A creative writing project by Chaney Hawkins, RMHC Marketing Intern
It’s impossible to truly understand the complexities of being a NICU parent at Ronald McDonald House—the exhausting schedule, the emotional rollercoaster, the physical toll. Inspired by real RMHC mothers, this story offers a glimpse into their reality. While every journey is unique, we hope it brings you closer to our mission.
My day starts early and never really stops. NICU babies need care around the clock, and though I can’t feed my baby yet, I pump every few hours—through the night, in between hospital visits, always thinking about my baby’s growth. By 6 a.m., I’m awake and anxious to get to the hospital. If I have time for a shower, it’s a good day. Most days, I throw on yesterday’s leggings, grab a granola bar from the RMHC kitchen, and pour some coffee into my to-go cup.
The short ride to the hospital is both a relief and a weight on my chest. I try to focus on the positives, but sometimes exhaustion and fear win. Some days, I have to sit in the parking lot to cry. Having a baby in the NICU is the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. But I remind myself: I’m lucky. I don’t have to drive hours back and forth from Kansas every day. I have a place to stay, a support system, and people who truly care.
Morning rounds bring the latest updates. Last night, my baby had another episode. My heart sinks, but the doctor reassures me she’s still making progress. I nod, trying to absorb every word, and type quick notes in my phone. After precious skin-to-skin time, the nurses encourage me to take a break. It’s never easy to leave, but I return to RMHC around 11 a.m., knowing I’ll be back soon.
At the House, I’m greeted by a volunteer, but I don’t have the energy for conversation. In my room, emotions hit me again—another breakdown, another deep breath. I remind myself: I get to see my baby, I have a safe place to stay, and she is being cared for. That’s what matters.
It’s funny how the little things bring comfort. Clean laundry, a warm meal, a quiet moment. For a few minutes, I get to feel normal as I throw my dirty clothes in the washer. I grab a Diet Coke and heat up leftovers from last night’s dinner—meatloaf, my favorite—while responding to texts from family. They all want updates. I know they mean well, but some days, I don’t have the words. I pump again, switch the laundry, and head back to the hospital.
The second visit of the day feels different. I listen to the doctor, Google unfamiliar terms, and try to focus on the little victories. In the NICU, emotions fade into numbness. Somehow, I’m soothed by the beeping sounds surrounding my daughter—it’s a lullaby I never would have wanted to get used to. My focus is my baby. I hold her, read to her, and cherish the moments that feel almost normal.
By 4 p.m., I return to RMHC for a much-needed break. Sometimes I nap, or sometimes I answer work emails, because unfortunately, life outside the NICU doesn’t stop. At 6 p.m., volunteers serve a home-cooked meal, a simple but deeply appreciated gift. I sit with another NICU mom, and for a moment, I feel a little less alone. After dinner, I watch TV for a few minutes, pump, and then it’s time for one last hospital visit for the day.
This visit is the longest. I hold my baby close, read her a bedtime story, and soak in every second. Skin-to-skin time helps regulate her heart rate and temperature; I like to think it soothes her as much as it soothes me. When she finally drifts off, I sit quietly, memorizing her tiny features, knowing tomorrow is uncertain but hoping for the best.
At 10 p.m., I return to the House, exhausted. A volunteer smiles and welcomes me back. I show them the latest photo of my daughter, which is a small but meaningful connection. Back in my room, I pump one last time, crawl into bed, and finally rest. I survived another day. And tomorrow, I’ll do it all again.
Your support helps families stay close to their babies during the most difficult times. Thank you for making this possible.