Look After You
Authors: Elena Matthews
Look After You
by
Elena Matthews
Copyright © Elena Matthews
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations.
Cover photograph ©iStock (by Getty images).
To my grandma who passed away on the 29
th
May 2013 and to my beautiful niece, Caitlin, NICU miracle baby, born twelve weeks premature, who fought and survived. My little superhero…
September 2013
Two pounds, two ounces. That’
s how much my baby girl weighed when she was born.
That was ten hours ago.
This wasn’t supposed to happen yet. I was supposed to have another thirteen weeks of pregnancy before I gave birth to my baby. I was supposed to have her nursery painted in pink with teddy bears surrounding the walls, her crib assembled with gorgeous soft blankets. I was supposed to have a baby shower, being showered with gifts and guessing the size of my baby. I was supposed to have time to come up with a name or at least discuss the possibility of names with my boyfriend. I was supposed to work up until my maternity leave, have at least a month of waddling around like a penguin and complaining about back pain or Braxton Hicks contractions.
I wasn’t supposed to gi
ve birth to her by C-section ten hours ago without my birthing partner and my boyfriend, without any warning, without understanding why my body had decided it wasn’t fucking good enough to carry my baby full term, without having her in my arms like most other moms do the minute their baby is born, without…without…without…fuck!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A nurse is wheeling me into the neonatal intensive care unit to see my baby girl. This is the second time I will get to see her since she was born. Well, the first time didn’t even last ten seconds before she was immediately taken away from me so the doctors could work on her breathing and get her ventilated. I couldn’t believe how small she was, but she was a baby, a real life baby with ten fingers and ten toes.
My baby.
Since the moment I took that pregnancy test and the window turned into a smiley face, she was a tiny thing inside of me, just a little blip. A couple of months later she was bigger than a blip, she was a bump, but I never really thought of her as a baby until I actually laid eyes on her beautiful face. Does that make me a terrible mother? I feel like one. I wasn’t ready, and I should have been; I should have been prepared for this. I was so naïve about the preterm side of pregnancy and birth; that it hadn’t even crossed my mind. But why should it have? Every parent hopes and wishes for the perfect pregnancy with zero complications and for the perfect baby. Nobody ever contemplates the worst possible pregnancy outcome until it actually happens to you.
The only thing that had worried me was the morning sickness, and surprisingly that hadn’t really bothered me.
God, I would do anything to swap giving birth to my premature baby with fucking morning sickness. Anything.
The nurse continues to wheel me through the NICU hallway, which consists of clinical white walls and huge glass windows that lead into the NICU rooms. There are so many incubators, each holding small and sick babies attached to tiny oxygen tubes, high dependency medical equipment and monitors.
I’m a little shocked. Considering this is a specialized ward for small and sick babies, I was expecting it to be full of crying babies and frantic doctors and nurses running around, but it is quiet, tranquil even, with the exception of the constant beeping sounds I can hear in the background.
My eyes start to fill up with panicked tears when we finally come to a stop at a pair of double doors. The nurse moves to stand in front of me with a sad smile and retrieves a small bottle of sanitizer from her pocket and puts a small amount into my palms. I massage the liquid into my hands, ensuring every inch of skin has been covered.
“Okay, before we go in, I need to warn you that when you see your daughter, it will be a shock, but you have to remember that the tubes you see are there to save her life, they will not harm her. The sounds from the machines are alarming at first, but you’ll get used to them after a while.” She pauses briefly before asking, “Are you ready?”
She looks to me, expecting some type of response, but all I can do is sob. She pushes me through the double doors and wheels me to my baby girl. Even though the nurse just warned me about what I would see, it doesn’t stop me from slamming my
hands over my mouth in shock.
“
I know sweetheart, I know it’s upsetting,” she whispers softly while placing her hand to my back, patting me gently against my hospital gown. Upsetting? Is this woman serious? This is the worst moment of my life. I stay silent as I continue to sob while I take in every detail of my daughter. She is so tiny, she can’t be much bigger than the size of my hand. She is naked except for the diaper that covers nearly every inch of her body. Her body looks almost transparent. You can literally see the network of blood vessels underlining her skin. She is lain on her back. One of her tube covered arms is lay beside her tiny body, the other arm is bent, with her little hand covering her face. That arm is covered with a bandage with a white foam board holding it horizontal. She has a breathing tube in her mouth, with strapping that sits just below her nose and across her cheeks, keeping the tube in place. Then the further I look down her body, I notice she has two blue pads with tubes coming out that have been placed on her protruding chest and two separate long thin tubes coming from her belly button.
I don’t realize how hysterical my cries are until the nurse holds out a box of tissues in front of me. I smile up to her sadly as I accept a tissue and begin to wipe my eyes.
“I’m sorry, I must look such a mess,” I mumble in mid sob.
“It
’s okay sweetheart, I can’t even begin to imagine what you must be going through. Would you like a glass of water?”
I can only nod. The lump in my throat that has formed through the tears has literally restricted my speech. Before I even realize she has gone, she holds out a plastic cup full of water, and I immediately start chugging it, hoping it may calm me down. After a couple of minutes, I begin to calm down, and the rational side of me starts to slowly return.
“Sorry…I…this…it’s just a bit of a shock,” I say, feeling overwhelmed with my surroundings and the sight of my daughter. The nurse nods politely at me.
“I understand. It is very daunting. Let me give you a little run down, it might ease your nerves a little.”
She begins to explain the mechanics of the tube and strapping that covers the majority of my daughter’s face. “The tube you see in her mouth is called an endotracheal tube, and that is attached to the ventilator. It helps blow supplementary oxygen gently into her lungs and with your baby being so undeveloped and immature, she becomes tired and stops breathing more easily. The ventilator support is essential at this stage as it takes the pressure off her. The ventilator gives two types of pressures that help her to breathe. The PIP, which stands for Peak Inspiratory Pressure, inflates the lungs and the PEEP, which stands for Positive End Expiratory Pressure, helps keep her lungs open and prevents them from collapsing.”
She pauses for a brief moment before proceeding. “Did the doctor explain how your daughter has Infant Respiratory Distress Syndrome?” I nod, remembering the conversation I had with a neonatologist earlier in the evening.
“She was given surfactant replacement in her lungs within the first two hours of her life and her lung capacity has improved dramatically. It is likely she won’t need the power of the ventilator for much longer.”
I gasp in shock. “Will she be able to breathe on her own?” I frown at the realization of that. Surely that can
’t be right. “I mean she is still so tiny.”
“No,
” the nurse says. “She will still need consistent help with her breathing during her development. When her lungs are strong enough not to need the strength of the ventilator we will put her onto the CPAP, which stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure.” I nod as I allow the information to sink in. She continues. “You see the monitor to your left?” I glance over to a vital sign monitor, and notice how the lines continuously move across the screen. That monitors her heart and respiratory rate, pulse, blood pressure and oxygen saturations. As you can see, she has two umbilical lines coming from her navel.” She opens up the door to the portholes of the incubator, places her hands within the small space, gently takes apart her diaper and points to two individual umbilical lines. “One is an umbilical arterial catheter, which measures arterial blood pressure and allows arterial blood sampling. The second line is an umbilical venous catheter, where she is given the intravenous fluids and medication.” The nurse follows her finger along another wire that is passed through the nose. “And this line here is a nasogastric feeding tube. The thin tube is passed up the nose, down the esophagus and into the stomach. At the moment she isn’t strong enough to feed through conventional methods, so she will be given her nutrition and oral medication through this tube until she is strong enough for the breast or bottle.”
I stare at my daughter, dumbfounded at the all of the information I have had to take in, in such a short amount of time. I feel even more overwhelmed than I did when I first walked in. It’s all too much.
Panic begins to squeeze heavily against my chest, and it makes it almost impossible for me to breathe as more tears continue to run down my face.
How did this fucking happen? I took all of the vitamins, did the regular yoga, everything that I was advised to do. I didn’t even indulge in a glass of wine for Christ’s sake. I was the perfect mother to be. How could this have happened?
“This is all my fault, but I don’t understand how, I did everything right…I did everything right…I don’t understand...” I gasp, as sobs rack through me. I continue to fight for each breath I take and through my panic I grip tightly to my gown, clenching it through with my fingers, trying to gasp for air, grasping for something, anything.
The nurse kneels down beside me and places her hand against my arm with her gentle touch.
“Oh, sweetheart this isn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself. Your baby needs to you be strong. She needs her mommy to be strong. Do you hear me? I understand how upsetting this is but you need to focus on the fact that she is here and fighting for her life. She is in the best place at the moment. Of course, it’s no womb, but we are definitely the next best thing. Just have faith. We are doing everything in our power to keep her alive,” she says with a quiet hush, and surprisingly, I begin to calm down.
“Okay. Strong. Best place. Have faith. I can do that,” I say, repeating the words as a chanting mantra through my head, over and over again. I must be in some kind of trance because when I look at the nurse, I notice she is staring directly at me, awaiting an answer.
“I’m sorry did you say something?”
“Would you like to be alone with your daughter, Ava?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
I watch my daughter in awe, taking in her delicate little hands as they slowly stretch, changing direction trying to get into a comfortable position. Once I
’m alone, I wheel myself closer to her. My breath catches as her little toes wriggle slightly, and she kicks her legs out to the side. This happens two more times before she finds a comfortable position and stills. She looks so peaceful, so fragile but at the same time strong. I can see that she is already a little fighter, and it’s breathtaking.
“Hey
, baby,” I whisper. I’m not quite sure if she can hear me, or not but that doesn’t stop me from talking. “I’m your momma. You’ve put me through a lot during the past sixteen hours, baby girl, but that’s okay. I’m sorry, baby, I wish more than anything that you were still inside of me, keeping you safe, but it’s okay, we can make it work. I’ve tried to call Daddy, but he’s fighting the bad guys so you won’t get to meet him for a while yet. He will be devastated that he missed this.”
I bite down on my bottom lip and force the tears back, contemplating where her daddy is right now. I already knew he wouldn’t be here for the birth, but it still kills me that he doesn’t know his daughter has been born. I am unable to gain strength of my tears and the viscous circle of crying begins.
Sebastian is on a nine-month tour in Afghanistan. It’s his third tour. He is a front line infantry officer. He has been there for four months already, so I still don’t get to see him for another five months. That’s five months without seeing his daughter. It was hard to accept when I thought he would be away for the first two months of her life, but now it’s even worse. It feels like a life sentence. I just wish I didn’t have to do this alone, without him. I miss him so damn much. I need him desperately. I called the American Red Cross earlier on, and they are currently trying to relay a message to Sebastian over in Afghanistan, but they told me it could take between twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I hate how I have to wait, but I don’t have any other choice. It isn’t as if I can call him on his cell. I’m lucky if I get to speak to him once a week and even then it’s brief.
I hadn’t planned to have the birth alone. Caleb; my best friend, was supposed to be my birthing partner but as luck would have it he was flying over the Atlantic Ocean for a business trip to London. I managed to get hold of him when I was in labor, and he is currently on standby for a flight back to the states. I wanted to tell him not to rush back, but when the tears forced through, I realized I needed him.
I am suddenly startled when a doctor in a white coat joins me and takes hold of my daughter’s chart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Jacobson.” My heart is pounding in my chest, and it takes me a moment to compose myself. When I look up to him, I can’t keep my eyes off him. He has the most unusual green eyes I have ever seen.