An Adoptive Mother’s First Time in the Delivery Room - Part 2

If you missed Part 1, you can catch it here.

It’s March. The twentieth. Eleven o’clock in the morning.

I beg my eyes to stay open just a few moments longer. I am almost home. My pillow is calling my name louder than the rumble of my stomach. I have no energy to eat. I must sleep.

I fumble for the keys and unlock the door. The house is empty. I don’t care about the pile of boxes and miscellaneous tools spread across our living room. The “quick” remodel has come to a halt. What were we thinking when we bought a house that needed to be gutted before comfortably living in it?

I find the strength to put on my pajamas, knowing I will sleep much better in my bed with them on rather than jeans. I crawl under the covers as my eyelids refuse to remain open.

Six in the evening. My cellphone stirs me from a blissful slumber. Visions of my baby holding her baby linger in my mind. My husband tells me he is on his way home. I recommend take out for dinner.

Tummies full, I share the story of how I helped our daughter in the delivery room. I am still in awe that she allowed me to accompany her. And that even with COVID restrictions, I was still allowed me to be there. It wasn’t that way a little while ago. I can’t seem to stop talking about the experience, but I can see my husband is tired too.

The excitement of the last couple days catches up to us. We crawl back into bed a little after ten. My heart is full of joy and excitement for the days to come.

Midnight. I hear my cellphone ringing in the distance. It gets louder. I find it and look at the screen. It’s our daughter. Why on earth was she calling at this hour? I swipe to answer.

“Mom,” our daughter’s voice is shaking. “Mom,” now her voice is trembling. I can hear her hyperventilating and there are tears in her voice.

My mind races. I’m wide awake now. Lord Jesus, please help us! What has happened? Is the baby, okay?

My daughter can’t get the words out. I tell her to breathe. I try to breathe with her on the phone. Her voice cracks, “It’s our baby… They’re… taking… him.”

“What do you mean, honey? Taking him where?”

She can’t talk anymore. She hands the phone over to the nurse who proceeds to tell me that they think our grandson may be having seizures and needs to be transported immediately to Children’s hospital. Our daughter would be transported in a different ambulance. We needed to come and pick up our son-in-law and all their belongings.

My heart raced. How could this be? He was doing so good this morning. He was already separated at birth from his mama and now he had to be taken away again. My heart sunk. Medical trauma is hard on babies and I knew it could lead to behavior challenges in the future. All those trauma-informed parenting classes were coming back to the surface. Is this why our lives are so closely entangled with our daughter’s right now? Is this why we are living together? To help them through these challenges?

I finally hung up. My husband got the gist of the message by listening to me talk. We drug ourselves up out of bed and started packing. I stuffed a few pairs of clothing into a bag. This could be a long journey. I best be prepared. I grabbed some snacks and necessities. Vitamins, essential oils, and echinacea tea carefully got tucked into the bag. There would be no time to get sick.

Almost 48 hours from my first ride to the hospital, I find myself in the passenger’s seat on the journey north. The road is empty for the most part. It’s cold, but not snowing.

2 A.M. We greet our son-in-law at the valet parking and load the family’s belongings. We must travel further north to reach the next hospital.

The new father rides in shock after what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. First his wife has a postpartum hemorrhage after an unwanted C-section, then his son is supposedly having seizures. Both are now gone and he is left to manage the emotions from a whirlwind delivery experience. He shares his frustration with us over some of the doctors and nurses handling of their situation. I don’t blame him for being upset. I witnessed some of the turmoil at the hospital yesterday.

After parking, we try one entrance to the hospital, but the security guard tells us we must go to the emergency entrance. We check in at the front desk and get all the way up to the third floor. Confusion ensues. The last hospital told us we would be welcome to stay, but that is not the case. At least not in the NICU. We could go try to see our daughter who was in the adjacent hospital. None of us realized the two were going to be in separate places.

We leave our son-in-law to visit his newborn. Fortunately, someone is there to walk us over and get us through the locked doors at the hospital next door. We carefully open the door to our daughter’s room and find her being settled by the nurses.

She looks fragile. The effects of the C-section and blood transfusion still reflected in her demeanor. Exhaustion and confusion are written on her face. This is not how her birthing experience was supposed to go. Nothing about this event is what she had hoped for.

We deliver hugs and fill her in on her husband’s whereabouts. She is confused why they won’t let us in when the other hospital said we were allowed. Different places do different things.

3:30. The new father returns with little news at this hour. Defeated, we all fall into chairs and try to catch a little shut eye. By five-thirty, my husband and I are ready to drive over to my father-in-law’s house and sleep in his guest room for a few hours. Perhaps that would give us a little more sense for the decisions that would have to be made.

Noon. We are more coherent. Freshly showered. This was, after all, our normal trip to bathe since our home is still missing a bathtub. We drive back to the hospital, ready to face new challenges.

According to the doctor, our grandson suffered a stroke shortly before being born. He is now hooked up on a monitor and has tubes in his nose and mouth. His head has a cap on it holding wires in place. An IV delivers the appropriate fluids. He looks nothing like how I left him, serene in his mother’s arms.

Not knowing how long it will take for this little one to recuperate, we encourage his father to continue working since he has no paid time off. I would stay and be by our daughter’s side until she is discharged. The only catch, I would not be allowed to visit the baby. Only his mom would be able to give him skin to skin touch while the father was away working hard for his family. A complication due to COVID.

Nine o’clock. I settle into my new sleeping quarters. A narrow couch bed next to a large window facing the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. My stomach is full after my husband delivers take-out. It is hard saying goodbye to the two fathers as they both leave to fulfill their roles as family providers. I couldn’t be prouder of these men and the hard work they must still do for us to continue on this journey.

My daughter is asleep. I lay awake wondering what the future might hold for our family. Finally, exhaustion takes over. Whatever will be, will be.

Learn how this young couple fights to bring home their baby in Part 3 of An Adoptive Mother’s First Time in the Delivery Room.