Hold Me Tight(76)

I hear calls for, “More suction!” and “Get me a heart rate monitor!” but my brain blacks out when the accompanying beep doesn’t sound. There wasn’t time to give me a steroid shot to help speed up the baby’s lung development. It’s probably not physically capable of breathing on its own. I should have said something after lunch when I started cramping up, but no one came to check on me so I didn’t tell anyone. I could’ve hit the buzzer and called for help, but I knew they were short-staffed and I didn’t want to be a bother. Now it’s too late.

And I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.

I start to sob violently, snapping Eric out of his trance-like state. He rushes over to me, trembling as he enfolds me in his arms. My legs are still spread out before me. I’m too afraid to move. No one comes to clean me up or tell us what’s happening. Everyone’s attention is focused on our child—where it should be.

A host of machines are wheeled over to the table as I catch a glimpse of the leads covering the translucent skin of our baby. I cry even harder when I see how tiny it is. The digital reading on the scale is displaying just over a pound. I grasp Eric’s arm when I see that they already have a tube attached to its tiny face with white tape as they hook it up to a ventilator.

They pause, giving it a minute. And then, finally…finally…the monitor picks up a faint heartbeat. Dr. P. raises his hands in exultation as his crew whoops and hollers, rejoicing. They did it. They saved our baby.

“Eric and Ivy, you have a little girl!” Dr. P. shouts over to us as we cling to each other, unable to believe our good fortune.

“C’mon over here, Dad, and check her out,” Wanda encourages, holding out her hand for Eric to join her. “Then we can wheel her over to Mom together.”

Eric trips, stumbling to his feet, unable to get there fast enough. The crew laughs at his eagerness as some wipe away the tears that are rolling down their faces. I can’t take my eyes off him as he bends down to look at her.

“Can I touch her?” he asks, hesitating with his hand in midair.

“Gently,” Wanda urges, watching as he lets the tips of his fingers glide over her tiny head.

“She’s so soft,” he whispers, reverently.

Dr. P. and Wanda exchange a knowing glance before they smile over at me.

“I want to see her.” I can’t keep quiet any longer. “I want to see my Natalie.”

Eric looks from one to the other, seeking their permission. “Is it okay to bring her over now?”

“Go ahead, Dad,” Wanda instructs. “Nice and steady.”

They start pushing the table across the room as another nurse follows with the ventilator and heart rate monitor. As they near the side of the bed, I gaze down at her, unable to believe that she made it. She’s here. She’s right beside me.

I want to pick her up so badly, but I know even before I ask that I can’t. She is connected to all these machines. There’s no way. Not yet, but someday. I have to be patient, but it’s hard.

“Welcome to the world, Natalie Young,” I coo as I lean over the plastic partition to touch her tiny fist.

She surprises me when she opens her hand, before closing it over my finger. For such a little thing, she has quite the grip on her. She’s been fighting since day one, and I know she’s not going to give up now.

“Merry Christmas, honey child,” Wanda says, her eyes shining at me. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d get your miracle?”

Eric starts bawling, his emotions finally getting the best of him.

I want to hold him in my arms and comfort him, but I can’t reach him. However, it only takes a second for Dr. P. to draw him in, and he lets him cry on his shoulder. I smile through my tears at him for doing everything possible to make this day a reality.

Somehow, we all did it. Together.





Chapter Twenty-Six

Eric

There’s something I have to do today. I can only hope that Ivy will go along with it.

I’m standing next to her wheelchair as we stare into the incubator holding our daughter. I don’t think I left this window until shortly after dawn, afraid that she wouldn’t make it through the night. But Christmas Day arrived and she’s still here, small and frail and clinging to life.

She’s going to be in the NICU for probably the next three months, if not longer. There are so many milestones she needs to reach before we can even think about taking her home, everything from breathing on her own to maintaining a steady body temperature. It was all explained to us within the last twenty-four hours, but it’s all been a blur to me. I can’t retain anything more than knowing that she’s alive.