Once Laurel was out of danger, the division remained. She was at the hospital and could visit our son, Buddy, in the hospital whenever she felt up to it. She couldn’t see our daughter, or go home yet. On the other hand, by now it had been a week out of school. I was in the middle of the quarter and I had come to school with an agreement with Laurel that I would be extra diligent about getting through quickly. Money was (and is) tight. Drop deadlines had passed. Some courses wouldn’t be taught for another year. For the first week, I literally spent the night (4 hours of it) on a bed pad on the floor next to Laurel. I would get up at 4 am check on Laurel, check on Buddy, bring back the update to Laurel, drive two hours to Auburn, shower, dress, check on our daughter, teach my first class by 8 am, go to classes, work, come home visit Emma, drive to B’ham, visit Buddy, update Laurel, go to sleep by midnight, and start it all over again. The interesting thing, which I believe is true of many men, is that I never asked the question "Why am I doing these crazy things?". I only asked "How?" and occasionally "Could I do more or better?"

There was so much to be desired and obligated to. We often don’t have the power or the "life" to give to it all. I think that is one of the things particularly at this time of the preemie experience that fathers grieve for. We want to be the good father, the good husband, the protector, the bread winner, the strong one, the caring and sensitive one, the assertive and advocating one. We don’t have enough time or energy to do it all. Not to say that Laurel verbally expected me to. It was a personal concern, perhaps motivated by societal and family modeling.

The terror, grief, and powerlessness, and anger I experienced were often not at specific people but at the situation. It all revolved around that which I seemed to have no control over; the fear I felt throughout our time waiting for Buddy to arrive; the fear that he would come early. I was afraid when we found out he was a boy; I was afraid to hope, and afraid not to. I was just afraid, and didn’t know what to do about it.

I think most men are doers. We want to know what to do. Early on it was bringing my wife her stuff from home, getting my wife things when she couldn’t even sit up, being there when she puked red jello from the Mag Sulfate. That I could handle. That I could "implement in action". But I couldn’t when I felt the need to be two places at once, or when doing one thing meant that another important thing got left undone. Feeling out of control doesn’t lend itself to finding things to do. Being in that kind of a situation often leads to the only kind of doing you can be about, and that is simply staying emotionally, physically, and mentally with yourself and your partner. But that is more difficult and powerful than it sounds.