Against the Odds (Fighting to Survive #2)(33)

Robert walks in smiling. “You’re awake?” he asks, surprised.

“How is she?”

“Beautiful.”

“Do you want to see her?”

I look into the piercing blue eyes of the nurse, “Yes, I would love to.”

“Dad, do you remember how to get there?”

“I do.”

As soon as I am situated in the wheelchair, Robert spreads a blanket across my lap. “It’s chilly in there. It keeps the medical staff alert,” the nurse says and I hope she is teasing about the medical staff staying awake.

Robert pushes me in the wheelchair to the N.I.C.U. He pushes a code into the keypad and the door unlocks. We walk into a very busy premature nursery. The beeping and alarm sounds fill the room. We see that small babies are on ventilators and some are on oxygen, some babies are under ultra-violet lights and some are lying helplessly in their incubators. Each baby has his or her own incubator, except I see a set of twins lying together. That's a very good idea. Some of the incubators are decorated and some aren’t. A sob escapes my mouth and Robert pats me on my shoulder. He wheels me further away from the door and I soon see a black-haired baby lying still and alone. As we get closer, I recognize the newborn as Grace. She has a small I.V. in her left arm with fluids running into it. She is also hooked up to a heart monitor and a blood pressure cuff is around her right arm, for continuous monitoring. She would be naked if it weren’t for the diaper.


Robert pushes me right next to the incubator. It is covered with a hard plastic top to protect Grace from outside germs. There is nothing on or in her bed, but her. I make a mental note of things I could use to decorate it with. Robert moves to the foot of her bed and looks at her feet. He smiles. I know he sees the heart he wrote on the bottom of her right foot. A nurse comes over and smiles. I ask, “She doesn’t need oxygen?”

“She does, it’s blowing in through here,” she says as she points to an air vent at the head of the bed. “It’s supplying her with just the right amount that she needs.”

“Is she cold?” I whisper.

“No, it’s very warm in there.” She shows me where the thermometer is that reads the temperature inside the incubator. She tells me what Grace’s vital signs are and how she is doing. “To be born at just 30 weeks gestation, she is very healthy.”

“There is any way to know how long she’ll be in here?”

“No, there’s no way of telling. I can tell you that no matter how healthy she is, she needs to weigh 4 lbs., before she can be moved out of N.I.C.U.”

“Gracie weighs 3lbs. 4oz.,” I say.

“I see that. She is actually not a bad weight, especially at just 30 weeks gestation.”

Robert and I watch as she attends to the needs of our daughter. “Did you get to hold her?” I ask Robert.

“No, not yet. You have to put your hands in here to touch her,” he says, pointing to the long rubber-glove-looking things.

I can’t reach them from the wheelchair so I stand on shaky legs, Robert is at my side to help support me. I put one hand inside the long rubber gloves and gently touch Gracie’s cheek, her tiny ear, and then her small arm. A tear slides down my cheek when I watch how helpless our baby is. “She’s beautiful.”

Robert

Leah dozes off and our parents leave for the night. It has been a long and exhausting day for everyone. Leah gave Mom a list of items to get from the house for her. Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal, Jack, was also on the list.

As Leah sleeps I look over the stack of cards and gifts. I’m happy so many people were here to support us. I’m also grateful Angel spoke to Leah about premature births; it helped to ease some of her fears.

“Whatcha doing, Ace?” Leah asks.

“Wondering if you were going to wake up so we can open these?” I say, holding up several cards.

“Giving birth is exhausting.”

I slowly walk over to her and bend down and kiss her softly. “Thank you for giving me another beautiful daughter.”

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She is.”

Leah looks concerned and asks, “How is she? Have you been down there to see her?”

“I have and everything is going wonderful. The nurse brought you in a breast pump. She’ll be in later to help you with it.”

Leah and I talk about the baby and how she is feeling. I also show her more pictures I took on my phone.

“I want to see her.”

“You will. I want you to rest first.”

“I wish she was in the room with us. Do you remember how nice it was that Jamie was in the same room with us after her birth?”

“I do, we had so much bonding time with her before we went home.”

“We sure did,” she says sadly. Hard to believe a mentally ill nurse swapped her with another baby during the short amount of time she was out of our sight.” I can see Leah is thinking and she says, “Oh, God, Robert.”

“She’s fine, I was just there and still has the heart on her foot.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise,” I say and she laughs. She hold up her pinky and I hold up mine. We loop them together and we each lean in and kiss our pinkies at the same time.

I gather the cards and a few gifts and place them on her bedside table. She opens a few loose cards first. They are from Jo and Carl, Bruce and Lilly, and Bethany and Gus. They each contain money that Leah and I will put back for Gracie’s college education.