It’s been a long time since I thought about those first few days with my daughter. Actually, that’s a lie. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about the encephalocele, that pesky bit of brain matter growing out of the back of her head. The still-growing scar on her misshapen skull makes damn sure of that.
It’s always peeking out, just below her curls.
I wonder what she’ll think of that, someday, when she realizes that she’s not quite like the other kids. I know there will come a day when she hates it, another when she accepts it, and another when she realizes just how grave a situation it was… and what a miracle it is that she is still around today.
I know enough, thanks to my nursing background, to know what an absolute miracle it is that she’s walking around, talking, and demanding that I paint her bedroom pink. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank her for showing me the way, for helping me find my light, and for using that light to help others.
She’s the reason we, this Motley Band, are here. She’s the sole reason that this site, which has helped so many, exists. Without her, I’d just be some blogger with a blog that I use to pontificate about the underrepresentation of kumquats in today’s media. I’d still be Your Aunt Becky, but I wouldn’t have done this. Any of this.
In her short life, she has altered the path of so many. In her three small years, she has done so much more than I ever will.
While I could sit here, raging against her birth defect – which has given me a wicked case of PTSD – I don’t. I celebrate it. I celebrate that one tiny bit of brain that has changed the course of my life forever.
Today, I ask you to share your stories of birth defects, birth trauma and birth injury. There are so many of us out there in the shadows, waiting to share how their lives have been changed with a few small words, a diagnosis.
The greatest stories remain untold, of course, not from a desire to tell them, but from a lack of an understanding ear.
In here, in this cozy library, fire crackling in the background, as we sit on overstuffed leather chairs, we are ready to lend you our ears.
Aunt Becky’s daughter, Amelia, is the sole reason that The Band exists. Amelia, like so many of our children, was born with a birth defect called an encephalocele. She’s gone on to vigorously beat neurosurgery and the odds stacked firmly against her.
So it’s time to Band Back Together for Birth Defects. Share your stories. Tell your tales. We need to learn about the birth defects that have touched YOUR life. Let’s rock out and tell the world OUR stories.
It’s YOUR turn, The Band!
She was born in September. It was hot. And in 12 weeks, we would be speaking a new language.
My baby was just 2 days old when we learned that our “perfect” world was not to be. My whole life I dreamed of motherhood. It’s what I wanted to do, more than anything. Be a good mom. Raise a family. Teach a little person about my faith.
Rewind to my college days – I was one of those students that changed majors more than once. First I was going to be a teacher; I majored in elementary education. Then after two summers directing a summer camp, I learned that wasn’t really for me. I wasn’t a fan of the parental drama.
Then I was an accounting major. I was going to be a CPA. Then I realized I needed more and ended up an accounting minor with a business administration major in both finance and marketing.
But none of that told me what I wanted to do with my life.
All I cared about was that someday I was going to get to be a mom.
I married my high school sweetheart. We’ve been together since 1992. We got married. Got jobs and got ready to have the “perfectly perfect normal life” that we’d always planned. God has a funny sense of humor sometimes.
And then almost 3 years after we got married, 11 years after we first met, we had Natalie.
And then in 2 days, our world was rocked.
Her bilirubin level of 22 just would not go down.
Our family doctor made the decision to send her to a bigger hospital in a bigger city. He told us that his ego was small enough that he knew that she could get better care and more answers there. The ambulance drove away, and we felt terribly alone. She was whisked away to a NICU and our baptism into a world of medicine was begun.
Our baptism was truly begun with a Baptism.
Natalie was taken to a NICU in a town an hour away from where she was born.
My baby sister Bridget was taken from the same hospital to an ICU just 21 years before, after she was born. She never returned home.
I know that was on my dad’s mind.
My baby sister was born with Transposition of the Great Vessels. She lived 7 days. She was operated on by a fantastic surgeon, who just happened to be the very same surgeon who would perform our daughter Natalie’s very first surgery, a cholangiogram.
The surgeon did his fellowship at Children’s Memorial in Chicago. This same place where Natalie would someday have her liver transplant.
So many coincidences…
Our NICU surgeon made the comment to us that is the title of this entry, “We think it’s Biliary Atresia, but that’s really bad so hopefully that’s not it…”
I don’t hold a single ounce of ill will toward the man. Natalie’s case confused everyone.
She was born with a gallbladder. Albeit a shriveled, ugly, non-working gallbladder. But a gallbladder, nonetheless. And that’s just not common in Biliary Atresia.
In “classic” biliary atresia, by the time most kids are born, their bile duct structure (gallbladder included) has shriveled up and is not working. But Natalie was born 5 weeks early, and it’s a progressive disease – meaning it gets worse as time goes by.
Back to my dad. He’d seen things end badly for his child. I know he had his grandbaby’s soul in mind when he told me that we needed to baptize her.
I am a Catholic.
New babies = Baptism is second nature for me. But the reality of this was too much to bear. I’d had the story of Bridget’s birth and death memorized. I was 4 when she died. Her death is my very first memory. Her death prepared me for my future role, of that I am now certain. But in that moment, I could not face it.
Here I was 2 days after the birth of my child.
I’d had pre-eclampsia. I was induced just two days before following 35 weeks of pregnancy. I was a swollen, puffy blob, having gained 30 pounds in the last month of my pregnancy alone. My husband said that the moment I gave birth to our daughter, my blood pressure had skyrocketed to 250/204. No joke. I was given magnesium to prevent a stroke or a seizure.
My mind was so fuzzy.
I was still in shock.
I wanted my “normal” life back!
I was in denial.
This wasn’t happening.
Why was my dad suggesting that we baptize my baby? Did he think she was going to die? I dug my heels in. (At least I tried to. I could only fit my fat feet into a chewed up pair of black sandals – that my German Shepherd had gotten ahold of.)
So my dad did the good dad thing. He did the responsible thing. He overruled me.
He called our dear friend, the priest. He had been the priest at our church when Jason and I met (we met at church, have I mentioned that?). In walked my dad and the priest, through the sliding NICU doors and over to Natalie’s bassinet. I watched it in slow motion. I remember it in slow motion. I don’t even think I have any pictures of the moment that is forever etched in my mind.
At the time of Natalie’s first surgeries, we had not created a website for our kid, Facebook was not around, and MySpace was a name I called my bedroom. What I am saying is that I did not document my thoughts and feelings at that time, the way that I do now. Not that you would have wanted me to. You see, for the first 3 weeks of Natalie’s life, we lived in our home and visited our baby in the NICU.
We did not know in the beginning that Biliary Atresia would be Natalie’s final diagnosis. She began her stay in the NICU under the UV lights, like any other jaundice case. We’d work on “normal” things, like trying to get her to eat. The first day it was 15 ml every 3 hours, then 20ml, then we finally worked up to a whopping 30 ml. I was encouraged, cheered on even, to keep breastfeeding. And so I did. It gave me a purpose. A sense of control.
And when you can’t control anything, you’ll control that one thing with everything you’ve got.
I took to it like a champ. Strike that. I took to pumping like a champion dairy cow. I focused on finding ways to increase my milk production levels. I found special teas marketed themselves as “Mother’s Milk” tea. My loving husband was my biggest advocate. We’d walk down a long hall, into some section of the hospital that was no longer in use, except for the rare nursing mother pumping session. There was a room with 3 old chairs, a sink, paper towels and soap (for keeping supplies clean) and outlet. Not much more, except for some posters donated by a La Leche League USA. I’d plug my Medela Pump into the wall, take a seat on the old metal chair that was missing chunks of vinyl on the seat, and watch the milk rise in the bottles, feeling victorious as the ounces would climb higher and higher, knowing this was for my girl. The aches I felt, sitting hunched over, were worth it. This was for Natalie. This was making her stronger, this I could do.
After a few days, they did a full blood work-up. Her GGT level was around 1700 (normal is 5 – 55), letting the doctors know that something else was wrong.
They’d take her for an ultrasound. “Inconclusive.” She was born with a gallbladder, after all, and was stumping them.
After this happened 3 times, she had a HIDA scan, and then an open cholangiogram and also a biopsy, all on the day that she turned 2 weeks old.
That’s when our surgeon met with us and drew on a paper towel what we were looking at.
He had opened Natalie up, injected dye, and then tilted the table to watch the flow of the dye. And that’s when he said that he hoped that this wasn’t Biliary Atresia. He and the Pediatric GI attending to us in the NICU, both referred us to a wonderful team of doctors at Children’s Memorial in Chicago. And in the meantime, the biopsy slides were sent to Mayo clinic.
Mayo’s answer came back “Biliary Atresia.” But all other local doctors disagreed. So we got the slides back and took them with us to Children’s Memorial.
When we arrived in Chicago, it was like no place we’d ever been. There were bright colors everywhere. There were multiple waiting rooms with lively fish swimming in tanks. We were escorted to an examination room on the first floor. We thought that we must have been in the wrong place. There were no plaques or diplomas oh the wall. We met two doctors and told them we’d hear the term “breastfeeding jaundice.” The awesome doc, the head of the pediatric gastroenterology at the hospital, gave me a look like I’d just crawled out of a cave. “That is a myth. We’ve disproved it.” OK, I thought. Not going down THAT road with him. I had just had my first lecture by a genius, and I wasn’t a fan of lectures. But it let me know that we were in the right place. They knew their stuff. And above all else, they forbid me to feel guilty.
The fellow (also a doctor, so many levels of hierarchy at the hospital) took the slides and reviewed them. He asked the genius doctor to review them. Their first review said that she may have Cystic Fibrosis. They said it just did not present like “typical biliary atresia.” And so, sweat tests were done = “negative” was the answer. Genetic tests were sent away, and those took 6 weeks to get back. 6 long weeks of desperate waiting. The results came back negative.
After we had left the NICU, we waited for the other shoe to drop. We were still waiting. We waited for the bad news that we knew would come. Every inconclusive answer left me feeling more and more frantic. Genius doctor had told us that for a Kasai Procedure, the procedure to treat Biliary Atresia, to be most successful it must be done by the time the child is 12 weeks old.
The clock kept ticking.
Just a few days later we returned to Children’s and during a follow-up exam, Natalie happened to have a dirty diaper. Genius doctor took one look at it and re-diagnosed her with Biliary Atresia.
Who knew the answer was in the poop?
She was admitted and had another biopsy; it was again inconclusive. The kid is consistent. She then had another cholangiogram, this time a percutaneous type, which was then followed by a Kasai Operation on December 19 of that year. She was 11 weeks old. We’d gotten her surgery in by the time she turned 12 weeks.
Her new surgeon (also a genius), called hers a case of “correctable Biliary Atresia.” We’d learn later that things are not always what they seem and rarely are they as simple sounding as something called “correctable.” But, for the moment, we had an answer.
She got to come home on Christmas Eve.
Little would we know that within a year she would be listed for a liver transplant. I could not have guessed at this point that when she turned 17 months old that I would be giving part of my life to her.
Liberty Ann born March 30, 2011 and died on April 19, 2011.
Ally’s Son: Collin
Collin: born on August 9th, 2008. He passed away 30 minutes later from cardiac arrest after an emergency c-section due to a placental abruption.
Nicholas, born December 14, 2005, died April 19, 2006 from SIDS.
Max Corrigan, born November 14, 1987 and relinquished to adoption on November 18, 1987.
Brianna Ann 3/19/2018, car accident – donated the gift of life to 5 people through organ donation
Bryce Philip born May 26, 2009 and died September 1, 2009 due to SIDS
Ashton Karol, stillborn on February 24, 2010 at 17 weeks.
Addison Leah, June 13, 2008, accidental death.
Jessica and Mark’s Daughter:
Hadley Jane, born October 9, 2001 and died October 11, 2007.
Halsey Douglas Dukes December 31, 2016, Halsey passed from hemophaygocytic lymphohistiocytosis (HLH)
Halcyon Grayson Dukes was born September 1, 2011 Halcyon failed to develop after 9 weeks
Jake, born August 14, 2005 died August 27, 2005 due to prematurity and hydrops.
Sawyer, born November 17, 2009 died December 26, 2009. His cause of death has not been determined because he is part of a study at the Mayo clinic for heart arrhythmias – SIUDS (unexplained sudden infant death)
Cullen, September 11, 2010, stillbirth.
Brian Vitale, accidental death, September 4, 2007 – June 3, 2010. We miss him more and more each day.
Patrick, born April 10, 1977, Adoption
Sophia Lu Boudreau, born December 21, 2006 and died October 9, 2007 from SIDS.
Rebecca and TJ’s son:
Rafe Theobald Calvert, born on October 11th, 2009 at 26 weeks. Spent 3 months in the NICU and underwent an intestinal obstruction repair. He was released on January 11th, 2010 and we brought him home for 6 weeks. He passed away at 4 and a half months old from SIDS on February 25th, 2010.
The Stamm’s Daughter:
Adrienne Mae, May 7, 2006, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Nathan Michael King, died from SIDS November 2008.
Kendra, April 23, 2005 to March 24, 2006. Died from Jacobsen Syndrome.
My son is now 10 weeks old. He has a congenital heart defect and severe birth defects, limb differences with all four limbs affected.
I’m here now because I have a story to tell, a story with infinite ellipses and a looming question mark. It’s just the beginning of a story, really.
But does the story about my new son start the day he was born? Or the week before when we learned he had profound defects and would likely not survive? Or the start of my pregnancy when I learned he was one of three, two of whom did not remain viable?
I think to get the most understanding of who this boy is, what he means to us, I have to back up even more.
My older children are almost thirteen and nearly six. I joke about the seven year age gap being one of the “best kept secrets” of family planning, but there really wasn’t any planning involved. The big space, while wonderfully beneficial and I wouldn’t change it now for anything, wasn’t the result of careful decision making, but rather inexplicable secondary infertility. I always imagined myself as the wisecracking mom to a passel of feisty kids. I wanted the rowdy chaos of a big family. But my quirky biology didn’t comply.
I lost a pregnancy early in the second trimester, about four and a half years ago. I’ve had a number of very early miscarriages, which were disappointing, but nothing like the devastation of losing one after crossing into the proverbial “safe zone.” That loss resulted in lingering complications. It was a difficult time to live in my own body.
So when I found myself surprisingly expecting back in the early spring of this year, it was hard to believe. It was hard to tell myself that it was true, let alone to tell anyone else. It was too fantastic.
I felt like maybe I could protect the idea of it and make it stay real somehow by not breathing it aloud to others. And then I started bleeding. And I bled constantly for over a month, during which I learned I was losing two tiny embryos. How ironic that years of wonky fertility would find me knocked up spontaneously with three, each in a separate sac? But the irony turned around on itself, like a mobius strip, and it was a pregnancy loss after all.
There were weeks of not knowing if it would be a total loss or not.
When the bleeding stopped, there was one scrappy baby, holding on in there.
And suddenly, I was the caretaker of this tremendous and wonderful news. It was too unreal and too thrilling to me to want to share the news.
How could I tell anyone that I was pregnant and have them possibly understand what that could mean to me? Of course, such knowledge comes up organically, in conversations and double-takes (is she or isn’t she?), and it didn’t stay my sweet secret for long. But, even once the word started getting out, I didn’t make a deal of it.
I didn’t tell Facebook (also, fuck Facebook. while we’re at it.) and I didn’t make any grand announcements.
You’d think if I was so happy about it, I’d want to sing a song from the roof and do a mass postcard mailing, but it was just too precious to expect anyone else to appreciate, and I felt very protective.
Once the high drama of the first trimester passed, it was a long dull slog through ill-fitting pants and raspberry leaf tea and heartburn.
I had delightfully warm and chatty visits with my homebirth midwife; we organized the house and checked off an industrious home improvement To Do list; there was only completely glad anticipation.
I had what I hoped would be my last prenatal appointment on November 2nd, which was also my “due date”. My midwife didn’t feel certain about the baby’s position and had me zip down to an imaging clinic for a quick ultrasound. I had a lot of anxiety on the drive. I was down to the wire, for sure, and didn’t have any time to flip a breech baby.
The ultrasound tech saw right away that baby was head up. I sighed and tried to remain cool.
I’ve got this, I thought. Maybe the baby won’t have the exact birth we’d been planning, but it’ll be okay.
And then the tech asked me to wait in the room. I was confused by this, and called my husband. “Baby’s breech” I told him when he answered, “but it’s a baby in there, not, like a cat or something. I saw the head and I think the hands.” And then he asked me, “the right number of fingers?” And then I had to hang up quickly, the tech was coming back with someone else.
I was introduced, in that small dark ultrasound room, to an older man, the radiologist. He shook my hand and then blurted out, “Your baby has multiple abnormalities.”
He said the baby had deformed limbs, missing fingers, probably missing other parts. I could barely hear him from this whooshing sound suddenly throbbing in my head. I stood up and grabbed my bag. “I don’t know the words to say,” I remember saying. And that’s all I said. I walked out of the room, walked past the waiting area and said to my big girl, contentedly reading a book by a window, “We’re leaving now,” as I walked out the door.
I know by the time I got into the car I was crying. I know that I tried explaining to my daughter why I was crying, except I didn’t know. I know that I called my husband and somehow told him.
I know that my midwife called me and told me not to drive myself home. I know that I told her I’d be fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. Fine.
I know that I kept telling myself I can’t crash the car because I have to take care of my daughter.
I know that by the time I got home, about forty-five minutes away, my husband was also there.
I know that we left almost immediately to the city, where somehow I’d been fast-tracked into an appointment at a maternal fetal medicine clinic for a level II ultrasound and an amniocentesis to see what congenital birth defects that he had.
I know that I cried all the way there.
What happened next is we learned this baby we’d been expecting all along had “significant” and “profound” birth defects, in and out. We learned he was a boy.
We learned that he had syndromes that were considered “incompatible with life.”
Two days after that appointment, we had a consultation with a neonatologist and a meeting with the hospital ethics committee. Maybe you already knew that hospitals have ethics committees, but I did not. By this time, our baby’s file had been shared with a multitude of specialists who carefully analyzed his congenital birth defects.
The neonatologist told us that she did not think it would be unreasonable for us to proceed with an out-of-hospital birth. By which she meant, there is not a lot they can do for this baby, so maybe you just want to spend his last moments peacefully at home.
We were braced for the worst. The best was still very bad. Based on his rare and complex congenital birth defects, all best guesses determined that the likelihood of him having severe neurological impairment was very, very high.
Would he be able to eat?
The ethics committee gave us their veritable stamp of approval, entrusting us wholly with all decisions. We discussed how long we would continue support for our child? What kind of support? I learned the phrase “palliative care”.
There was one week in between my world falling apart and his birth. One week of such deep despair I won’t even begin to describe it. One week of waiting for him to be born so he could die and we could say goodbye.
One week of listening to Pearl Jam’s Just Breathe over and over and over again, like some kind of prayer.
Among our ethics committee approved plan was my insistence on avoiding a C-Section. I don’t suppose that the hospital sees a lot of vaginal breech births. Probably fewer Pitocin-induced vaginal breech births. I also was firm about refusing fetal monitoring. Did I want to hear the heartbeat of a baby who would not live?
And while my other babies were born triumphantly without pain relief of any kind, I assumed I would need something to get me through this dreadful thing I had to do. In the end, though, the drug made labor so hard and fast and intense, I was out of my mind with the hurt of it all and did not have time nor wits to request pain medication.
I say that not out of pride, for there is nothing to be proud about what was the darkest moment of my life, but just to illustrate what an unusual birth it was.
Everything about this boy has been unusual.
There was no tender welcoming a new life into the world. He was zipped across the hall, neonatologist and NICU nurses and cardiologist and geneticist and who the hell else at the ready, to check out his birth defects. I turned my head away and didn’t even want to see him go.
We heard him cry. It was a confusing sound. We thought he would need intubation. It was assumed that his heart defect would prohibit his lungs from working efficiently.
But he was crying.
And they brought him back to me. And they said he was healthy.
And I held his tiny broken body and I nursed him and he latched on better than my other babies latched on as newborns.
And I cried.
I cried because he wasn’t dead and I cried because he was alive. No one mentioned the possibility of leaving the hospital with a disabled baby. How do you even prepare for such a thing? There is no preparation. There is only disbelief.
His stay in the NICU was brief, just over a day, for monitoring. This little champ maintained a near perfect blood oxygen level, despite his heart defect. He’ll need surgery sooner than later to repair his broken heart. The pediatric cardiologist explained it as a common congenital defect, a routine surgery. But in my world, there is nothing common or routine about open heart surgery for a brand new baby.
Prior to this roller coaster, the most serious medical situation my family experienced was that time my daughter had stitches by her eye eleven years ago. How’s that for contrast?
How do I tell you about this baby?
I do not want the sum of him represented by what he is not, what he is missing, the challenges that await us.
But what else is there yet?
His issues are not minor. His bilateral leg condition alone occurs approximately once in every one million live births. He will never walk without serious, invasive surgeries and devices. Amputations. Prostheses.
Do you know what a mindfuck it is to hear such words about a newborn?
Can you feel the weight of this?
My big boy, the bouncy one, the easy-going one, the boy with the casual shrug of his shoulders, mentions his baby brother’s hands like it’s the most obvious, simple thing ever. “He only has three fingers on one hand,” he says, “and two fingers on the other one.” So matter of fact. No catch in his throat. No mourning the loss of future handprint turkeys or making the motions to so many kid songs.
I’m not there yet.
I’ve been looking at and loving on those tiny malformed hands for fourteen days now and it’s still hard for me, even as they tell me “it’s just mechanics” and “he’ll figure it out” and other encouraging platitudes.
I am usually so guarded and private. It’s out of character for me to share so much here, even as I’ve intentionally omitted specific diagnoses (a grouping of several, with no umbrella catch-all for them all together as of this point). But everything is different now. Since we’ve been home from the hospital, I’ve been hiding. A few people have met this surprising baby, but we haven’t yet left the house, save for doctor appointments.
I can’t hide indefinitely. I will have to be brave and bold enough to withstand whatever questions and curiousness occurs when the world meets Ulysses.
He looks an awful lot like his big sister did as a newborn. Same deep eyes, same frowny mouth. When he’s all wrapped up in a blanket, you would never know that he has such serious things going on. And I can assure you that he does not know. Everything else about him is just what you’d expect from any newly born babe. He squirms and fusses.
He makes those mysterious sleep smiles. He flails his arms when a loud sound startles him. His brain seems normal. Everything else about him seems normal.
There is nothing normal about our life now.
We have so many appointments scheduled. He has already had more doctors examine him than maybe my other two children, myself and my husband have ever had, all together. I don’t know how to get used to living such a highly medically managed lifestyle.
It’s been just three weeks since everything changed. So much information to process in such a short amount of time. I’ve blamed myself incessantly, even as I know there was nothing I did or did not do to cause this. That is the absolute truth, and yet, I worry that people will wonder… of course they will. People with murky knowledge of genetics, people who have grown lazy in their own good fortune, people who can’t possibly know how wanted and treasured this little baby has been all along.
Everyone’s delighted that he survived the birth, that he is thriving.
And yes! What a great outcome!
But now what?
Since I wrote that, we have laid out a plan for open heart surgery (soon) and orthopedic surgery (before his first birthday). He is growing plump and smiley.
I don’t like the word defect much. All of these children born with what we call “defects” are just perfect; they aren’t defective. She had a beautiful heart even though it had a deadly congenital defect in it that lead to her loss.They are the imperfectly stitched handbag sold at a discount. They are much more than their sickness or defect.
I used to think that birth defects only happened to babies of moms that were sick or did something, like smoke crack while pregnant, or to a family with a genetic history of congenital heart birth defects. Smoking crack was never my thing, and my family has no history of birth defects -especially congenital heart defects – so losing a baby to a heart defect wasn’t even on my radar. None of the babies in my family were in the NICU or really sick, and definitely none of these babies had ever died.
My daughter’s heart problems weren’t my fault. She might have been a sick baby, but it was something that happened at random.
So it’s time to Band Back Together for Birth Defects. Share your stories. Tell your tales. We need to learn about the birth defects that have touched YOUR life. Let’s rock out and tell the world OUR stories.
It’s YOUR turn, The Band!
I’ve only ever lurked on Band Back Together, but I feel like I need to tell my daughter’s story.
The pregnancy itself wasn’t bad, just the normal aches, pains, and nausea. Emotionally it was tough – there were issues found on ultrasounds, and my OB felt like it was her duty to present the worst-case scenario every time we spoke. I decided that if we had to hear bad news, I wanted it to be delivered by someone who was kind and knowledgeable, so we switched doctors and started seeing a maternal-fetal specialist.
He told us that there would be kidney issues when she was born, but nothing emergent.
My water broke 2 days before my due date. I had a good, quick labor. There was meconium in the amniotic fluid, but otherwise it went well. She was born just after midnight, with good Apgar scores. She weighed nearly nine pounds! She had no interest in nursing, and she wasn’t into the formula they offered, either. A couple hours later, her blood sugar started to drop, and then she stopped breathing. They took her to the NICU for observation. I’d worked a full day before my water broke, so by the time they took her away I had been awake for almost 24 hours. I was sent to a recovery room without my baby.
That day and the next are a blur. This was my first child, and I had no idea what to expect from a normal birth or a brand new baby. I only knew that this was not what I expected. I alternated between recovering in my room and sitting with my daughter in the NICU. She would barely take any food and kept even less down. There were multiple doctors coming in and out and multiple tests being done – blood draws, x-rays, upper and lower GI, etc.
Finally they determined that she had intestinal malrotation. That means her intestines were jumbled and twisted and not anchored in any way. If untreated or undiscovered, it quickly damages the bowels and then leads to death, essentially by starvation. Surgery was set for Friday night, the same time that I was to be released. I had no choice but to hand over my 3-day old baby to be intubated and placed under general anesthesia so that a surgeon could cut open and rearrange her guts.
My husband, my mom, my mother-in-law, and a close friend were with me during the surgery. Around midnight, the surgery was finally complete. They would only allow 2 people in the room with her at a time, so I stayed there while everyone else took turns coming in to see her. I can’t even describe how it felt to see the 3-inch incision across her tiny little belly. She had wires and tubes everywhere, and we were not allowed to hold her. I could tell she was in pain – when on a ventilator, the vocal cords don’t make noise, but I could see her screaming.
My mom and dear friend knew what kind of comfort I needed – they just held me and murmured words of consolation while I tried in vain to keep it together. My mother-in-law was not so in tune with what I needed – she wanted to touch her, and exclaim over her, and it was all just too much for me. I was completely helpless and broken. I had my husband make everyone leave, and then I left, too. I left my silently screaming baby in the care of total strangers, Band. At that moment, I was certain that the nurses could do more for her than I could. Now, when I look back, I am unable to forgive myself for leaving her.
That night turned out to be the beginning of a long journey. She had 2 more surgeries and lots more testing; we found out that she has a genetic anomaly that seemed to be the cause of her birth defects. She was 9 weeks old when we were finally allowed to take her home – just a few days after my first Mother’s Day.
My daughter is now almost 3 years old. She has very low muscle tone and is still quite delayed, and she is a beautiful, happy, easygoing little girl. She wears her battle scars with no complaint, and despite my failings, she loves me completely.