU as positively as we did without each other. We were able to enjoy each other’s victories and encourage and support our babies as a class. I encourage anyone thrown into this situation to reach out, shake someone’s hand, and tell them it will be fine. Because, most likely, it will.