The Week In Dialogue

Her: Social Security office of Boise. May I help you?
Me: I'm calling to make sure that you'd received all the supplemental evidence I sent for my daughter's appeal.
Her: I have a letter from Dr. R, A letter from Dr. M, an audiology report...
Me: And a couple articles?
Her: Articles?
Me: Yea, scholarly journal articles about the long term outcomes of congenital-
Her: Education? We don't need education.
Me: Umm, yes you do.
Her: No, we don't. I've got two years of med school, Baby. (I'm not kidding)
Me: Well, when you look at her denial letter it does not appear that the person making the decision knew much about CMV.
Her: Oh. Sorry. What did she weigh when she was born?
Me: 4 pounds, 13 ounces
Her: Well, that's too big for her to qualify.
Me: (smoke coming out my ears)
Her: Does she have any functional disabilities?
Me: She's 11 weeks old.
Her: Does she have cerebral palsy?
Me: She's 11 weeks old!!

(I'll spare you the rest)

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At Walmart

Her: Oh, Bekah! Is that you're baby? She's so tiny!
Me: Yes.
Her: She's so tiiiinnneeee! How old is she?
Me: 11 weeks
Her: Wow. What did she weigh when she was born?
Me: 4, 13
Her: Was she a premie?
Me: Nope
Her: She's so tiny.

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Me: They keep deferring to me and asking me what services I want for her.
Pediatrician: You aren't in a position to be the most objective about it.
Me: They seem to think that she's completely normal right now, so they feel like there isn't anything for them to do until she's older.
Pediatrician: That isn't true. Her eyes aren't tracking bilaterally. She's not responding to social smiles and she is hypertonic. She needs OT and PT.

Thank you!

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Grama: I kept saying, 'Keira needs me, Keira needs me.' Now I realize that I need Keira and Bekah needs me.'

I love you, Grama Joy. Thank you for organizing my spice cabinet.

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Me: I start wondering why I have all this help. I feel like I should be doing this on my own, because I'm basically just a mom with three kids.
Jeff: Are you constantly second guessing yourself? Because it seems like you always think you're doing the wrong thing. Keira is not just a third kid. All the medical stuff is exhausting. Think about how much time you spend on the phone alone. Imagine if your mom wasn't there to keep Ronin from crawling on you....

Me: It's crazy all these things I've been learning because of Keira that I've been trying to do for so long. Like when to bag cooking dinner. I'm more able to recognize if I have too much on my plate and I change plans so that I don't get too overwhelmed.
Jeff: I'm proud of you. The way I see it, you've stopped trying to control things you know you can't control.

:)


P.S. Keira weighed in at 9 pounds, 10 ounces today! She's actually on the chart now for her height and weight. Her head circumference, unfortunately, is not on the chart. Keira is somewhat behind in her development so far, it seems, but she is growing at her own pace. She's a wonderful baby and is rewarding us more often with smiles and gazes. Her appetite, cuddliness, and positive hearing test results are all very encouraging signs. Her immune system has also proved to be robust enough to resist several bugs going around our house. Only one appointment next week: Infant/Toddler treatment planning which will hopefully include meeting the OT (occupational therapist).

Nursery

 Finally, I've taken some picture's of K's beautiful nursery. It's my favorite room in the house. Jeff gave me the liberty of decorating it all without his input and, low and behold...he likes it, too! I started with finding the coordinating larkspur fabrics that I love, then decided to do the walls, poms, and bedspread in bold colors. My mom, of course, did the curtains, blankets, sheets, pillows, and cute stuffed elephant for me. Thank you, Mom! Liam painted the "family portrait" with the neon green background. Ronin painted the small pink square, which is also a family portrait!

Birth Story Part 2

Jeff and I went home. I think we were fairly quiet. I think I called my parents. I went inside; I guess to pack a thing or two. I think I got a snack and fed the dog. Then, Jeff drove us to Boise. I remember that they had advised us not to follow the ambulance; I guess afraid we’d freak out if the ambulance had to take a detour or anything.

We parked in N4 and walked to the Family Maternity Center. It was strange again to not have a baby in my arms nor be conspicuously pregnant. Strange to be walking across the parking lot, as casual-looking as if we’d come to eat ice cream with a sibling after a tonsillectomy. We used the phone to get in downstairs, “Keira’s parents.” Took the elevator up and called to get into the NICU ,“Keira’s parents.” Keira, Keira, Keira…still so new on my lips and in my head. Is that what we named her? Was that the right name? We were shown how to scrub our hands and arms before going into the NICU. It seems that someone actually met us right at the door to walk us over to Keira. There was no waiting. We walked by the gurney that Keira had ridden over in. The NICU was one large room, with the capacity of being sectioned off into 20 or 30 separate “rooms” by sliding curtains.

It surprised me that I actually recognized her right away. She looked different than the boys. Her features were more delicate. She looked a bit more like me, in fact. And she was tiny. Lying there in the “crib,” which may as well have been a giant plastic Tupperware or turkey roaster. The nurse, Julie, was doing I don’t know what. I looked closely at Keira without touching. She was sleeping and was so still. She had bands and wires and all sorts of accouterments. This didn’t seem to worry me, oddly, but I was alarmed that one teeny foot looked, well, dead. It was blue. Not even blue… it looked blackish and cold and utterly motionless. I suppose it was from being squeezed several times already for blood samples. The nurse was very kind. Matter of fact. No panic. I remember thinking that there must not be anything too bad happening because everyone was so calm. How could everyone be so calm if there was something wrong with my baby? At the same time I knew that they were trained, of course, to remain calm no matter what. It occurred to me how unnatural that really is.

Someone swept a rocker under me and closed the curtain around us. I might have held her then. Maybe not. It wasn’t long before Dr. Borghese introduced herself and the ultrasound began. Jeff watched the monitor. I stayed seated, away from the monitor, trying, in my head, to limit the information coming to me, trying to pace myself, not sure if I was ready for what was coming. The doctor was quiet while the technician moved the probe around Keira’s tiny head.  “Enlarged ventricles, calcifications, cysts, no active bleeds.” Jeff’s head was nodding. He was seeing what she was talking about before she even pointed it out. It must have been then that we began to learn about what CMV could entail. A wide spectrum of outcomes. A wide array of developmental problems. Familiar words, really. I don’t remember thinking or feeling or saying much at all. Nobody was concerned that I wasn’t holding her. Nobody was concerned that I wasn’t nursing her.

Eventually Jeff and I were shown to a little room with a twin bed- a “singleton” they called it. It was the kind of room where they go to have sex on Grey’s Anatomy.  Funny what comes to mind even during such life-altering circumstances. It was about 3am. Dazed, we curled up together and slept.

Jeff got up very early to go be with the boys. He got them off to school and told them that their sister was sick and so was going to have to stay at the hospital for a while. I was alone at the hospital and went through the prerequisite washing to go see my baby. There was no crib and no baby where I had left her a few hours ago. There were very few babies at all. I poked around until I found her in the back corner. I later learned that this was the coveted “suite.” The corner “room” was somewhat more private, more spacious, and had nice big windows. Nevertheless, it wasn’t very welcoming. No chair for a nursing mother. No comforts. Just lots of plugs, wires, and sterility. The nurse, Julie still, changed my baby’s diaper, found me a rocker, and let me hold her. Maybe I nursed her. But I held her. Held her and studied her and rocked her. I nuzzled my face into her downy blonde hair that was as soft and fluffy as a chick. In my mind, I told her everything would be ok, though I sensed even then that she was perfectly “ok,” I just didn’t know if I was. In my arms that morning, it started to feel real. She started to feel real. I fell in love with my whole heart in that impossible way that you love all of your kids with your whole heart. And that made it ok. Soon I had to put her back in the isolette, as she was having a hard time keeping her temperature up, but it was better. I couldn’t tell you how I actually was before, maybe disoriented or left behind or nowhere. Holding her grounded me again, at least temporarily. I loved this little girl and we had some challenges to tackle.

Julie gave me an orientation to the NICU, Keira’s care and schedule, visitors, etc, in a way that was patient and caring and not too overwhelming. She answered all of my questions and waited for more. And all this with the confidence of a nurse who had tended to a thousand sick babies but the care and concern as if this were her first and only one.

I remember talking to Jeff soon after that. Pleading with him to come back and hold her. “It’s so much better when you hold her,” I told him. I had to stay away for an hour, which I learned I would have to do every 7 o ‘clock as the shifts changed. So, I retreated to the shower, where I cried and cried and cried. I remember looking at my flabby, empty belly in the mirror. What happened?

This day, too, was a blur. We were with Keira, yes, but we were limited in how much we could have her out of the isolette. I met my parents in the waiting room and bravely told them that our baby had an unknown infection that had affected her brain. I told them that she looks beautiful and perfect but that her developmental outcomes were likely going to be poor. They were brave, too, not letting any tears fall, though I know they were there and they looked so sad, particularly for me, I think.

There seemed to be a parade of professionals meeting Keira that day: the neonatologist, nurses, various social workers, lactation consultants, an infections disease specialist, an occupational therapist, a family support person, the pharmacist etc etc.

Jeff returned. He’d had to stop at the store for a box of Kleenex because he’d been crying so much in the car. We went to lunch in the hospital cafeteria. The comfort food I ordered did not do its job. I laid my head down on the table and sobbed. I told him all of my terrible thoughts and my raw, naked, reactions.

I’m so scared. I never wanted to do this. It’s mean of God. It’s a terrible irony. I work with parents of kids like ours but I always thought, “Thank God it’s not me! I couldn’t do what they do. I don’t want to do what they do.” What a hypocrite I’ve been….telling them how to  parent their children. I didn’t want a child who would have to live with me forever or who I had to worry about after I die. I don’t want my kid to drool or to have to wear diapers as a teenager or who can’t walk or whose only job option is McDonald’s. I don’t LIKE any of the mothers I’ve met who parent disabled kids. They are either old-looking and haggard and worn and depressed or they are Type A, overly driven, pushy, and rigid. I don’t like them. I don’t want to be them. Why did we have another baby? Why did we do this? We hmmmed and haaaaed for so long because we thought, “Why mess with a good thing?” Why did we mess with a good thing?  Look what we did. Would it have been easier if she had just died?? I talk about acceptance of disabled individuals, but I don’t love them, not really. I don’t want to hang out with them. They are different and weird. And then here’s my daughter. I don’t want her to be the weird old lady that everyone tolerates; who speaks nonsense and has no real friends. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I am completely out of control….

Jeff listened. Upset himself, of course, but still always saying the perfect thing. “Let’s go take a nap.” In the midst of this terrible loss I was aware of an extreme and wonderful closeness with Jeff. He was experiencing what I was experiencing and we could do this together.

We went back to our little room. I told Jeff this was my Africa. When I was a kid, I was afraid that if I were a good Christian, God would make me be a missionary in the poorest village in Africa. Otherwise, you weren’t really the best kind of Christian, right? I dreaded being sent on such a mission, but finally chalked those thoughts up to a childhood misunderstanding of what it means to be faithful. Now this. Jeff held me, assuring me that we could handle this and when I couldn’t, then he could. He told me the story of the man who was born blind in the Bible: The disciples asked Jesus, “Who sinned that this man was born blind? The man? His parents? Jesus answered, “Neither hath his man sinned, nor his parents; but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” Spooned together on that bed I heaved and sobbed until I finally took a little rest.

It was sometime that day that I had a profound revelation. It’s not even about Keira. It’s about me. This is going to change me. It’s going to change my life. It’s going to change my theology. Keira is fine. She is exactly what God made her. Chances are she’ll always be fine with who she is because she won’t know the difference. The problem here is me. Me accepting her. Me knowing how to love her and me dealing with the assumptions, expectations, beliefs, etc etc of other people.

And then I began to transform. As I sat by myself with Keira that afternoon. I texted. I texted and texted and texted and texted. I had never really appreciated texting- or my iPhone- until now. I told anyone and everyone who showed an interest what was going on with my little girl. I told them everything. There was a voice in me that told me that this was a private matter, maybe even shameful, but a bigger part of me wanted everyone to know. It was as if they would show me how to cope or at least let me borrow some strength. This was so unlike me, I felt. I’ve always been a person to deal with sadness privately. I do it myself. I draw the blankets over my head and come out when I feel like I know how to conquer the trail ahead. But not this time. It was like God was showing me that a wholly different experience was going to call for a wholly different solution. I would tell everyone. And in it was a plea.  A desperate one. Help me. And love her. Please, please love her.

I spent the second night of Keira’s life in the singleton by myself. It was one of the loneliest feelings I’ve ever had. Lying alone in that bed, I felt so empty. Not only was Jeff not there, but there was no baby to keep me company. My body had been relieved of its burden, but couldn’t relax without the presence of what it had created. Finally, I put a pillow between my knees, in such a way that I had only ever done when I was pregnant with Keira. And in that way, I think I tricked my body. I slept.

I woke up at 3am and joined Keira in the NICU to give her her first bath. That’s right. She had not been bathed since her birth because of the concern for her temperature. The nurse showed me how to tend to her all the while keeping her as warm as possible. I dare say Keira liked that first bath. I appreciated the nurses’ consideration. They always made sure to ask us whether we wanted to participate in these firsts which, although taking place in the hospital, are milestones just the same.

What I found the next day was a sense of amazement at how far we had come in just 48 hours. Our tears, for the time being, had largely dried up. I felt like this was something I could do. I would make sure that our little girl was an integral part of the community, regardless of her abilities or needs. I would figure out how to be the best mother I could be for her. I would make it public. I would let others in on my struggles and accomplishments. I would reach out to others when I was weak. As Kelle Hampton, author of Bloom, puts it, I would borrow their hearts when mine was broken.  I would not hide from the community in shame or fear that they would reject my little girl. I would pave a new way to be the mom of a disabled child. I would be the model of a whole, healthy, happy woman whose third child just so happened to have some struggles. This would not “ruin” my life as I knew it.

Jeff was downright excited about the future. (Okay, I admit, it was a bit hard to take sometimes.) He felt that he had discovered the best reason why his professional focus had shifted in the past couple of years. He had taken part in the LEND program and become much more invested in the disabled community, a passion that had fully prepared him for this new role. He started dreaming about becoming an advocate, not just for our child, but for disabled individuals in the community, perhaps even becoming politically involved.

Our involvement in NNH transformed from a sick joke into a pure blessing. You name the type of therapy Keira might need and we have a friend and colleague who specializes in it. Or, if we don’t then we have a friend who “knows a guy.” Really, this is an immense source of comfort and security. We are lucky to have these resources at our disposal in a way that others in the same position may not. Plus, our colleagues really “get” it. They understand the implications of Keira’s condition. When they ask how she’s doing and we say, “She’s doing well,” they know that means that today she’s doing as well as she can possibly do, but that does not mean that we aren’t scared as hell about what’s around the corner. In this way, our friends at NNH are some of our best supporters.

During the first day, I was fully expecting to be annoyed by the insensitivity and gall of anything anyone tried to speak to me about the situation we were in. Thankfully what I found instead was that virtually everyone I spoke to seemed to be completely well intended if not helpful and heartfelt. It’s true what they say. When you look at others in crisis and see how their lives change and how they handle it, you gawk and think, “I could never do it.” But you do. You just do. And now, I will never forget that the reason I am able to do it is because of the immense strength I am able to draw from the love of friends and family and even the kindness of strangers. 

Welcome

Today was a beautiful day. For whatever reason, it felt like a "normal baby" day. What I mean by that is just that I had some pretty great chunks of time in which I was just with Keira and enjoying Keira. The timer wasn't going off in my brain every minute that says, "She has CMV. She has CMV."

Ronin and I laid on the floor with Keira this morning and took some lovely pictures.

Next was our 3 hour appointment with the audiologist. And the results were...good news! All things considered, her hearing looks normal. If you've been wondering how they test a baby's hearing, here you go:

Next hearing test: 2 months.

First smiles!

Yesterday was K's global developmental assessment by the Infant/Toddler program. Again, all things considered, she looks normal, at least for now. The good news is that the program still seems to be willing to send therapists in for Keira if we want them.

Jeff and I are interested in having her assessed by an occupational therapist (OT) and/or physical therapist (PT) right away. We suspect that she has some hypertonia. This is a problem where the muscles are overly tight or rigid, making it difficult for the muscles to relax and contract normally to allow everyday activity. This is common in CMV babies and can eventually make it hard to eat, walk, etc. Jeff and I have noticed that it's difficult to get her dressed because she doesn't want to relax her arms and legs. It's not too concerning at this point, but the sooner problems are addressed, the better the outcomes.

Finally, my brother came home today. Yay. He got to meet Keira. He needs a little TLC right now and what's better than holding a sleeping baby?

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.

Birth Story

On Saturday evening, Jeff and I dropped the boys off at Aunt Steph’s and headed to Boise to have a sushi dinner. I wasn’t feeling great—just really uncomfortable. I’d had a feeling the baby might come a little early, which was strange since she (and consequently I) seemed so much smaller than with either of the boys. However, my pregnancy had gone so smoothly that I had no reason to think that birthing Keira at 37 weeks would be a big deal. In fact, her brother Ronin, was born at about 37 ½ weeks. My pregnancy had been “boringly healthy” according to my OB. So, when we sat down at Shige and I began having regular contractions, I was fairly excited and Jeff said, “Ok, fine, you can come tonight.” The contractions didn’t really hurt, but were so regular that I had Jeff start timing them. They were actually 5 minutes apart and we joked about whether we’d get a free meal if my water broke in the restaurant. We decided that if my contractions continued, we could go to a hospital there in Boise, thus evading my OB.

My doctor had been fine, but not my favorite doctor ever. I had wondered whether he was dishonest with me about local birthing facilities. He had an ultrasound machine in his office, which he used many times with us, always seeming mostly interested in getting a great portrait of K in utero. We had wondered whether he cut corners a bit. However, we stuck with him and weren’t really concerned. Why would we be? My first two pregnancies and deliveries had gone wonderfully and I had no reason to believe my third would be any different. This OB also made us laugh. He reminded us of Joey from Friends. He looked Italian, had big muscles, and usually wore tight jeans and a muscle shirt to our appointments. To top it off, he drove a little white Porsche to work and parked it conspicuously for others to admire. We laughed and called him Dr. Drake Ramoray behind his back.

So anyway, we finished up dinner, but on the drive back to Nampa the contractions waned so we picked up the boys and went home. Before bed, I had Jeff snap a quick picture of my pregnant belly- thinking I better not push my luck any longer and just have him take one before it was too late.  I had a good night’s sleep. In the morning, similar contractions started up again. I took a shower, told the kids to pack for a day with Grandma Janie, rather than getting ready for church, but then the contractions ceased.

Feeling exhausted, I went back to bed. I remember feeling so conflicted. On Monday, I was to have two feedback appointments at the office and needed to get those reports written. I slept until about 3 o’clock, waking briefly every once in a while because of a contraction, then going back to sleep. When I woke I laid in bed, texting Anneke about the frustrating false alarms. Anneke was quite jealous, because she was due three weeks later than I was and wished her due date was yesterday. When I got up, the contractions seemed more regular again, this time about 7 minutes apart. They still weren’t bothering me much, but the regularity was concerning, so I told Jeff we probably should go to the hospital.

We got the boys geared up again and I wrote an email to Cathi and Heather, letting them know what to do should my maternity absence be starting early. While writing, I wondered whether I was making too big a deal of these contractions and would get the office staff worked up over nothing. But, then I went to gather my last things from my room and on my way back up the stairs I had to pause with the force of a contraction. “Yep,” I said, “Let’s go to the hospital.” It was 4:20.

We dropped the boys off at Grandma Janie’s and took the short drive to the hospital. We walked upstairs and checked in. The maternity ward was very quite. We were introduced to Katie, our nurse for the night. She was a tall, blonde woman who resembled Heidi Klum, I thought. I changed into a gown and hopped up on the hospital bed so that Katie could strap me to the monitor and ask me intake questions. Jeff was kidding around, texting friends, and remarking about his super shoes, which he had worn for his wedding and the birth of each child. I was texting Anneke again, as she seemed to be cheering me on.

We talked with Katie. She almost immediately asked if I might want Pitocin to speed up my labor, which surprised me so much. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said. I remember her telling me about her 4 children and her remarks about being way more susceptible to skin cancer if you’d been in a tanning bed even once. I asked her, “So does the monitor look like a woman in labor?” She laughed. “It looks like a woman who is handling labor very well,” she said. “Oh good,” I said, “because part of me still feels like I should be at home writing reports for tomorrow.” She laughed, assuring me that I wasn’t going to be at work tomorrow. She asked about a birthing plan, which was ironic cause it was the first time I didn’t have one but also the first time anyone in a delivery room had ever asked me about one. I told her my plan was just to go as natural as possible. I told her I’d found that a plan wasn’t much needed because my labors were so short. She assured me that the doctor had been paged already but in the worst-case scenario she was a pretty good baby catcher. “Really? You’d let me deliver even if he wasn’t here?” “Of course,” she said, and I was immediately relieved.

I was at the point where the contractions were indeed feeling regular and uncomfortable. It occurred to me that I was hungry. My stomach growled so loudly that Jeff and Katie both heard it. Katie surprised me again, saying that I could eat. She offered to bring me a sandwich and said Jeff could go out quick and bring back a “big juicy burger.” As good as that sounded, I said “Don’t go,” and Katie brought me a turkey sandwich.

Katie judged that I was at 4 cm. “Oh yea, she’s right down there. How cute,” she said, “I touched her head and she floated away.” The contractions were more painful now and only 2 to 3 minutes apart. I think this is when I told Jeff to stop making me laugh, lose his phone, and have his hand readily available for me. Katie had me turn on my side because she wasn’t getting a great oxygen rating on the baby. Right after I turned, I felt a pop and there was a hot gush of liquid. I remember saying, “Now I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared.” That sandwich wasn’t going to get eaten.

Katie, of course remaining calm, checked me again—7 cm. She informed us that the fluid was greenish, which meant meconium in the fluid. She gave us the heads up that this was probably no big deal, but might necessitate an extra day’s hospital stay. Katie was ready to move me to my room. At this point, I really didn’t want to go anywhere. After my previous deliveries, I was scared that baby would drop right out onto the floor in the hallway, or that I would lose control and not be able to walk. She asked if I wanted to walk or take a wheelchair. Still trying to be tough, I said I’d walk. But just then another whopper hit and I changed my mind.  Katie was scurrying a bit, having the doctor paged again, getting me a wheelchair, and whatever else they do to get ready. I warned her it was going to be quick now.

I was scared. The contractions were hard. The doctor wasn’t there. I could barely handle the bump of the chair over the threshold of the door. Then they wanted me to stand up and get into the bed. Ahh! And here came the part when I knew without a doubt that this baby was coming. Gosh. It seemed to go from 0 to 100 in 60 seconds. I was in pain, but more than that I was scared. In fact, I kept saying that over and over. I climbed into the bed with Jeff’s help, but couldn’t even make myself comfortable because the contractions were so hard. I caught Katie bolting out the door to go get something or someone and I yelled, “Don’t go! She’s coming!” Bless her heart, she came back immediately and taking one glance under my gown said, “Oh my gosh, you aren’t kidding. Fully dilated and effaced, Katie could see the head. I was writhing in pain now, finding no relief. I was telling Jeff, “I just want to pass out. I just want to pass out,” and he was encouraging me to breath and keep my eyes open.

My body started to push then- it was no decision of mine. The bed was still fully made, but Katie was at the other end. “I can’t help it. I can’t help it,” I said. Katie assured me it was all right; I could go ahead and push. So I did- hard- and with a shloop shloop shloop---she was out. It was 5:22.

“Oh thank God it’s over thank God it’s over thank God it’s over,” I kept saying in huge relief, and I suppose, trying to sooth myself. The pace of that labor was terrifying. I don’t remember seeing much. Even though my eyes were open, I think my brain was too preoccupied to register much. But- I did see my tiny baby girl, purplish looking, get whisked away to the far side of the room. One other person had come into the room- a “baby nurse” Katie called her and she set to work on Keira. I wasn’t concerned about her, just trying to catch my bearings, still repeating my mantra over and over. However, in the next seconds or minutes, I realized that Keira wasn’t crying. They said, “4 lbs. 13 oz.” “Whoa, that’s small,” I said, though not concerned, as I would have/should have been if I were in my normal state of mind in that moment. They said she was having a hard time keeping her temperature up and there was “something else…,” Katie said vaguely. Jeff filled in…”She had a nucal cord?” I saw Katie nod her head yes.  

I was still laying there, legs spread. No doctor. Katie was now talking about paging a different doctor. Apparently she wanted a doctor to deliver the placenta. Katie put the bed into birthing mode now, which seemed kind of silly at this point, but allowed me to rest my legs in the stirrups. I was vaguely uncomfortable laying there in all my glory for what was, I don’t know, maybe 20 minutes, but during that time I laid back and listened to what was going on with Keira. She finally cried. A little mewing sound like a cat. Jeff took pictures and brought them over to me. I could see her tiny features from where I was laying. So precious. Katie and the other nurse both were busy with her, but she calmly told me that Keira was just having a little bit of a hard time because she was small and that they’d probably take her into the nursery so they could keep her warm. It was strange that Jeff and I had not held her at all yet. There was no talk of trying to get her to nurse.

Finally, my OB came in. He was all sweaty in bike shorts and a t-shirt. “I go out for one little bike ride…” he said. “I told you they were fast,” I couldn’t help saying. I got nervous again as he fixed to deliver the placenta. At the doctor’s direction, I pushed a couple of times and this mini birth was over too. He said I looked fine save for a couple of “skid marks.” My legs had grown so tired and I was craving being able to just lay on the full bed with some warm covers. It seemed that just as quickly as the doctor had come in, he was gone again, saying very little, but that he’d see me later. Whatever. I was a little annoyed at him, but put it out of  my head.

When the doctor left, they were still messing with Keira. I asked if I could hold her before they took her to the nursery. They granted me this, going out of their way to roll my bed closer to her so I could hold her without disrupting her various attachments.  She must have had monitors on for her oxygen, pulse, etc. I finally held her. Sweet, tiny Keira. She looked perfect; just tiny, like a doll. I breather her in and had no concerns. Everything would be just fine. I wanted to try to nurse her, but the nurses seemed to want to get her to the nursery and I trusted them to know what was best.

During the couple of minutes that I was holding her, Jeff shot a picture to send off to friends. Looking back at that picture, I laugh. It was kind of a fluke. For one, I look damn good which couldn’t have been true because I felt a mess. Secondly, I was cuddling my baby, which is something we didn’t really get to do that first day or two, at least not the way parents typically do. I soon gave her back and they wheeled her out of the room and me back to my proper place. It was suddenly very lonely.

The sequence of the next events are blurred in my memory.  Someone gave me a shot of something or other to help my uterus continue to contract. The injection was in my thigh and Jeff laughed at me for complaining that it hurt. It’s all relative, I guess. Alone in my hospital room, I turned to my phone. I texted several friends about Baby’s arrival. I called my parents. They wanted to know everything and I told them, “Just come,” which they did. Jeff felt torn between the baby and me, mostly choosing to stay in the nursery so that he could stay informed as to what the nurses and doctors were doing. I didn’t like being alone in that room, but he wanted to be with her. Finally, I went to see her in the nursery. I wasn’t sure whether I was “allowed,” having just given birth, to get up and walk down the hall on my own. But, since nobody was there, I did. I was welcomed into the nursery and when I asked if I could try to nurse her, they turned a rocker toward the corner, away from the work stations of the other nurses. My parents came. Then they came again with food for me. There was some concern, we were told, with Keira’s initial blood work. The platelet count was very low, so they were testing it again. Janie came with the boys. That was stressful. At that point, we didn’t know exactly what was going on with Keira and I was trying to stay positive. The boys were excited but could only see Keira through the glass. Janie was concerned about getting some preemie clothes purchased for our unexpectedly tiny girl. Jeff and I met with Tom Patterson, a wonderful pediatrician who, as it turns out, goes to our church. He asked questions about my pregnancy, my health, and prenatal ultrasound findings. He told us that they were trying to figure out why Keira was born so small and why her head circumference was small, even for her size. He had noticed little dots on her skin and along with other symptoms, he was concerned that she may have a TORCH infection. However, given that I’d had a cold last weekend, chances were good that Keira had gotten that and so they started her on antibiotics right away. Dave came separately, later. The second platelet count was up a bit, but not much. A head ultrasound would be needed to help diagnose what was going on. Finally, I lay down to try and rest. No sooner than I’d closed my eyes, the phone rang. It was my OB. He said that he was going to discharge me so that we could follow Keira, in an ambulance, to the NICU in Boise where there was a tech who was certified to do head ultrasounds was located. Dr. Patterson came back. He’d been running all over the hospital and spent lots of time on the phone trying to do what was best for Keira. He kept talking about her “precipitous” birth. He’d talked to Dr. Borghese at the NICU, who was concerned about Cytomegalo Virus or CMV. If, in fact, we were to find that Keira had this, she’d be hospitalized for 6 weeks for treatment. Ok. Still, this wasn’t registering as overly concerning for Jeff or me . Just an infection to be cleared up. Jeff and Patterson talked shop for awhile. The pediatrician’s concern for Keira was comforting. He was relying on God and praying.

So here it was, just 5 hours after her birth, I was being discharged from the hospital.  But I wasn’t really taking it all in; not really. I could still barely wrap my head around the fact that I’d given birth….and so dramatically (like a rocket launched from my___), let alone grasped the thought of my baby being only 4 pounds. Oh man. Well, ok. She has to go to the nursery? Oh man. Well, ok. Blood problem? Oh man. Well, ok. And on and on and on.

The weird thing was, once I’d put on my not-normal-but-not-maternity jeans, I realized I didn’t even feel like I’d had a baby. Not particularly achy or uncomfortable. No feeling like if I stood too long, my guts might drop onto the floor (as I described it to my husband after the boys). All the better, I suppose, for being discharge and having to run off to Boise; but, it just added to this strange, disoriented feeling I had. I asked Katie for a big hug and thanked her for all of her care and concern. She promised she’d be praying for us. Other staff members chimed in, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” “Just a precaution.” And with that I was swept out of there. No wheelchair for me. No baby.