Part 2: Darkness Descends

Being in the maternity ward without my baby was surreal.  The nurses put me in a room farther down the hall so that I could not hear the new mothers who chose to keep their doors open.  Newborn cries were muffled and for the most part quiet.  Visitors were few; I believe not many people came because they didn't want to upset me.  On the first day of Hannah's life, we were not allowed to hold her.  I don't even remember holding her after she was born, although I was told by many that I did.  Hannah had to be on CPAP-a type of breathing therapy that uses mild air pressure to help keep the airways open.  I remember seeing her for the first time, thinking, "Oh my God.  My daughter looks like Bane from Batman."

A lot of memories run through my mind as I stare at this picture.  For one, not many pictures were taken of this day.  A day that was supposed to be filled with happiness and cuddles and family.  This, a picture of Hannah's first breaths and a picture of Hannah's tiny foot is all we have of this day.  It brings tears to my eyes to think of  showing her this picture one day.  I don't know why I get so emotional about it.  Maybe it's because it looks so scary.  I can remember thinking to myself, "I got steroid shots at 28 weeks.  Why didn't they work? Why?"  I blamed myself for this.  But the blame was not on me.  Hannah's breathing problems were not because she was born 3.5 weeks early.  It was not because her gestational age was wrong or because she had neurological problems like we had been informed may be the case.

Hannah has laryngomalacia.  A common airway defect that affects 60% of infants.  There is no known cause, no genetic ties.  It just happens.

But we did not know this yet. The doctors did not know this yet.  They just assumed she was born early and had some fluid in her lungs.

Two days later, we left for home.  The day we left, a nurse informed us that she had tried feeding Hannah some formula and Hannah had turned blue on her.  It is common for preemies to have eating issues, but they were very surprised that a 36 weeker was having such difficulty. We left Boston with heavy hearts.  I cried the entire way home.  Again, emotions are just flooding back and I find myself sitting here in tears as I remember the walk out of the NICU.  I couldn't even kiss her goodbye.  It felt so final, as though I was never going to see my baby again.  I was unbelievably sore (who knew a five pound baby could do so much damage down there) and incredibly swollen (if I thought I was swollen during the last week of my pregnancy, I was severely wrong).  Walking into our apartment left me feeling sick to my stomach.  My mind was playing tricks with me.  Last time I was here, I was pregnant.  Now I am home and I am not.  My baby is not with me.  She must be dead.  Something tragic must have happened.  Because irrationally, that was the only thing I could think of.  The last two days had been a dream.  Hannah was not alive.  And I was no longer pregnant.  And she was no longer with me.  Phil kept reassuring me that she was alive and just needed time to get better so that she could be home with us.  I stayed quiet and let my thoughts just run rapid as we sat on the couch.  That night was horrible.  I cried more than I thought possible.  We had no idea when we'd be able to see Hannah again due to car garage expenses and gas.  And my pretty girl was alone.  With no mommy to hold her.  No mommy.  She had nurses, but not me.  That feeling of worthlessness and heartache is something I will never wish on anyone.  Not even my worst enemy.  No mother should have to feel that. 

This cloud was hovering over me.  There was no light.  I no longer felt full with love.  I just felt empty.  So empty.  To think that only weeks earlier, I just wanted to be done.  My body had had enough. But that was so selfish.  I should have fought to keep her in, begged for hospital bedrest and constant monitoring.  After all, she was doing excellent and thriving in my womb.  I was the weakest link.