#blessed

Dear Annie,

Nineteen years ago, when the hashtag was still the pound sign, you surprised us all and came two months early. Your due date was New Year’s Eve, your grandfather’s birthday, but instead you were born just after election day. You weighed 3 pounds, 11 ounces, far less than the bottle of champagne that we had hoped to pop. We couldn’t take you home. To my horror, we had to leave you at Nic-U, which stood for neonatal intensive care unit. This abbreviation was a euphemism, an attempt to soften the reality that you had been transplanted from the safe haven of my womb to a trauma unit.

Inside, we were instructed to put on scrubs and wash our hands religiously. I learned the art of washing hands–using warm water while singing “Happy Birthday” twice. We walked through the rows of diminutive hospital beds and incubators, a medical jungle filled with draping transparent tubes, red beeping lights, itinerant humming machines and wailing alarms that set the whole place on alert. Tiny babies were placed inside their cribs like squirming specimens on glass slides. They looked misplaced and grotesque, their complexions all off in some way–jaundiced, blue or fiery red, revealing the mixed up, confusing cocktails of their blood levels.

Even as respirators were saving infants’ lives, the primal, ancient art of swaddling remained fundamental. The technique reminded me of origami. In elementary school, my paper cranes were always huge fails, but I perfected the infant swaddle; it was the least I could do. We placed you in the middle of the blanket and wrapped you tight, like an eggroll, to keep you warm and snuggled. My perfect folds couldn’t change the fact that I had to set you back down, alone and vulnerable, in that chaotic environment.

There was no way to shelter our new babies; you all were helpless and helplessly exposed to the torturous ordeal of it all, and yet the nurses remained calm and caring. Their measured, professional attention soothed me. I watched how unruffled they were even as they pricked scrawny babies’ tiny feet to get blood samples. I’ve shown you the small constellation of pricks on your heel. Their presence remains like the faint memory of some scary fairy tale that I read to you as a child.

I had to pump my breast milk and feed it to you with a bottle that was not much bigger than a syringe. Your father and I sat in a small, darkened room off to the side and rocked you, held you close on our chests, warm skin upon skin, before we would have to place you back into a bed the size of our kitchen sink, with plexiglass sides and anonymous hospital bedding, pastel blue and pink striped that could apply to any Jane or John Doe.

We couldn’t wait to start our lives with you, but each day we had to leave. One night, as we pulled up to pay for the hospital parking, we were feeling drained and sad, going home without you again.

“How are you?” your father asked the woman inside the kiosk.

I’m blessed,” she replied.

The authenticity of her gratitude charged her voice so that we instantly felt it with her. Blessed? Yes! So were we. We didn’t know her story, but her response was enough for us to consider our own. Intensive care still carries the threat that a prognosis may change in an instant, but for the moment, you were alive and you were going to be ok. We had to leave you there, but we could afford the medical care and we had access to it. You weren’t born 4 months early with a messed up digestive system like the child we always saw when we visited. You hadn’t lost your twin, or been born addicted to drugs.

We have the choice to make a decision, along the way, to adjust our perspective, and the assured inflection in her voice was like a signpost that told us, “turn here.”

May she be healthy, may she be happy, may she be safe, may she be free.

This was the mantra my mother taped to the side of your bed (everybody brought pictures and cards, in lame attempts to personalize the infants’ surroundings). Powerless and unable to make things alright for you, I repeated this over and over. It was a letting go, but with willful hope attached.

“She is an old soul,” my mother proclaimed, because as she reached down,  you wrapped your tiny hand around her finger and gripped it, staring back at us with your jewel-blue eyes.

Together we built this resolve, made from strong will and enforced with gratitude, to face our inchoate future, but it was always buttressed by the kind reply of the woman who had handed far more than a handful of coins back to your father. In the dark, fleeting moment, I didn’t catch her face. There was nothing remarkable about her response during what is normally a trivial exchange of words. Yet the fortitude of her voice still drives me. I just wanted you to know this story, because that’s what I remember when I see #blessed.

Love,

Mom

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “#blessed

  1. Thank you for sharing the story of Annie. Having observed your 3 spry tree-climbing, art loving, free-spirited girls during neighborhood walks and occasional chit-chat, I had no idea of Annie’s perilous entry. An old soul, indeed. Mom’s know!

    Like

  2. Wendy,
    I love this story and you have no idea how much I can relate to it. My son Alvaro was also born 2 month’s early and weighed in at under 4 lbs. My baby bump was removed far too soon. ( An infection I had , unbeknownst to my obgyn and I, had caused my body to go into labor in an attempt to save my baby . )
    As I was rushed to the hospital all I heard was that it was my fault for not realizing I was in labor and risking the life of my son. That there was a huge chance that my son could be born with multiple issues ranging from : undeveloped lungs, hearing imparement, blindness and there wasn the posiblity of him being slow or learning impared . I was scolded by the Dr. and my husband. How could I have not been aware of what was happening?! As you know, when your expecting the only thing you pray for is a healthy child, in that moment I prayed like never before.
    Several hours later after failed attempts to keep my baby inside me, Alvaro decided he was having none of that and made his grand appearence. Premi pediatricians were standing by and wisked him off once he popped out. There was not a cry or a whimper, my heart stopped. After what seemed like an eternity I heard a huge cry! Tears of joy poured out of me. A newborn with a cry like that would be ok! That cry required good lungs, he had them despite his early arrival. I never got to hold him. He was wisked off too to the Neo-Natal ICU and placed in a tinny bed with a large plexiglass box covering his head and lights shinning on his tiny naked body . Lines came out of his tiny feet and an apparatus was placed under the mattress which would cause the mattress to pop up every couple of minutes to make sure he didn’t forget to breath. His father and I were not allowed to see him until the following day and no pictures could be taken. We had one hour with him in the morning and one in the afternoon where I too pumped milk and left it for the nurses to feed my child. I hated not being able to stay with him and knowing that I couldn’t take him home .
    The funny part was, I knew he would be ok the entire time and I too knew how BLESSED I was.
    Making a long story short, seeing my son today makes me laugh! Who would have thought this 5’10”, 175lb man came into this world the way he did. He’s smart, athletic and has a huge heart.

    I know he will be leaving me to go off to school in the fall but we were separated when he was born for a month so this won’t be the first time. He was ok then and I know he will be ok this time.

    Thank you for sharing your story!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Alex, thank YOU for sharing your incredible story–I can’t believe Alvaro was a preemie, too! It’s amazing how ingrained those memories are in our minds, because they were so traumatic. And it sounds especially horrible to be blamed for the early labor. I remember everyone thought Annie came early because I was so sad about losing our black lab, Gochee. But then Cita came early, too! I think our kids have a strength from their early days as fighters. They have come a long way and knowing they are leaving is making me reflect on it all. I am so happy to know you and Alvaro 😃

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s