At 5am the morning after Boeboe’s birth, I asked the nurses how it’s going with my baby. They didn’t have news, and said no news is good news. But I insisted on more. So they phoned NICU and came back with the words “she had a good night”. I was immensely relieved. She’s still alive.
I forced myself to eat breakfast. To swallow it down past the lump in my throat. I needed to get my strength back asap to be able to be there for my daughter. Just after 7am, the gynae came to give me the go-ahead to stand up. She told me that Boeboe wouldn’t have made it to the evening in my tummy. The placenta was totally dead and Boeboe’s oxygen would’ve been cut-off soon. She said the placenta was calcified so much that she couldn’t even believe it herself. My baby girl would’ve died inside me if I didn’t have a check-up with the gynae on that day. That was my fear throughout the whole pregnancy. It was a premonition I had. With a few hours to spare, my daughter’s life was saved. She was better out in this world, than she would’ve been inside. Now she had a chance on life. Inside she didn’t have any chance at all. For the first time I had peace. Peace about God’s plan. He looked after her. He took care of her. It was destined that she must live. Had to live. I had peace, and I had faith. I experienced it, and I accepted it. I didn’t realise I would need it later that day.
After I bathed and dressed, I was pushed in a wheelchair to see my daughter on her second day of life. The pressure on the c-section hurt, but I was determined to bite through the pain.
Everything looked the same. Or so it seemed. Her chest still went up and down with tremendous effort. The machines were still beeping. I looked at her heart monitor, and all I could remember was the green flatline when my mom died. The round zero for a heartbeat. I looked at the up and down curvature on Boeboe’s monitor, and I prayed that I would never need to see that green, straight line on her monitor.
After some time the c-section cut was pinched from my position in the chair, I couldn’t handle the pain any longer. I stroke my daughter’s small fingers. They were so thin, so small. I bit the tears back and asked the nurse to push me back to the maternity ward. I won’t cry. God saved her for a reason. I will be strong, for that same reason.
My husband came visiting. Mr N wasn’t doing well. He missed me and wanted to know if his sister was out of mommy’s tummy now. He didn’t understand why I wasn’t there when he woke up. It broke my heart. He’s still so small, his communication level still so rudimentary.
My husband went to sit with our daughter while I tried to rest a bit, willing the painkillers to take effect. He came back some hours later, but he was upset. They told him that Boeboe was very, very ill. We knew she was doing worse today, but we didn’t know what to do. We were frustrated, upset and helpless. I was in pain, and feeling scared and uncertain. My husband drew into himself. It was too much. He needed to look after the house, and had to make sure his mom was okay. She was looking after Mr N in our house. Daddy needed to be there for Mr N and his questions as well. We weren’t able to prepare him enough before the birth. What a pity. He was just too small. He couldn’t understand. And he was coming down with something, a viral infection probably. It was just too much for my husband to take in.
Me and daddy went to visit Boeboe together. Every now and then they chased us out to draw blood. No amount of protest convinced the nurses to let me stay. I knew that meant that it was too difficult for parents to see. I could hear her scream in terror and pain. They were measureing the oxygen levels in her blood. Hers was doing badly and they kept on pushing the oxygen higher and higher. She was on a CPAP machine. It pushed oxygen into her nose. It’s not invasive like a ventilator. But the pipe that goes through her mouth into her stomach was. There’s gas and bile coming out of her stomach. They tested this and it didn’t look good. They were surprised that a 37-weeker were doing this badly. They were also keeping an eye on jaundice levels and infection count. They suspected pneumonia, and started antibiotic therapy. The x-rays showed a lot of amniotic fluid in her lungs. There’s talk of putting her on a ventilator and injecting surfacant. Which is a very, very expensive, last resort for the lungs.
The day went by in a haze. My husband fetched our little boy to come and visit me. It helped a lot when he saw me sit on the bed, apparently healthy and normal and happy. I was fully dressed and tried to control the pain in my stomach so that he didn’t notice it. He had a cold, and my husband said he’ll take him to the doctor the next morning.
I didn’t want to see any visitors, just like on the Thursday after Boeboe’s birth. But I realised I couldn’t hide from everyone forever. My one brother arrived, and was happy and celebratory. Until they asked where the baby is. I went cold. No one told them. My husband forgot to phone them. To let them know. I could see the accusation and upset in their eyes. I pleaded forgiveness, but I could see they didn’t understand. I think they only really really understood when their baby boy was on the verge of dying himself at age 1, about 9 months later. Fortunately, their little boy survived and recovered completely.
More visitors arrived. Everyone congratulated us, but without smiles. I wanted to scream at them that it isn’t a funeral. She’ll be fine. She’s going to live! But at the same time I just wanted to fall into someone’s arms and cry my heart out. My one friend showed so much understanding, empathy and sympathy, that I took that with me for the rest of the evening. It sustained me.
I went to say goodnight to my baby girl after the visitors were gone. It was so painful to walk across the hall. So painful to stand next to her little crib. And too painful to pull a chair closer. But even more painful to see her suffer through each breath. I went to wash my hands in the prescribed way with soap and alcohol. Next to the washing basin was a little boy. There’s an IV line in his head. Silently I was thankful that it wasn’t Boeboe.
To be continued…
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