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Stories of Lost Children
The Joy of Knowing James
by M.M. , Portland, Oregon, U.S.A. For reasons both sensible and ridiculous I waited until my late 40s to decide that I really wanted to have a child. At 47 I began fertility treatments and at 48, after much hope, effort, and financial outlay, I managed to become pregnant. That was in December 2000. I was ecstatic and disbelieving alike. For the first trimester and part of the second, I considered myself lucky for each day that I was still pregnant, but by week 24, I figured the baby and I were home free. He was moving regularly, all my prenatals to that point were perfect, and I felt like a million bucks. Then, as I lay in bed on the night of Mothers Day 2001, I noticed what seemed like mild menstrual cramping, and when I got up the next morning and used the bathroom, I noticed a hint of blood on my toilet paper. So I called my midwife's office and arranged to come in that morning for some testing. I figured they would take some urine or blood, find out the problem was only something minor, and send me home with a prescription or advice to rest up for a while. I soon learned, however, there was nothing minor about my problem, and I wouldn't be going home any time soon. When they put the belt on my belly they registered contractions every five to seven minutes. When they focused the ultrasound on my cervix they saw it had shrunk from its normal four centimeters in length down to barely one and a half. When they examined its shape they saw a funnel: at the bottom still closed but at the top wide open and ready for the baby's descent. When they did a cervical swab for a protein whose presence indicates impending labor and delivery they found it, and its message was clear. To try to stop the labor, I went on magnesium sulfate beginning that night for the regular protocol of 48 hours. Meanwhile the neonatologists visited my bedside and told me of my baby's prognosis if he came that night, later that week, the following week, or the week after. They talked of odds, and percentages, and of blindness and cerebral palsy and profound mental retardation and neonatal death, and yes, the slim chance that a child born very, very early might survive and thrive. That's when I entered the twilight zone. That's when I died and went to hell. My contractions slowed under the effect of this powerful drug, but they did not stop. So as the 48-hour mark approached Wednesday night I decided to go off the drug for a week and see what would happen. If my body was that determined to end the pregnancy, then there was no point in trying any longer to stop it. And indeed my body was determined. I stopped the drug in the early morning of Thursday May 17, 2001, and by noon my contractions were strong and frequent. By six that evening I gave birth to my first and only child, a son I called James. Earlier I had told the doctors that I wanted no heroics. I had learned the odds for an infant delivered at 25 weeks, and I didn't want my baby to be tortured with tubes and needles for days or weeks only to die anyway or to endure a lifetime of suffering. When he emerged, looking absolutely lovely, I wondered if my decision was the right one, but my midwife offered some comfort when she explained that though he was perfect on the outside, he just wasn't "finished" on the inside. I asked her how much time he would have, and she said maybe an hour, maybe five or six, maybe at most 24. So, assuming the end would come at any time, I held him on my chest, skin to skin and directly over my heart. I held him that evening, through the night, and all the next day except for 15 minutes while I showered. It was then that my mother held him, her first and only grandchild. Thank you for making me a grandmother, she said. Throughout this period I managed to feed my baby a few drops of formula, and he swallowed it with the ease and elegance of a young man who knows his table manners. I kissed him when I could, though it was difficult because he rested on my chest just a few inches beyond the reach of my lips, and he didn't like being moved. I stroked him, but only a little, because his skin was still hypersensitive to the world outside the womb. And I observed him closely, trying desperately to soak the sight of him into my brain. Though tiny, at less than two pounds, he was also enchanting, with strong hands and long slender fingers, a handsome face, a beautifully shaped head covered with silky brown hair, and a torso that was divinely sculpted. Because James spent most of his time napping, we communicated only in bits and pieces. His eyelids were still sealed shut, but my mother tells me that when I called his name she could see the shape of his eyes through the lids, turning up toward the sound of my voice. If his nap was disturbed he would cry with a faint squeaking sound, and so I learned to rock him, using a gentle bumping sort of motion that eased him back to sleep in an instant. When James was ready to say goodbye, I felt blessed that he did not struggle or seem to suffer. Earlier, I had made sure to have morphine available, but since there was no need for it now, he remained unbothered and alone with me those last moments. As they approached, he made a soft little fist with each of his hands and drew them up to his chest - nothing dramatic or fretful, just a signal to his mother that he would be leaving soon. His breathing slowed and then it stopped. He had lived 24 hours, almost to the minute. * * * I know now, from having spoken at length with the pathologist, that for some reason a Group B strep infection had invaded my womb, and that was the reason for my preterm labor - James was bravely trying to escape what had become a death chamber. I also learned that had I stayed on the magnesium sulfate his birth would have been delayed only a day or so, and in that time he almost surely would have died in utero. But instead, because of a hideous and extraordinarily lucky decision, I managed to set him free in time to know him. And so I got to hold him close and feel his warmth, to touch him and speak to him, to feed him and rock him, and to love him fiercely every moment of his time on this earth. * * * A thousand years ago, when James still swam happily inside me and I walked on air in anticipation of his birth in late August, I spent all my free time preparing for his arrival, even planning Christmas cards that would say, "Santa came early this year and guess what he brought!" Back then I also did some research on what they call "co-sleeping," because I knew that whether my baby slept in the bed with me or in a crib beside me I wanted him close by at night. My friends warned me about establishing a habit that might be hard to break. But in my childless innocence I scoffed at that notion and declared that at age two, my son would learn that he was a big boy now, ready for his own bed, and that he didn't need to sleep with his mommy anymore. As it was, my little boy slept with his mommy for his entire life, and she wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
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