Pregnancy and Birth IV

After Boeboe spent some time in the nursery’s incubator, my husband came to tell me it doesn’t look good, they’re admitting Boeboe to NICU (Neonatal intensive care unit) because she’s still blue). I knew it. In my heart, I always knew it. All the months, weeks, hours and minutes that took place before her birth, I knew she was going to end up in NICU. I thus wasn’t surprised or even shocked. Just sad. I nodded my head in acceptance.

Two and a half hours after her birth, they brought Boeboe to me. The nurse said she couldn’t take her to NICU without showing her one last time to her mommy. Her tiny face was bluish and she was breathing very very fast, and very shallow. I pressed her tiny head wrapped in the blanket against my lips. And handed her back to the nurse. I knew that she was struggling with every breath she took. She needed help I couldn’t give her. It broke my heart, watching the nurse walk out with my baby girl. Would I ever see her again?

Me and Daddy just sat there. Too emotionally fragile to even talk. We didn’t phone anyone. We didn’t even sms. We were too sad. We couldn’t cope with any questions, or any sympathy at that stage. All we thought about was that our newborn baby was lying somewhere alone, fighting for her life. And we could do nothing to help her. Just pray.

After a short while, I told my husband he can leave me alone. He must go check up on our daughter. He didn’t come back. I started to stress. Something must be wrong. I wanted to go crazy, why didn’t he return? Was she fighting for her life? Is she getting worse? Is she already gone and he can’t bring himself to face me?

I called the nurse, who said they knew nothing, but she’s sure that NICU would call if there’s anything I need to worry about. Yes, sure.

Two hours later my husband returned. He was close to tears and white in the face. It was difficult for him to speak. He said she was given concentrated oxygen in a glass “bowel”, but it didn’t help. She’s struggling to breath. They chased him out, because they needed to hook her to the machines. Put an IV line in, and draw some blood. Pushing pipes into her nose and mouth. Pressing needles into my tiny baby’s litle arm. And we’re not allowed to stay. I was furious. I wanted to stand up and run to my daughter. I wanted to be there for her. I was furious with my husband for letting them chase him out. I was angry at God for letting her get worse, not better. I was angry at life that didn’t let me keep her in a few days longer so that her lungs could develop and strengthen. And I was especially angry at myself for my body that failed her. That I couldn’t have a normal vaginal birth that would’ve squeezed the water out of her lungs.

My husband went back to Boeboe, and AGAIN he stayed away 2 hours. (Remember, no cellphones in those days where I could've whatsapp him.) This time I cried. I was so scared and frustrated for having to stay in a bed 20 metres across the hall from where my baby girl needed me. The nurse came in and saw how upset I was. She called some help, and they pushed me across the hall where NICU was. It was agony. Every bump felt like a hot knife cutting through my stomach where the c-section was. And then I saw her. The small, itty bitty body. Pipes in her nose, a machine that went beep. Needles that was wrapped tightly into her paper thin arm. The naked, tiny body with only a too-big nappy on. Open, exposed before the world. A heater was providing her with life-giving heat. The soft pink teddy bear that I used to hold before her birth, dreaming about my daughter, was sitting in the corner. There were so many plasters over her nose, I couldn’t see it. Her beautiful, soft pitch black hair was plastered to her temples. She lied still, unmoving, except for the immense effort in taking every breath. The whole chest falling and rising, and with each breath she was moaning this awful sound. I couldn’t take it. I just stared at her in terror. Wondering how she’s going to make the night, fighting for each breath like that. I touched her little finger with mine, every cell in my body screaming to pick her up and ran away with her. To press her close to me. To hide her from the pain of needles and pipes and plasters. But I didn’t, I left her lying there. And tried to will her to keep on breathing, however difficult and painful each breath was.

They pushed me back, saying the bed was in the way. I went through all the necessary motions. I ate a piece of toast. I forced myself to drink a glass of water. I brushed my teeth and took my contact lenses out. I did everything that was needed. It was so different from the last time when I had Mr N. On that evening, there were people all around my bed. We were joyous, and everybody commented on our beautiful baby boy and celebrated with us. Now I was alone. Daddy had to go home because Mr N needed him more than I did. He was only 2 and a half. Still baby himself. I couldn’t sleep much. I had nightmares every time I did fell asleep. With every movement of the nurses’ coming and goings, I startled awake, wondering if they’re coming to tell me that Boeboe didn’t make it through the night.

To be continued…