#320 - 👶 How Ashley navigated being a medical provider, NICU Mama, Loss Mama and Widow

Hello friends 👋

In this episode, Leah and Ashley O'Neil discuss the profound experiences of navigating the NICU as both a parent and a medical professional. Ashley shares her journey with her son Colin, who was born prematurely, and the emotional and practical challenges she faced. The conversation explores themes of grief, the balance between professional knowledge and parental instincts, and the importance of communication with medical teams. Ashley also highlights the need for resources to support NICU families, including her upcoming journal designed to help parents navigate their NICU experience. 

In this conversation, Ashley O'Neil shares her experiences as a mother navigating the complexities of having a child in the NICU and dealing with the challenges of medical systems. She discusses the importance of advocacy for children's needs, the emotional journey of grief after losing loved ones, and how she finds hope and purpose in her son's resilience. The conversation emphasizes the need for community support and the ongoing battle against systemic failures in healthcare.

Link to episode on youtube: https://youtu.be/pcpyMx_mJ_I

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The transcript of today's episode can be found below 👇

Leah Hello, incubator community, and welcome back to this month's episode of Beyond the Beeps. I'm not sure if I ever shared this with you all, but I'm a physical therapist by degree, training, and experience. Back before my babies were born, when I worked in physical therapy properly, my focus was in pediatrics—in the NICU, NICU follow-up, and early intervention. So I worked with a lot of babies before I had my own. Probably hundreds, if I think back. But I remember when I brought my first baby home—a former 35-weeker, a late preterm guy—and I cut his nails for the first time. I panicked because I accidentally cut his finger. He barely whimpered, but I freaked out. I called my husband. Up until that point, my husband had always been calm and reasonable. He’s also, FYI, a surgeon, so he’s dealt with plenty of cuts and emergencies. He tried to act calm but immediately hustled off and called his best friend, who’s a pediatrician. Of course, the pediatrician told him everything was fine.

What’s interesting is that despite all the training we had—trauma, wounds, hundreds or even thousands of babies and surgeries—caring for our own baby felt completely different. What is that phrase Johnson & Johnson uses? “Having a baby changes everything.” Sometimes, even with all our knowledge and training, we're still not prepared for the moment we become parents. Many of us in the NICU—medical providers, doctors, nurses, therapists, special education teachers, even neonatologists—come in with all this professional knowledge. But then we find ourselves living a NICU experience as parents, trying to make sense of what we know versus what we’re living. How do we translate our knowledge? How do we balance work and parenting? How do we go from provider to parent?

Today, we have one very special guest with us who has made that journey from provider to parent. Ashley O'Neill is a writer and speaker who channels her experiences into healing. She’s navigated the challenges of being a NICU preemie mother, a widow, and a loss mama. Throughout her healing journey, she’s found a calling: to uplift NICU families by offering hope, encouragement, and essential resources. Ashley had over a decade of nursing experience and five years as a family nurse practitioner, caring for many families and NICU babies. Her first published work is titled It’s a NICU World—a children’s book based on her own son’s NICU stay. It’s a beautiful book. I have it right here at my desk. In it, she shares the highs and lows of being a NICU mom. She also hosts an incredible podcast called “Ask a NICU Mama” to guide fellow NICU parents. Her ultimate mission—one that continues to evolve every day—is to demonstrate that even in the darkest times, there’s always a glimmer of hope. Sometimes we just need to seek it out. Those words are spectacular. Currently, she’s working on the next installment of the It’s a NICU World children's book series, and she’s also writing a journal to help guide parents through their NICU stay. Welcome, Ashley.

I'm so glad to have you here. That intro is only a fraction of who you are. Today we’re going to hone in on that professional-to-parent experience and touch on a lot of things. But let’s start with your NICU experience. Can you tell us a little bit about your stay with Kolin?

Ashley O’Neil Yes, my Kolin was born at 25 weeks at a small community hospital in southern Maryland. They didn’t even have a NICU, barely even a nursery. I had hoped to be flown out to a different hospital, but unfortunately, due to complications, I had to have an emergency C-section.

They were unable to intubate him where he was born, so he had to receive manual ventilation until the flight team from Georgetown arrived. Four hours after he was born, he was flown to D.C., and I had to stay behind at the local hospital until insurance approved my transfer.

Right before Kolin was flown out, the neonatology fellow wheeled him into my room to say hi and give me a quick update. They also handed me the NICU handbook. I remember seeing Kolin—my 650-gram baby—and thinking, is my baby going to die? He looked so small, so fragile. They let me touch him, and I just slowly put my hand in the incubator and barely tapped him. The next day, I was transferred by ground—after a fresh C-section, through rush hour D.C. traffic. You can imagine.

As soon as I got settled in, I insisted I didn’t need a wheelchair and waddled straight to the NICU. There was a lady hovering over Kolin’s incubator, and he was surrounded by equipment. I was so scared to look inside, not knowing what I’d find. But he was moving. He was holding onto her finger. I thought, okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.

My husband and I met with the neonatologist, and they told us, “The NICU is a roller coaster.” And I believed them. But during our six-month stay, there were times when I felt like I was free falling, and there was nothing to catch me. After the first few days, the diagnoses kept coming. First bilateral brain bleeds—Grades 1 and 3. And we thought, whatever, we can handle that. Then it progressed to Grades 3 and 4. Then hydrocephalus. Then we were told he would need a shunt. And on top of that, PVLs. We started wondering, what kind of life will our son have?

We had previously lost our first son, three years earlier, so we knew death was possible. We had already lived through that. I remember having a conversation with Kolin. I told him, if you want to go, you can go. Otherwise, I will fight with you as long as you want to fight. And that little stinker—he extubated himself, pulled out his tubes, and 183 days later, he came home.

Leah I love what you said: I’m here with you. The strength you showed him, the grace and respect you gave him in those moments. I wonder, where did that come from?

Ashley O’Neil I saw how much he was fighting. But I also didn’t want him to be in pain. It’s one thing to be born and come home with medical needs. It’s another thing entirely to have medical needs that require external equipment, surgeries, sometimes repeated surgeries. At a certain point, you ask yourself, Am I doing this for him or to him? I wanted to give him permission, because this was his life. I just wanted to make sure he would be okay, whatever that meant for him - whether that was here in the physical world or the spiritual.

Leah That is so powerful. I met a neonatologist from Australia who’s focusing on neonatal personhood, and what you instinctively did—having that conversation with him—that’s so profound. I hope more providers recognize that these little ones have a voice, and that parents like you are the ones listening. And look at him now. Wow.

You mentioned your older son, Vinson, who passed three years before. I’m wondering—how did that loss shape your second pregnancy? Did you expect to end up back in the NICU?

Ashley O’Neil My first son, Vinson, was born at 21 weeks, so there was no NICU option. I went to the hospital and waited hours before a provider even came in. When she finally did, within five seconds of examining me, I was upside down in Trendelenburg, had an IV, a Foley, and she was already on the phone trying to get me transferred. But it was stormy, and I had to wait hours for ground transport. Thirty minutes into the two-hour drive, my water broke. When I arrived, they told me, “50% of moms deliver within 24 hours. What do you want to do?” And I said, “Whatever you can to save my baby. Give me the antibiotics, the IVs—everything.” But they warned me: if he was born that early, there was nothing they could do. He was born at 6 a.m. with a heartbeat, but all they could do was place him in my arms. He died shortly after.

That shaped how we viewed the next pregnancy. We weren’t naive anymore. When I was in the NICU with Kolin, I knew loss was a possibility—because I had experienced it before.

Leah That naivete—it can be helpful, right? The whole “ignorance is bliss” idea. But for you as a provider, you had also seen so much. You did family practice—did that include pregnant patients or NICU grads?

Ashley O’Neil Yes—family practice is cradle to grave. So I saw newborns, pregnant moms, 99 year olds, the full spectrum. I actually returned to work two months into Kolin’s six-month NICU stay. That was probably the hardest part. I was taking care of babies who looked like Kolin should have looked—plump, meeting milestones. I’d check them out, do their well-baby visits, go back to my desk, pump during my five-minute break, and call the NICU for updates. I had to dissociate. I could see myself almost floating above my own body in the exam room. I was having two conversations at once—one with the family in front of me, and another in my head: Hold it together Ashley, this is their time, be present. But my heart was somewhere else. Sometimes the visit would be about something like constipation, and all I could think was, “My baby had brain surgery yesterday.”

Leah You mentioned dissociation and compartmentalization. Was there anything else that helped you survive that period? Like structuring your schedule, for example?

Ashley O’Neil Yes, I kept a very strict schedule. When he was born, I transitioned to working four 10-hour days. I lived two hours from the NICU—one way. So I could only go up three days a week. I set specific times to call the NICU, to pump, to work. I wanted to conserve every bit of brain power. I also kept a journal, maybe that was the floor nurse in me. I had separate sections to track pending tests, labs, results, plans of care, who the nurse was, who the attending was during those two-week rotations. It gave me something to do. Something I could control. Because in the NICU, you’re literally asking for permission to do anything for your own baby. But this is something I could control.

Leah Right. And you knew this stuff—not just as a mom, but as a provider. I’ve been with parents who say, “But I know I can do that.” And the harder part becomes figuring out how to transition from provider, who knows those things, to parent who has to ask permission. There’s a handover eventually, from healthcare team to you. How did you navigate that? How to sit there and wait?

Ashley O’Neil It’s hard. I knew enough to know when something was wrong—but not enough to help, because I’m not a neonatologist. For the first two months, I stayed at the bedside 12 hours a day. I got to know his nurses, and they started to trust me more. Eventually, I could suction him, reposition him, even transfer him on my own. But still, it was tough. I’d see families come in and ask, “How’s my baby doing?” And I’d think, If you’d been here for 12 hours, you’d know. Not that the nurse left anything out, but there’s only time for a summary: “Overall, your baby’s doing well…” But that wasn’t enough for me: I needed more, I needed to ask deeper questions. Eventually, we started having weekly family meetings in addition to daily rounding. The attending, the social worker, the chaplain, sometimes ethics, neurology, GI, neurosurgery—we brought in whoever needed to be at the table so we could all get on the same page and ask the hard questions.

Leah Those family meetings are so important. Was that something you had to advocate for, or was it offered to you?

Ashley O’Neil I think they only do it for the more complicated cases. My late husband was an engineer—everything had to be black and white. He asked a lot of questions. So eventually, they were like, Okay, we need to set up a meeting.

Leah: Yeah. Let's talk about him for a little bit. You just mentioned your late husband and that you're a widow. The experience when he was there—he was an engineer, and you're a healthcare provider—you're clearly an empathetic, compassionate, very gray-area person. There's lots of love and softness in comparison to engineering, which is very clean and clear. And we all experience the NICU a little differently. How did you make it through that time period?

Ashley O'Neil: It was hard, because there were some parts where I just didn't want to know the answer to. Yes, there were a lot of things I wanted to know, but those lifelong questions—like "what would your kid look like?"—sometimes I just needed to live in the moment and worry about today. My husband grew up in a different country, and he's the definition of someone who literally had to find material, create the boots, and then pull himself up. He went to the army for four years before going to college. All he ever wanted was his own family. And then our son died. Fast forward a couple of years, and our second son is in the hospital with significant brain tissue damage and PVLs and all of this stuff. He struggled. He knew what it took for him to navigate this world as a person of color. And we all know that kids with disabilities are at increased risk of abuse in different settings. So he’s like, “My kid can potentially be subjected to cruelty in this world and not be able to care for himself. What happens when we die?” He couldn’t focus on the moment. He was seeing Kolin 20 years down the road, seeing Kolin after we die. He had a hard time reconciling that. I was like, “I don't want to know. Let’s just make it home. Let’s do this.” He couldn’t let it go.

Leah: Yeah. He was thinking big picture, and you were trying to stay very present—one step at a time.

You both made it home with Kolin. Were there any tips or tricks that helped? I think a lot of us find opposites in our partners. What helped you still see each other—see the other person's pain, strength, and joy—and respect each other through that? Because in a medical crisis, it's hard to hold relationships together. It's hard with that much stress.

Ashley O'Neil: Just realizing that each of us processes things differently and learning to hold space for that. Just because someone doesn’t see things the way you do doesn’t mean they’re against you. It doesn’t mean you’re on opposite sides—you just see things differently.

For example, when we were in the NICU, I wanted to be there every day. There was no way he could have mentally handled that—seeing everything every day. And it’s different; men, on average, process things differently. They’re providers; they want to fix things. And you can’t fix this.

Leah: What do you think was beneficial about being a medical provider in this setting—either in your interactions with the medical team, or in caring for Kolin in the NICU, or in your relationship with your husband? Was there anything beneficial?

Ashley O'Neil: When I talk to other families, they often struggle with the medical terms. But even if there was a word I didn’t know, I could break it down and look it up quickly from the right sources. I could understand things better. I also felt like the team gave me a bit more leeway than they might have given other families, because they knew I had worked at a hospital under the same umbrella. I knew how to turn off certain machines, how to reposition or suction my baby without needing someone watching over me constantly. Of course, I wouldn't touch things like the ventilator—but for other tasks, I could handle them.

Leah: Right. Do you think there was anything harmful about being a medical provider in this setting? Anything you just wish you hadn’t known?

Ashley O'Neil: I knew how bad it could get. Even before MyChart and all that, I could look at the ultrasound and know, that's not good. I could read it.

Leah: Yeah, you had lived it. That's a good point. Now, with MyChart, families often have access to their baby's records. It depends on the system, but I find it interesting that parents can get results before the provider has had a chance to talk them through it. If you know how to read it—or even if you don't—sometimes people head to Dr. Google. Hopefully, people go to resources like our journal and guidebook—or yours!—to find information and get back to their providers with questions.

Speaking of, let’s talk about the journal you’re working on. I think you’re close to publishing it. What sparked your desire to create it?

Ashley O'Neil: When I was in the NICU with Kolin, every day before I went in, I took out a journal that I had sectioned off. It helped me track everything. Even as a floor nurse, I was always early, had my notes sectioned, knew what questions to ask, and knew exactly where to find information in case of an emergency. During rounding, they’d ask questions, and sometimes I’d already have the answer written down. Like, “You said we’d repeat this ultrasound two weeks after this date.” That was really helpful, especially because every two weeks we’d get a new attending or residents would change out.

It was an open-bay NICU—35 babies in one room—and I’d see families come and go. I’d be like, “Y’all aren’t writing anything down? How do you remember all this stuff?” So I wanted to create something to guide people. The journal covers a 112-day NICU stay. I added topics I wish I’d known, like “How to nurture your relationship while in the NICU.” No one teaches you that. I included “quick topics” like bonding with your baby, discharge checklists, how to advocate for your baby, and more. As a nurse, you’re taught that discharge planning starts the first day, not the last. You need to anticipate. And I love checklists! So I added things like, “What needs to happen before discharge?” or “Does your baby qualify for the low birth weight program?” I added some things on how to care for yourself in the NICU.

I also share stories. For instance, I knew Kolin would need home healthcare nursing because I needed to return to work. He was on both our insurances, but mine was better. A social worker told me, “You can’t leave a nurse alone with your child while you’re at work.” I knew that wasn’t true. Most primary insurance companies don’t cover home healthcare nursing long term. They might cover 3–4 hours a day for up to 60 days post-discharge. Then we met a friend with a child with complex needs who told us about the Model Waiver Program. I called, and the case manager said we needed to apply for the REM (Rare and Expensive case Management) program while still in the NICU. It was a bridge that allowed Kolin to get home health nursing. We got approved a week before discharge, and we were able to get discharged with home health nursing and a case manager.

Once Kolin was home, we had to call Social Services within 60 days of discharge. I knew that we were going thrown off the REM program because we made too much money, but because we were in the program, it gave us enough resources to bridge us to the Model Waiver program. But because we had REM, we got to the front of the Model Waiver waitlist—only 200 slots in Maryland. Without REM, we would've been at the bottom.

I had to cancel patients and go to Social Services. I got there early. A man made a rude comment: “Why are you here so early? It doesn’t matter.” I ignored him. At the desk, I said, “Ma’am I’m here to apply for this program, I just need to bridge him over…” She looks at me and says, “Ma’am, there’s no such program. You just need to get insurance for your kid.” I told her he had two insurance plans. She called someone else—same answer, “there’s no such health care insurance, you just need to get insurance for your kid.” I said again, “My son has two Blue Cross Blue Shield plans.” Then the rude guy from earlier, who actually worked there, had me explain my situation loudly in the lobby. He also said the program didn’t exist.

So I pulled out the email from the case manager and showed them the email. The woman at the desk called again and came back: “Ma’am, you’re approved. You’ll get a letter in two weeks.” I walked out crying.

That’s part of why I do the work I do: what if I didn’t have a job where I could cancel my morning? What if I let the first guy get to me? What if I believed the first person who said the program didn’t exist?

I always tell people: the first person you talk to rarely knows what they’re talking about. Call again. Keep asking. Having a kid with complex medical needs isn’t the hardest part. The hardest part is advocating and fighting for what they need. It’s a constant battle. I write in my planner, “Call this person,” and if I don’t hear back, I follow up. I log every conversation. It’s not just one department—it’s billing, insurance, medical records. It’s never-ending.

Leah Right, yes, yes—oversight and failure to do one's job. The world is not set up and is not welcoming to people with medical issues. I love what you just said: the hardest part isn’t having the baby. The baby, the child—that’s a joy. That’s not the problem. The problem is our systems.

Ashley O’Neil Exactly. Kolin is blessed, in a sense. Yes, he’s in a wheelchair and has left-sided CP, but he has access to things that a lot of families don’t. And then you wonder about some of these babies... they technically could be better off if they had access to intensive therapies that cost $8,000 or $9,000 out of pocket. If their parents could take off work to drive, or if they had access to childcare so they could bring their other kids somewhere—it just makes me so sad. There are so many kids who could be doing better.

When Kolin was in the NICU, they gave me all of these dire predictions—that he’d be blind, deaf, mute, never breathe on his own. But his pediatric occupational therapist told me, “Ashley, push aside all of those predictions. Your job is to love Kolin, give him the necessary resources, and he will show you what he’s capable of.” That’s what has carried me through the last six years. And I know for sure, Kolin would be so different if he hadn’t had access to those resources.

Leah Yeah. I sense this is your mission, your purpose. I mentioned it in the introduction—saying, “Yes, my baby deserves this. And how can I make this happen for other people?” How can we try to stem the tide of inequities and systemic failures that are keeping all of our babies from thriving?

Ashley O’Neil I have a community on Instagram, and you see the struggles every day of people just trying to navigate this life. They don’t want much. They just want to be able to take care of their babies. And then every day you hear, “They’re about to defund Medicaid.” We have Medicaid, and we need it. There are so many things our primary insurance doesn’t cover that would literally bankrupt me.

Leah Even when I was working as a physical therapist, it became very clear: you almost can’t make enough money. And that can also hurt you. If you make too much, you lose access to services. When you’re going through a health crisis, or living with a condition the world doesn’t consider “typical”—medical issues, physical challenges, mental health needs—the burden is really high. Financially, sure, but also emotionally. We were talking earlier about the world not providing what you need—ramps, changing tables, doorways that open wide enough…

Let’s go back to Kolin. He went home. You all made it home, which is miraculous and fabulous. And every day, you and he and Vinson and your husband are making the world a better place. So, what’s a day in the life with Kolin like?

Ashley O’Neil He is so funny. He primarily uses a wheelchair, though he can walk with a walker and some help. He’s nonverbal but uses a communication device. But he’s like a grown man in a six-year-old’s body. He comes home from school with a plan. We’re not allowed to leave the bus stop until the bus is out of sight. Then he comes in, wants his tablet, his dinner, and to sit in his chair. He tells me what he wants using his AAC device—“Mom, iPad, please. Eat, please.” The AAC device has opened up a whole new world. I knew he could always understand me, but I couldn’t always understand him. He uses gestures. His “yes” is “hmm” and “no” is “mm-mm.” He’ll point with his whole arm at what he wants. But once we committed to using the AAC device—it was hard, but it opened up a whole new world. Now he’ll say “Puzzle” or “Bus.” He loves school. Walking down our driveway he’s shouting, “Bus! Bus! Bus!” One day he was fussing and I didn’t know why, and he finally put “ABC puzzle” on his device—that’s what he wanted. He loves story time. If I miss a word while reading, he lets me know. He can read. He loves swimming. One day he kept saying “Bubbles! Bubbles!” He’s feisty. He can throw a tantrum with the best of them. But he is such a joy. He plays tricks on people, has the best laugh. Every day, looking at him—he’s what got me through losing my husband. My husband and our first son died four years apart, both in May. My husband died when Kolin was 13 months old, just six months home from the NICU. He didn’t die of COVID, but it was during COVID. I remember sitting in the living room...your husband dies, it’s a pandemic, and you can’t even leave to get fresh air. You’re just rocking your sick kid in the room.

But Kolin—he gave me the strength to keep going. If he can go through all of this and still smile, still be happy. We spend a lot of time in hospitals, we’re frequent flyers. He has seizures and respiratory issues. But I used to be a nurse at our local hospital for 6-7 years, so they take great care of us. Being a medical mom is hard. Being a widow is hard. Combine the two—it’s like there’s no one to mourn the life you thought you were going to have. You’re still grieving. Kolin is thriving and I love him—but I’m still grieving having a typical, healthy child. I had to accept that I’ll never have a normal pregnancy. My husband and I used to joke—we both had master’s degrees, so surely our kid would have to get a doctorate! But now, as long as he is happy, loved, and thriving in his own way—that’s enough. It’s still grief, and it’s also acceptance.

Leah Yeah. It’s the loss of a particular future, a dream. That’s heavy. You’re such a positive person and stay so engaged. Is that part of your grief process? Is that something that soothes you?

Ashley O’Neil I’ve learned that grief doesn’t go away—it’s about how you manage it. It’s always there, like another person in the room. How close she is varies — sometimes she’s in another room in the house, other times she’s breathing down your neck. I don’t hide from grief. It doesn’t scare me. If I feel the need to grieve, I do, but I don’t stay there. I grieve, and then I keep living. I actually interviewed someone today who described grief as energy. What are you going to do with that energy? What purpose are you going to make from it? I don’t want Vinson’s or my husband’s death to be in vain. My purpose is to help people navigate the really hard spaces. There aren’t many people who’ve buried a child, buried a husband, and have a kid with complex medical needs from the NICU. But if I can make it through this, somewhat mentally intact...I just want to show people there’s another way to live with grief and still have meaningful impact. Did I answer your question?

Leah You absolutely answered my question—and more. You’re a wonderful communicator. Grief doesn’t look the same for everyone, and you being a beacon of light for others in the darkness—that helps others cope, however close their grief may be. I’ve had several parents I’ve supported through losses. Some describe grief like an ocean—sometimes you’re drowning, sometimes you can breathe and float, sometimes you swim. Sometimes you just sit at the bottom and wait.

I love that you give yourself space and grace—especially without your partner. You mentioned before how important it was to have someone to bounce things off. In this short time I’ve known you—you’ve been a beacon for me too. Knowing your story, and Kolin’s, and Vinson’s, and your husband’s—that fills my cup. It makes me better at what I do. So thank you—for our families, for me, for everyone listening. Whether you're a NICU parent or a teacher with a medically complex kid in your class—thank you for choosing to put your energy into this. You have a lot of skills and a lot of talent, and you could have gone anywhere, my dear.

So, we use the word hope a lot. What does hope mean to you?

Ashley O’Neil Kolin is hope for me. He’s a miracle. Watching him navigate this world that he shouldn’t be. But he is able to do so many things, and every day, he wakes up smiling and keeps thriving in his own way. Because of him, I try to have hope for my future. I was a widow at 33. When my husband died, it was just a normal day. I got up, kissed him goodbye, came home 13 hours later, and he was dead in our home. When I first saw him, I thought, of course: dead husband, dead kid, sick baby. It was a bleak time. I saw everything in gray.

But watching Kolin light up the space—he is hope. He shows you can come out of a dark place and make it somewhere else. He’s done that his whole life—navigating development outside of where he was supposed to be. I’ve had to do the same: learn how to manage life outside the plan. You do life the “right” way—you get married, have kids—but then your kid dies, your husband dies. You’re left feeling exposed and vulnerable. Just like Kolin felt—in an incubator instead of where he should have been. Watching him grow is what gives me hope and the strength to keep going and navigate this crazy world we live in.

Leah I’m so grateful to have you and your whole family in the world—all of you here on Earth and watching over us. Your reach is powerful. Thank you for being the voice for your family.

I’m going to try to compose myself now...This has been an extraordinary conversation. I hope everyone listening gets the chance to connect with Ashley and all of her amazing endeavors—her book KO and the Magic Helmet, the NICU journal, her upcoming fellowship. The sky is the limit, and we’re so lucky to be part of your world.

Thank you so much for listening—providers, NICU parents, family members. If you're sitting at your baby’s bedside, just got home, got home a year ago, or are pacing the NICU floor—Ashley and I want you to know you are not alone. We are here with you, and we look forward to sitting with you again next time. Thanks so much.