The
day began as any normal workday except that my regular teaching
chores at the college had been supplanted by the opportunity to do
something a bit different. That day I had to travel to Greenwood for
a concert in which some of my music was to be played by a fine
college band. I had looked forward to this outing for quite some time
because a performance of ones music by such a group was something
that didn’t happen very often. As I prepared to leave that
morning, I spoke again to my wife about how sorry I was that she
couldn’t go with me. She had chosen to remain close to home
after having suffered two miscarriages in the past two years. She was
then not quite six months pregnant and was trying to be very careful;
travel for her was not on the table at that point. A colleague who
worked at the college where I taught had offered to accompany me on
the trip so I wouldn’t be driving alone. As I drove away she
was feeling well and doing some light chores around the house.
The
trip was as exciting as I had hoped it would be. The band played
well, we had some good food, saw some old friends and enjoyed the
festive air of the music conference. About three o’clock in the
afternoon my colleague and I started the two-hour trip back home. The
trip was tiring but well worth the trouble.
Arriving
home about five o’clock in the afternoon, I noticed my wife’s
friend’s car in our driveway. I assumed that they were having a
late afternoon tea break, something they did relatively often. Her
friend was also pregnant with her first child and they loved getting
together and discussing all the experiences they were both soon to
have. When I entered the house I found them both in the back bedroom
and my wife was in bed. They explained to me that she had become ill
during the late afternoon and was experiencing some telltale signs
that the pregnancy might be in trouble. The doctor had been called
and they were soon to leave for the hospital. I had arrived just in
time to take her in.
The
drive to the hospital was a mixture of small talk and intense
silence; we were both worried that the pregnancy would end again
before she was able to bring it to term. The prospect of a third
miscarriage in a row was weighing very heavily on my wife and me. We
were, of course, hoping that the “third time was the charm.”
I tried to be assuring and positive but am fairly sure she could see
through that posture.
Arriving
at the hospital, things moved relatively quickly. They put my wife in
a room and they ascertained what was needed and got her settled and
quiet. One of the nurses told me that things were under control,
there was a doctor on call, and that the best thing I could do was to
go home and rest. Before I left I spent some time with my wife and
tried to comfort her. I knew she was in good hands and realized there
wasn’t much I could do at this point other than to take the
nurse’s advice.
Arriving
back at home I tried to remain calm by thinking about the day and the
positive aspects of the trip. At this point it was a day of highs and
lows – elation at hearing the music and seeing the friends and
sorrow at what was transpiring now. About ten o’clock that
night I crawled into bed and began the process of trying to get some
sleep for what I knew would be a tough day tomorrow.
Around
midnight the phone rang; it was the nurse at the hospital telling me
that my wife had delivered our baby, a little girl, and that I needed
to come to the hospital as soon as possible. Amidst a jumble of
thoughts and fears, I dressed and drove back downtown to confront
what had happened and what it all meant. At this point I had no
details about the health of my wife or baby girl, just a long list of
questions and fears.
When
I arrived back at the hospital, I found my wife sedated and asleep
and was able to speak at length to the pediatrician on duty. He told
me that the baby was about 14 weeks early and weighed a pound and a
half. He said my wife was doing well and would rest comfortably for
the night. He took me to see our daughter in the NICU where the sick
babies were kept. He was very clear about the issues that might
affect the child’s health at this point; there were many, one
of the main ones being underdeveloped lungs. The doctor was very good
about giving the pluses and minuses of the child’s situation.
There was nothing to do but to let them do their work to help her
grow and get better.
It
was at this point that I noticed the specific type of open-air
incubator where our daughter was being treated. At some point I
questioned one of the nurses about it and was told that it had just
arrived that day. The rest of her explanation just tore my heart
open. She said that, yes, the staff had been working on assembling
the incubator for many hours, the first of its kind for the hospital.
She said that another mother had given birth to a premature baby boy
about four or five hours before our daughter was born and this baby
boy was in line to use the incubator when it was assembled. One
incubator; two preemies in need of it. Tragically, the little boy
died before its assembly could be completed and he could be helped by
it. Our daughter was now being cared for in this machine. I learned
then that what some would call a miracle for my family was hardly a
miracle for the parents of the child who died that night. That little
boy was perhaps at the right place but at the wrong time. To me it
seemed that no miracle occurred that night; more probably it was just
the luck of the draw. Perhaps the real miracle would have been both
of them surviving. I know that my feelings were a terrible mixture of
elation and sadness, one child lived and one child died. Often I
think about the parents of the little boy and wonder how they coped
with their loss. The question of who lived and who died in this
situation might have had more to do with timing than any other
factor, but it would be a lie to say that I don’t feel some
sense of guilt about it. That guilt, of course, is not rational, but
it is present nonetheless. Maybe it’s something like “survivor
guilt” once removed. Well-meaning platitudes like “God
must have wanted that little boy in heaven” serve little
purpose and surely would be of little comfort to anyone, especially
the parents. It is inconceivable to me that God played favorites in
this situation. As the man said, “Bad things happen to good
people.” The reverse is surely just as true. The real test for
all of us is, I suppose, how we respond to the good and the bad that
we must deal with every day.
Our
daughter spent nearly eleven weeks in the NICU before we could bring
her home. Initially she was so small that the sweet nurses bought her
some doll dresses as a Christmas present, dresses which seemed at
least three or four sizes too large for her tiny body. We went to the
hospital every day to spend time with her, trying as best we could to
be strong during her bouts with pneumonia, hydrocephalus, and other
lung problems. When she tipped the scales at four pounds we were
allowed to bring her home. Some of the nurses, seeing our fear, came
to our home to check her progress, but mostly, I think, to play with
her and keep in touch with our family.
I
think often about the baby boy who didn’t survive, what he
would have been like, how he would have lived his life, what happened
to his parents. Had he lived, he would be forty-seven years old now
and would probably have children of his own. Sometimes I see him in
my mind’s eye but cannot understand what he is trying to say to
me. The feeling that somehow he lost his life so that my child could
live is, again, probably an irrational one, but nevertheless one that
exists on the fringes of my consciousness.
Contact
James
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