Rosie's First Birthday

-From December 5, 2011-

I woke up at 3:01 AM on the dot this morning.  That is precisely the minute on this day last year that I awoke, stood up and started walking to the bathroom.  I can hardly remember who I was then, but I remember parts of the next few days down to the most intricate of details.  And yet, still, there are whole chunks of time that I have completely lost from my memory.

I had fallen asleep on the couch that night after spending the day recovering from the stomach bug that had ravaged our house.  I was better, but still very tired.  I rolled over with my huge pregnant belly, got up from the couch and felt the feeling that every non-pregnant girl knows – warm, liquid was coming out of me.  I thought maybe that my water had broken, but then I saw that it was blood.  And there was lots of it.  In the fog of the early morning hours, my brain tried to compute what it was that was happening.  Adrenaline started flowing as I realized that this shouldn’t be happening because I was most definitely very pregnant. 

Pat still remembers being awoken by me that morning.  I don’t remember waking him.  He says that I was composed and firm.  He says that I kept calmly explaining to him what was happening.  That he had to get up and that we were headed to the hospital.  I don’t even remember.  I remember showering off, thinking that I cleaned up the bathroom (only to learn later that the people who came to watch Charlie re-cleaned it because they thought it looked like a crime scene) and waiting by the back door willing my belly to move with a baby’s kick.

At a certain point in my pregnancy with all of the bleeding I had experienced and all of the roller coaster-like doctors’ visits, I had meditated and prayed to the soul within me.  One night, in the bedroom where my one-year-old daughter now sleeps, I talked out loud to her.  I felt a little crazy – hell, I was a little crazy – while I told her that I could deal with it if she had to leave.  That it would break my heart, but I would carry on.  I asked her then, at about 18 weeks pregnant, to leave now if she knew she was going to have to go.  I told her that I didn’t think I could make it through losing her if she left later on.  After that night, I felt a strong sense that she would stay with me.  That whatever it took to get her here might be rough, but that she would pull through regardless.

But when I saw the blood everywhere, I thought that my prayer that had felt answered was only a wish that hadn’t come true.  I knew that I had to hurry to the hospital, but I was so afraid of what we would learn.

The magnitude of that situation last year sits on me this morning more than usual.  And yet, it feels almost silly because upstairs right now is my baby girl asleep in her crib.  She smiles, laughs, jokes, eats, claps, talks, crawls and almost-walks.  I wish I could travel back in time and hug my pregnant self as I frantically showered off the blood to get into the car to go to the hospital.  I would whisper, “It’s all going to be o.k.”

But, of course, that pregnant mama wouldn’t have totally believed me.  I knew that placental abruptions could equal disaster for all, even though I didn’t yet know that that was what was happening to me.  I knew that gushing blood six weeks before my due date wasn’t what we wanted to see.  I could see the concern etched in all of the nurses’, midwives’ and doctors’ faces as they tried to piece together what might be happening and what the best way to proceed was.  I could see when their concern changed to a controlled panic and then almost to pity when they worried that things could be bad for my baby girl.

I remember that the bleeding stopped by the time I reached the hospital and my explanation of how much blood there had been didn’t alarm them too much.  But then, about an hour later, I felt the familiar feeling of blood; I sat up.  It poured out.  And the nurse became worried.  The high-risk doctor and my own doctor had just left my room.  Both came back quickly now.  Within minutes, we were signing release forms and Pat was donning scrubs.

I remember the look of worry in the eyes of my midwife – a woman who has seen more births than most – as she sat with me while the doctor prepped.  I remember her eyes darting to the floor of the operating room when my doctor asked how long this amount of blood had been coming out of me.  I remember that the anesthesiologist was kind to me as I asked question after question about what was happening next.

I heard a woman counting gauze pads and scalpels and realized they were keeping track so that nothing would be forgotten inside of me (clearly, I have watched way too many "ER" episodes to be conscious enough to have that thought while on an operating table in an emergency).  There were so many people in what felt like a tiny room and there was so much scurrying and hurrying.  And then Pat appeared.  I asked my doctor how it was going.  She said, “It’s going well because you have no fat to cut through.”  I’ll remember that line until the day I die, or at least every time I step on a scale or decide not to go for a walk.  And I'll take that second doughnut, thank you very much.

I remember just wanting to hear a cry.  It took long; surgery takes long.  Finally, I heard a muffled cry, but it quickly went silent as my baby girl coughed up the blood that she had been swimming in inside of me.

Pat went over to her then.  He left my side for hers, just the way I would have asked him to had I been aware enough of what to ask for.  Later, he told me that he said good-bye to her then.  There was a lot of blood and not a lot of clear breaths being taken by her and so he touched her amidst the doctors working, rubbed her and told her that it was ok if she needed to go now.  No one thought he was overreacting, which is to say that these moments were extremely precarious.  Many of them are a blur; some will never be.

I know now when that took place because I remember him coming back to me with wet eyes that hid something that I didn’t want to know.  He said she was ok, but everything about him belied the truth.  Like a child who pretends to believe in Santa long after she knows the truth, I, too, asked nothing further about my girl. 

I understood later that these moments were when she was in the most peril, when things could have gone very wrong and this whole story wouldn’t have ended with the facts that she now says “Ho, ho, ho” when you ask what Santa says or “Owl” when she spots a picture of any owl-like bird within a ten-foot radius.

Learning to share the task of turning the page... not sure who is teaching whom.

***

All of these memories flooded back in throughout the day today.  The chaplain coming into our room, the social worker – all of the people that you don’t want to see on the day your daughter is born.  With each of those frightening memories, though, there are beautiful ones.  The NICU nurse who put warm blankets on my shoulders when I went up to nurse Rose.  The people who brought us food while we were in the hospital.  The people who took care of Charlie so that we could focus on Rose.

Rosie, for as long as I am alive, you will hear the story of your birth with all of its knotty details every year on this day.  Some years, you will listen intently; other years, you will roll your eyes.  Oh, god, how I wished last year at this time that you would roll your eyes in annoyance at me someday.  Yes, you will get sick of the story until, if you decide and are lucky enough, to have a child of your own.  Then you will, I think, understand on some level the rollercoaster of fear, despair, anxiety, triumph, elation and, finally – oh thankfully, we made it to finally – happiness that we were on with you as we welcomed you into this world.

Your birthday feels like a birthday for me, too, for I am certain that I was born again on that day.  I became a mother on that day of the most primal variety fighting for you, learning from you, listening and waiting for every breath.

Week One of Rose's Life

Week 52 of Rose's Life

I learned that some times really bad situations, amazingly, can still turn out something really good.  I learned to believe.  I learned to find the good.  I learned, as I looked around that NICU, that you can always find someone who has it worse than you in some way, and, though that shouldn’t be your barometer for how you are feeling, if you need a kick in the ass, head in to any hospital anywhere where a child who is loved is sick.  Look at those parents.  If you want to see the face of grief, of disaster, look into the eyes of those parents who would do anything to have their child come out alive and well.  Then, go back out in the world and live.

I learned that having people who really want to help can make life so much easier to live.  I learned, too, what it means to really help someone in need: not to do the thing that you want to do for them, but to do the thing that they need you to do for them.  I learned that some people that you think will be good at this will suck at it.  And, others that you would never have asked before for anything will come to your rescue when you least expect it.

I learned that your Dada is the best Dada in the whole world for you because he, too, accepted being born again on that day.  He became a part of the agonizing group of fathers who have had to say good-bye to their babies.  He did it alone, without me, because I was too out of it to know that that is where we stood.  He left my side for yours because he knew that you needed him more.  He became one of the miraculous few to join that group, and then – luckily, thankfully – have his membership relegated to the “Almost” roster.  He had to say good-bye to you, but was able to say hello again.  Don’t think he doesn’t think about that every day when you wake at dawn.  It makes early wake-ups feel downright beautiful… sometimes.

He, like I, will never forget the lessons learned from the couple of days that we spent in the land of “this might not work out all right.”  We would be complete fools if we missed, or more likely, forgot, all of the love and hope and faith and connection that take some people a lifetime to understand.  You put us on the fast track to grasping and focusing on the things that really matter in life.  We might have wished for an easier way for these realizations, but we know that there are harder ways that we were lucky enough to avoid.

My smile looks like it's about to bounce off my face, but you know what?  I was that happy to be there with her.

Today, you raced around the house on all fours pulling yourself up to standing anywhere that was somewhat stable whether it was a wall, an oven door or your brother’s head.  You walked while I held your fingers.  You played with toys, you laughed, you talked.  You said “Mama” and “Hi Dada” and “Arlie” and all of the other words that ramble off of your tongue regularly.  I should marvel at all of this everyday, but I have already forgotten that none of this was a given on this night a year ago.  You make me forget because you just jumped into our world and moved on. 

I’m following after you, sweetheart.  Here I come.