Three Months Old

So, our little Coffee Heath Bar Crunch is now three months old. He has turned into a chubby breastfed baby with that plump little face they all have and some adorable chunks and dimples on his thighs -- a far cry from the long, skinny baby we brought home from the hospital. In fact, in many ways he seems to be completely different from the baby he was when he was first born. Only now are Brooke and I beginning to process through how truly terrifying and anxiety-provoking things were right after Heath was born.

As you may know, Heath was born nineteen days early. The day that he was born, I felt poorly in the morning and by noon was having contractions. But, I had had so many false alarms and bouts of false labor, that neither Brooke nor I thought that this was going to be it. That day folks at work threw me a baby shower, and I sat in the shower, breathing through contractions and all of the experienced moms said, "Honey, you're in labor -- you need to go to the doctor." Brooke was with me at the shower, so, once it was over, we went to my office and called the doctor and got an appointment within the hour.



When we got to the doctor, we found out that I was indeed having demonstrably painful, true contractions, but, that the baby was still floating high and that I was really not progressing. Based upon my track record with Drew's delivery, the doctor recommended a repeat c-section, even though I really wanted to try for a VBAC. Brooke and I talked through it and after many tears on my part, we decided to follow the doctor's advice.

We proceeded directly to the hospital, since I was in active labor, and I was put into observation -- no nice labor and delivery suite for me -- just some tiny room off the nurse's station. The c-section was scheduled for 7PM, and as I said -- we had not thought that this would be the day, so while we had Brooke's mom en route to take care of Drew, Brooke wanted to take advantage of the time we had to go and get Drew and get the house organized, etc. Although as I write this it seems insane for me to have agreed to this, I told Brooke to go. So, I sat in that horrible little room, having contractions, waiting for the c-section for hours all by myself.

The doctor who was going to be doing the actual c-section came in to talk to me and confirmed again that I was indeed in active labor. He checked things one last time and found that I had actually managed to dilate some, but, that the baby had still not dropped into the birth canal -- he told me that that meant to him that if I did not go for a c-section right away, I had at least a 75% chance of needing a c-section eventually.

Brooke finally arrived back at the hospital and things started moving really fast. They got me prepped for surgery and administered the spinal (same idea as an epidural, but, the medicines are delivered lower) and strapped me to the table. Folks who have not gone through a c-section are always surprised to hear about the strapping, but, they strap your arms down because you are conscious during the surgery and you may instinctively flail around and disrupt the surgery.

Brooke came in and sat next to my head and the surgery began. When the baby came out, he cried once or twice and then there was nothing except the doctor saying quite firmly that he needed more hands in the room for the baby. People started streaming into the room -- and since I could not see what was going on and was not hearing the baby cry, I started yelling, "Is he breathing? Is my baby breathing?" My memory is all kind of jumbled at this point -- but, it seemed like it took them a really long time to answer me. They finally said that he was breathing, but, needed to go down to the NICU for stabilization. I got to see him very briefly, and then they whisked him away while they turned their attention back to closing me up.

They moved me into post-op and news about the baby's status was very slow to come. I was in post-op with another mommy, and they brought her baby in to see her. We ended up leaving post-op without our little Heath. As it turned out, I did not get to see Heath until more than twelve hours later. Heath stayed in the NICU for a week, and although he was born on Wednesday night, I was not allowed to hold him until Sunday, and even then, I got to hold him briefly.

It appears that even though Heath was 37 weeks, 2 days old when he was born, and his lungs should have been mature, they were not. So, those first days of his life, he was not able to breathe properly on his own and was hooked up to all sorts of machinery that breathed for him. Apparently babies who are as big as Heath was (7 pounds, 11 ounces and 21 inches) and are born with this inability to breathe properly usually improve in the first twenty-four hours, so, when Heath did not improve during that time period, Brooke and I really started to worry.

Visiting Heath was torturous for me -- I was not allowed to hold him and he was hooked up to all sorts of machines, and because he was not improving, the warning bells went off regularly while I was sitting with him -- causing the nurses to come running over, play with the machines, reposition Heath, etc. The first couple of times I went to see him, I just cried and cried. I would go back to my post-delivery room and cry some more. It was so strange to be in the hospital, to have my milk start to come in, to no longer be pregnant, and yet not have a baby with me.

It was even stranger to go home without the baby and rattle around the house, play with Drew, and not have a baby with me. We would go to see Heath twice a day, and that process in and of itself was exhausting and stressful.

When we finally got to bring him home a full week after he had been born, he came home with a bili light machine, and even though he had to have the lights on him twenty-four hours a day, I was so happy to finally be able to hold him as much as I wanted.

As I look at Heath now, it is hard to believe that this is the little baby whose isolette I sat next to, sobbing, watching his poor little body fighting so hard to breathe. His breathing is perfect now, and as I started off this post saying -- he is plump and healthy and thriving -- no doubt about it. He coos at us and shows us social smiles and already knows to pre-emptively cry when his big brother starts getting too riled up. We love this little guy so much, and try not to think about how serious things were there for a while -- how in another day or time or country, he would not have survived.

I am so glad that NICUs exist, but, if I never have to go into one again, I will be happy, and I do not wish a baby in a NICU on even my most loathed enemy. All's well that ends well, I suppose, but, I think it will still take both me and Brooke some time to embrace that perspective.