When we lived in Houston, we had a 5-day advance warning that a major hurricane was headed our way. Three days before Hurricane Ike made landfall, meteorologists were predicting its exact path of destruction. Two days before, the hubby's office closed early so that employees could hurricane-proof their houses, which was the day before my 28th birthday. We celebrated at a seafood joint, sucking down hurricane cocktails. The evening before the hurricane's eye moved over us, we enjoyed a pleasant sunset on the patio. The "calm before the storm" was anxiety-filled, but rather ordinary too.
In such the same way was my labor and delivery. The day before I was set to check into the hospital, I enjoyed an unusually warm February afternoon on the back porch. Thinking some color on my face would help me look less chubby, I soaked up some rays. I was mentally preparing for motherhood and trying to center myself on a "happy place." All in all, it was a normal day, nothing spectacular. If I could have only known what was waiting around the corner.
So many highs, so many lows. The highs included having a new acquaintance (we met when she was taking my bootcamp class this winter) as my delivery nurse. She was caring and attentive, everything a fantastic nurse should be. I had a relatively pain-free delivery. Praise God for drugs. The hubby was wonderful and my family was ecstatic, even though they had to wait outside the room for quite a while. And then the lowest of lows, shortly after sweet Annabelle's arrival, the on-call pediatrician decided that she needed to be transferred to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit downtown because her shortness of breath indicated that her lungs were slightly undeveloped. Thus, the longest, roughest, toughest week of our lives began.
Not only was she moved to a more capable hospital, but also, they sent a helicopter to transport her. Traumatic, yes. Dramatic, yes. It's only a 15 minute drive by ambulance, but apparently, they wanted to make this as complicated as possible. Annabelle was put on oxygen and packaged into a horrific looking box, suitable for NASA missions. We were not allowed to fly with her. The hubby kissed me good-bye and met Medi Flight once they landed. I was stuck sobbing in my hospital bed for the remainder of the evening.
The NICU is an excellent care center for babies. Not so much for families, and especially horrible for nursing mothers. My doctor had released me exactly 14 hours after delivery so that I could be at the downtown hospital with Annabelle. She was sharing a room with another baby, which meant we were sharing a room with another set of parents. The doctors were never overly concerned with Annabelle's health. It wasn't a question of if she could get better, just a question of when. She was on supplemental oxygen for 5 days and it took another 3 days to remove the feeding tube. Around the clock, we were by her side. It's heart wrenching to watch your baby tethered to sensors of every kind. We were finally discharged sans sensors and with an excellent prognosis. We were simply given strict instructions to follow-up with our pediatrician after the weekend.
After a much-needed couple of nights sleeping in our own bed, even if it was for only a brief few hours, we felt rejuvenated, ready to tackle the world of parenthood. We snuggled with our precious bundle of joy. And appreciated her so much more. I had had it too easy, I suppose. This was fate's way of making sure that I didn't take anything for granted. And each day that I get to sit and stare at her jaundice-tinted skin, I just smile and thank my lucky stars that we are where we are today.
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| Kyle & Annabelle: Proud papa before they whisked her away |
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| Annabelle prepared for her Medi Flight |
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| Bundled up in the NICU |
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| Finally eating from a bottle |
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| On our way home! |
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| Miss Annabelle |
