Anthony was born at 29 weeks of age. He weighed in at just over 3 lbs. I distinctly recall the first time I was allowed to see him. He was in the NICU by then, safe in his incubator. But I remember thinking immediately that he looked very much like a small bird, and I was terrified. I didn't show it. Stiff upper lip and all that. But on the inside I was torn by my joy at being a father, hedged as it was against the very real chance my son could die before I even held him. I remember thinking that if I reached into the incubator port hole to touch him that I might hurt him, and right about then is when I touched his hand and one of the most amazing moments of my life occurred.
His little hand grabbed my thumb and held tight. It was as if he was saying, from the start, not to give up on him. I never have since.
That was the first day of what would be an eight week adventure. There would be feeding problems and sleep apnea, fear of brain bleeds and a whole host of other issues that the doctors were obliged to warn us were a possibility. The NICU is not a place of promises. As an outsider it is hard at first, becoming inoculated to all the medical terminology is difficult enough without also getting a crash course in the emotional neutrality that I guess a career in medicine requires. But you learn to not begrudge them the distance they need to do their jobs properly, even if the patient in question is your own child.
My wife remained at the original hospital where the birth had taken place. The insurance company would not approve her transfer to the new hospital, nor take responsibility for any charges that would take place if we forced a transfer. Amazingly enough, they had deemed the notion of my nearly crippled wife being with her twenty-nine week old preemie as not being "medically necessary". The actuaries that make such decisions either must no have mothers, or are childless, because no matter how many decimal points you carry to justify such a policy, there is simply no mathematical reasoning to substitute for human decency. So my wife and son remained separated for three weeks, until my wife was discharged. Until then we brought photos of baby Anthony to her hospital room to help her produce breast milk, which we then transported in iced zip lock bags across town to the NICU.
My mother-in-law practically moved into our home then, and we struck a sort of silent deal. She would watch over her baby, and I would watch over mine. We also agreed that she would cook a lot, and I would eat what she cooked. I still have the extra ten pounds to prove it. We actually rotated between hospitals throughout the day, three times. No one would be left without company for long, be it Maxime in her desperate solitude or Anthony in his desperate situation.
And so it went until my wife was discharged. She, of course, demanded to be taken to Anthony immediately, even if she could barely move or get into or out of a wheelchair. By then it was apparent that the very same fibroids that had cramped Anthony's development were now making it nearly impossible for her uterus to heal from the c-sections. But when she finally was wheeled up next to Anthony there was no mistaking the magic of the moment. The nurses removed him from the incubator and placed him in her arms, and Anthony slept peacefully as his mother wept silently.
Anthony slowly progressed. There were no brain bleeds and he was weened of oxygen slowly. His bouts with sleep apnea were pervasive for almost a month, but finally his brain learned to keep those lungs pumping, even in the depths of his sleep. He had one eye that was turned in, the early signs of strabismus. Beyond that, it seemed that he was fine.
Finally, eight weeks after his birth, Anthony came home. We placed him in his car seat on the front porch of our house and snapped a photo.
It was as if he had summited Everest.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
When Anthony Was Born (cont.)
I remember my mother-in-law that night, in perpetual motion; pacing and praying. Back and forth, up and down the hall just outside the delivery room. Pacing. Praying. Not just any old praying though. No. This was the very definition of fervent prayer; intense at just above a whisper, a focused dialogue with a God she was determined to engage, here in this place, where the lives of both her baby and her grand baby were hanging in the balance. My mother-in-law passed away last year. The church overflowed with many kind people who came to her funeral and shared memories of her. An entry from her journal was read aloud, from the day she learned that her cancer was terminal, and it was a strong testimony to her faith. But to me the greatest memory of Carol will be of that night, in that darkest hour, in a strong sort of agony, talking to God.
Whatever she did, it worked. That our doctor was able to make it to the hospital before Anthony came out was the first miracle. Maxime's labor simply stopped, this despite the fact that all the nurses were sure the baby was coming "any second". Time simply froze for both mother and child. Heart rates stayed normal, everyone caught their breath and when the doc arrived and the crash unit was called in....still, time froze. It did not seem possible, to anyone, save for a woman just outside the room who simply would not stop pacing.
The c-section began when the crash unit arrived. At this point it was discovered that our baby was, as the doctor described it, "inside of a loofah sponge". We knew my wife had fibroid tumors. We did not know she had over a hundred of them, from the size of grapes to the size of plums. That our child had managed 29 weeks in there was the second miracle of the night. But things then took a turn for the worse as, try as she might, forceps and all, the doctor just could not get our baby free from that loofah sponge. Having cut horizontally for the first c-section, she now made a second incision, almost in a panic, this time vertically, directly across the uterus. The room was not silent. Trained professionals as they were, they knew they were in a race against time. Mild curse words were muttered beneath their breaths. The crash unit waited in the background led by, I would later find out, one of the foremost doctors in the field of premature babies, a slight man with a beard and soft eyes. But this was not his game. Yet. This was my wife's OBGYN's game, and she was struggling. At some point it became now or never. I saw it in her eyes. My son still has the forceps scar on the side of his stomach to prove it. She went in and she grabbed hold and she pulled for dear life, and out came a little doll that was limp as could be, a mass of human flesh that was whisked so quickly to the crash team unit that I barely caught a glimpse.
If not for the click and whir of some of the machinery around us I would have been positive that I had been struck deaf at that moment. Nobody was talking. Not a sound. Then my wife began to cry and ask if the baby was OK. She was begging for an answer, and no one would give it. I was there but I wasn't, I was holding her hand but I wasn't. I had drifted to some far off place where I could handle what was or was not to come, that place named "This Isn't Really Happening". I heard the crash team struggling, I heard orders being given and instruments being banged about.
Good things come in three's, they say. Miracles rarely so. One in a lifetime is usually sufficient. But when you have an angel in the hallway rattling the gates of heaven for help, miracles can come in three's too.
Our third miracle was one that never should have happened, and that would by its very nature make it a miracle. It was the wayward cry of a newborn baby, loud and sharp, the likes of which is rare in a 29 week old who should not have lungs that are developed enough to do the deed. With that cry the room erupted with sighs and cheers of relief and I will never forget....no, I think it will be one of my final memories when I die...the words of that crash team doctor as he held our baby up to us.
"You have son. It's a boy."
In the hallway a mother-in-law stopped pacing as a daddy did his touchdown dance in the delivery room, and a little baby boy confirmed with all the strength his little body could muster in those first cries that prayers are never in vain, and that God is always listening.
Whatever she did, it worked. That our doctor was able to make it to the hospital before Anthony came out was the first miracle. Maxime's labor simply stopped, this despite the fact that all the nurses were sure the baby was coming "any second". Time simply froze for both mother and child. Heart rates stayed normal, everyone caught their breath and when the doc arrived and the crash unit was called in....still, time froze. It did not seem possible, to anyone, save for a woman just outside the room who simply would not stop pacing.
The c-section began when the crash unit arrived. At this point it was discovered that our baby was, as the doctor described it, "inside of a loofah sponge". We knew my wife had fibroid tumors. We did not know she had over a hundred of them, from the size of grapes to the size of plums. That our child had managed 29 weeks in there was the second miracle of the night. But things then took a turn for the worse as, try as she might, forceps and all, the doctor just could not get our baby free from that loofah sponge. Having cut horizontally for the first c-section, she now made a second incision, almost in a panic, this time vertically, directly across the uterus. The room was not silent. Trained professionals as they were, they knew they were in a race against time. Mild curse words were muttered beneath their breaths. The crash unit waited in the background led by, I would later find out, one of the foremost doctors in the field of premature babies, a slight man with a beard and soft eyes. But this was not his game. Yet. This was my wife's OBGYN's game, and she was struggling. At some point it became now or never. I saw it in her eyes. My son still has the forceps scar on the side of his stomach to prove it. She went in and she grabbed hold and she pulled for dear life, and out came a little doll that was limp as could be, a mass of human flesh that was whisked so quickly to the crash team unit that I barely caught a glimpse.
If not for the click and whir of some of the machinery around us I would have been positive that I had been struck deaf at that moment. Nobody was talking. Not a sound. Then my wife began to cry and ask if the baby was OK. She was begging for an answer, and no one would give it. I was there but I wasn't, I was holding her hand but I wasn't. I had drifted to some far off place where I could handle what was or was not to come, that place named "This Isn't Really Happening". I heard the crash team struggling, I heard orders being given and instruments being banged about.
Good things come in three's, they say. Miracles rarely so. One in a lifetime is usually sufficient. But when you have an angel in the hallway rattling the gates of heaven for help, miracles can come in three's too.
Our third miracle was one that never should have happened, and that would by its very nature make it a miracle. It was the wayward cry of a newborn baby, loud and sharp, the likes of which is rare in a 29 week old who should not have lungs that are developed enough to do the deed. With that cry the room erupted with sighs and cheers of relief and I will never forget....no, I think it will be one of my final memories when I die...the words of that crash team doctor as he held our baby up to us.
"You have son. It's a boy."
In the hallway a mother-in-law stopped pacing as a daddy did his touchdown dance in the delivery room, and a little baby boy confirmed with all the strength his little body could muster in those first cries that prayers are never in vain, and that God is always listening.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
When Anthony Was Born...
You can prepare for a lot of things in life. A premature baby is not one of them. It happens, and for everyone who goes through it the experience is a bit different, but often the same. First comes panic, then fear...and then an odd sense of calm as the shock sets in. For my wife and I it was a barely orchestrated chaos that included ominous words like "footling breach" and "minimal time" and "NICU crash unit". We had minutes to learn a new language, assess how our lives were now completely out of our control and to pray for our child, this tiny life that had somehow arrived eleven weeks early.
Before long there was a whirlwind of doctors and nurses and this was very odd, because it was a small hospital, and it was 3am. Maybe it was because I was a man and the world to me is often viewed through a business-like prism, but that was when I first became frightened. I mean, this was just a birth, right? Yeah my wife was going to need an emergency c-section but those happen all the time, right? Yeah my son was coming early but that happens all the time too, right? So why all the labor hours (no pun intended) over my wife? Why all these extra people, clocking all this extra time (overtime no doubt), and why was her doctor being called from home straight out of bed at 3am? This was Los Angeles. There were plenty of doctors on staff right here. And I had the oddest thought, one word really: liability.
It was a cynical thought but I felt in my gut that the simple act of scrambling to get my wife's own doctor there at such an odd hour was sudden proof that everyone in the room felt that this was all going to go terribly wrong, and no one wanted the responsibility. So we waited, and when the doc finally arrived she rolled up her sleeves, looked at all the paperwork and then looked at my wife....then she calmly asked the head nurse to call over to Huntington Memorial Hospital in Pasadena. We would "need the NICU crash unit". The baby might have to go by helicopter or ambulance "once it was born". I froze. Up until now, in all of our appointments with her, our doc had always called our baby "him or her" or "he or she".
You know, like at the end of the sonogram when everyone wants to keep it a secret, the doctors say "he or she" is doing quite well or "the baby, him or her, is moving". Now my child had become an "it". And therein was born my second cynical thought of the night: our doctor was already getting some emotional distance from the baby, our baby, should "it" die.
And so we waited, for whatever forces in the universe, human or otherwise, that were going to take their places this night, on this stage, of what was now beginning to appear less like a play, and more like a tragedy.
Before long there was a whirlwind of doctors and nurses and this was very odd, because it was a small hospital, and it was 3am. Maybe it was because I was a man and the world to me is often viewed through a business-like prism, but that was when I first became frightened. I mean, this was just a birth, right? Yeah my wife was going to need an emergency c-section but those happen all the time, right? Yeah my son was coming early but that happens all the time too, right? So why all the labor hours (no pun intended) over my wife? Why all these extra people, clocking all this extra time (overtime no doubt), and why was her doctor being called from home straight out of bed at 3am? This was Los Angeles. There were plenty of doctors on staff right here. And I had the oddest thought, one word really: liability.
It was a cynical thought but I felt in my gut that the simple act of scrambling to get my wife's own doctor there at such an odd hour was sudden proof that everyone in the room felt that this was all going to go terribly wrong, and no one wanted the responsibility. So we waited, and when the doc finally arrived she rolled up her sleeves, looked at all the paperwork and then looked at my wife....then she calmly asked the head nurse to call over to Huntington Memorial Hospital in Pasadena. We would "need the NICU crash unit". The baby might have to go by helicopter or ambulance "once it was born". I froze. Up until now, in all of our appointments with her, our doc had always called our baby "him or her" or "he or she".
You know, like at the end of the sonogram when everyone wants to keep it a secret, the doctors say "he or she" is doing quite well or "the baby, him or her, is moving". Now my child had become an "it". And therein was born my second cynical thought of the night: our doctor was already getting some emotional distance from the baby, our baby, should "it" die.
And so we waited, for whatever forces in the universe, human or otherwise, that were going to take their places this night, on this stage, of what was now beginning to appear less like a play, and more like a tragedy.
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