08/29/2007

You know how it is: you forget how very small newborns are. You forget how helpless. How boring. You also forget the strange way they entrance you...the way you can't quite peel your eyes from them. They way you analyze every single feature, over and over again, until you could surely continue your examination by memory but, why would you? You just keep looking at that little face. This is the bliss that accompanies a newborn, eh?

Nia Madelynn's entrance into this world was less than dramatic. It took me all of four good pushes to deliver her, and she came out without making a peep. It was just shortly after discovering that her silence was a result of her inability to breathe independently that things in the delivery room became quite a bit livelier. NICU employees came rushing in hoards (these would be the people from the neonatal intensive care unit, for those of you not up-to-date on your medical acronyms). Nobody paid any attention to me, which was fine, but instead they raised quite a hullabaloo over Nia. She received some vigorous rub-downs to encourage and stimulate circulation, oxygen was pumped into her little mouth, and everyone was speaking all at once, to no one (or maybe everyone), and I watched and held my breath. This just wasn't my idea of an ideal delivery scenario.

After several minutes, a NICU doctor came over to me, put Nia in my arms, droned on and on about heading off to such-and-such a nursery, and before I could process whatever information she was dolling out, she picked Nia up and they all headed out the door. That was it. No report on her status, no idea where she was going, no clue what the problem was...just a pretty rotten feeling. It's hard to describe the sort of lump that formed in my stomach upon the realization that I had just delivered a daughter who I glanced at/held for twenty seconds, and wasn't breathing well. I think her APGAR score may have been 'off the charts' in a negative way. They never even bothered to tell me the numbers. Babies who are purple don't get high scores. That's just the general rule.

Finally, about eight hours after Nia's birth, I told a nurse that I hadn't seen my daughter except for the brief glance in the delivery room. I didn't know if she was alright. I didn't know if I would get to see her. I wasn't sure why no one thought it important to communicate with us: her parents. The nurse made some phone calls on my behalf. Although Nia wasn't allowed to leave her nursery (an intermediate level nursery that provides between 'normal' and 'intensive' amounts of care), I could be wheeled down to visit her. She was in a special bed with monitors attached to her chest and legs. I couldn't see her face, and the best I could do was to touch her feet. Nia's pediatrician came and spoke with us, shared her concerns, and gave encouraging words. She told us that if Nia did well during her next feeding, that she would be placed in the 'normal' nursery, and we would be able to see her whenever we wanted. Someone had informed her that I hadn't been able to see Nia all this time, and she instructed the nurses as follows:

"I want Mommy to be able to hold this baby, and talk to her baby."

A nurse came over and let me hold Nia. She was sleeping. For the first time all day, I cried. It was relief and fear all rolled in one, I suppose. Her next feeding was only minutes away, and I was trying not to hope that she would eat with no problem...I didn't want to be disappointed. The nurse took her and gave her a bottle. Nia drank down an ounce (which is a good, normal amount) with no problem. She paused to burp, but didn't pause her breathing. The nurse told me that within half an hour Nia would be with Nick and me in our hospital room. I cannot possibly describe the feeling of relief. We were up late that night...we were holding our baby girl.

I felt the whole experience was a roller coaster ride. Things have settled down now, obviously, and we've been released from the hospital. Nia is wonderful! She is eating well, trying to hold up her own head, and making silly little baby noises. As gut-wrenching as I found the situation, my heart went out to Nick. I overheard him as he explained to a nurse, "We named her Nia, after my Mom, who passed away when I was 10--strangely enough on August 27th. It wasn't easy watching my Nia struggling to breathe on the same day."

There are happier stories to tell, and we are so glad to find ourselves a family of four. Still, I wanted to relay our experience, because while the birth of a baby brings joy, the birth of THIS baby brings even more. Sometimes we love and lose--Nia Ann won't meet her grandchildren until heaven. But sometimes we love, and we fight, and God grants more time. So tonight I'm thankful for more time. I fed Nia today, changed her diaper, held her, rocked her to sleep...and I am astounded that on the same day, in different years, two Nia's fought for life. I am thankful for both of these women. I am humbled that God granted Nia Madelynn (and, thus, her Mommy) more time. "Praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow."