One Extra Month

After the 2-minute required ritual of scrubbing down, I entered the NICU for the first time. Her beloved nurse Mia, the "baby catcher" from our delivery, was back for another day of neonatal care. The duo nurse team of Mia and Soon-Yee became Lauren’s family away from home, impressing us with their skilled nursing abilities, and even more so with their emotional and mental support. They were quick to put me at ease with explanations of the numerous medical devices attached to Lauren, but I could easily look past all of it to see only her nuzzled under the open warmer. Her soulful eyes penetrated me, her soul awakened by the release from womb to world. She wasn’t sleeping, as though was lying in wait for me to come get her. I wanted to wrap her up and sneak her back to my room, looking down at the pocket of my robe as the perfect baby holder. Tape used to keep the oxygen tube under her nose in place covered nearly all of her cheek, her luminous skin free of baby acne and dry skin. Her upper body had placements of numerous electrodes, something we would become very familiar with, more commonly known as "leads" for monitoring readings. Readings for her oxygen saturation and heart rates were conveniently at a glance. It was comforting, but difficult knowing she needed machines to tell us she was doing fine. Numbers on the monitors danced in my mind, ingraining itself into my intellect as what was safe.

In the darkness as we tried to close our eyes for a few hours rest before the next visit, he finally blurted out, "We did this to her." It confirmed the guilt I had been feeling since the news. This was happening because we wanted her too much. She didn’t ask to be a part of this, we brought her into our lives out of own selfish needs to be parents. Me especially. I had sold my soul to have his baby, and I was getting a gentle reminder that I’d already cashed in all my chips. This one was going to cost me. We were both prepared to take anything on, as long as she was spared. But life’s lessons weren’t ever that simple. This first full day of motherhood could not be the worst day of my life. Conflicting news, feelings, and circumstances had to end. I needed to see her to make it all go away. I needed to restate what I said to her earlier, which was now, "Please give me a chance to make it up to you." Her expressions immediately gave way to everything contradictory to a chromosomal syndrome. At two days old, her pictures were proof of a very vital and thriving baby. It confirmed the right decision to bring her out. She was showing us what she needed, and we were doing right by her. She confirmed it even further when she was completely off oxygen by the end of the day and graduated to an isolette, her new upscale condo. Now that I was capable, regular visits and the extract of colostrum finally assuaged my feelings of becoming a mother. I wanted to acquaint myself with my daughter, but could never take her off the monitor long enough for private time in the breastfeeding room. Full body massages were limited by the leads and restricted movements through the armholes of the isolette. Our lives were on public display, giving up control to others’ directives. Every drop of nutrient I could extract was quickly transported by her father to the NICU refrigerator, waiting for the all-important