More than two months have passed since Monday June 16th. That was the day when the ultrasound tech called in her boss, who called in her boss, to look at the baby’s MCA dopplers. Those tumors on my placenta were finally catching up with the baby growing inside me.
I spent that week in-and-out of the hospital–the docs were worried about fetal anemia, and wanted to monitor the baby for extended periods of time. One doctor would say that everything is fine; the next would say that I should pack my hospital bag because we might need to induce labor tomorrow. The baby was doing well when it came to her movement and heartbeat, but that doppler reading, taken of her brain via ultrasound, continued to be elevated.
On Friday, after watching the MCA doppler readings increase throughout the week, the Maternal Fetal Medicine team and OBGYNs agreed it was time to induce labor. The doctor, who I trusted on account of the lines on her face and embroidered insignia on her lab coat, held out her hands as if she were a scale. The worst case scenario of a 34-week-preemie, in this day and age–not so bad. The worst case scenario with fetal anemia–that would be the worst case scenario. The only way to conclusively test for fetal anemia has a 1% chance of killing the baby, so didn’t make sense this late in the pregnancy. It was go-time.
I emailed one of my closest friends and his bride-to-be. Matt, Margot, and I were supposed to spend that weekend celebrating James and Isabel’s wedding on an island in Maine. Instead of dancing with friends under starlight by the seashore, I would be in labor. Matt and I were about to spend the solstice meeting our second baby.
The birth went as smoothly as possible. The L&D nurses (all angels) administered the Pitocin with scientific precision. The goal was a successful VBAC—and we did it! I was so grateful to welcome our little one into the world without needing surgery. Her apgar scores were nearly perfect–8 and then 9. Because she had joined us at 12:30am, Muriel was technically a 35-week preemie; this meant we were allowed to hold her in the delivery room for more than two minutes. But after half an hour, her little sounds and flaring nostrils indicated that she was having trouble breathing. Matt joined the nurses who took Muriel to the NICU.
The following weeks were–from Brigham and Women’s NICU to Boston Children’s ACCU–a crash course in prematurity, bilirubin, echocardiograms, congenital heart disease, neurodevelopment, oxygen requirements, desaturations, tachycardias, bradycardias, learning how to fortify my breastmilk and how to advocate for a child who is not a “healthy baby.” Meanwhile I distracted myself with citizen science apps, poetry, coconut paletas, rescuing an antique piano from a ransacked (haunted?) house doomed for demolition, starting a skincare routine, taking Margot to a Red Sox game, drafting a screenplay of Ed Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang to send to Adam McKay, looking for a local church I could take our kids to. Meanwhile our wonderful family and friends from around the country sent us love and food and thoughts and prayers and smile-inducing photo updates. All of it helped.
Muriel came home when she was six weeks old. If my life were a musical, I would have been dancing in the streets that whole week. I felt so much gratitude to have everyone home… to know that she was well enough to be off the cardiac floor, and to no longer be living out of my backpack, or attempting to balance time at home with time in the hospital, or listening to that damned beeping machine announcing “something is wrong with your kid!”
Since coming home, Muriel’s weight has skyrocketed. She is growing and thriving and even, lately, smiling! Margot is an amazing big sister–letting us know when “Miel” is sad, bringing her toys and bottles, singing her versions of Twinkle Twinkle and Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and emphatically declaring “I-lub-you-so-much-Miel!” We all do. There is so much love whooshing and bouncing around our home these days.
But something is still technically wrong with our kid. Muriel will need open heart surgery in the next few months. The hole between her left and right atria, and the partial veins that are incorrectly plumbed to her superior vena cava, mean that her heart is unable to pump well-oxygenated blood around her body; her blood oxygen saturation hovers around 80%, which is not ideal for physical or neurological development.
When the OBGYN called me about a six-week-postpartum visit, I laughed out loud. I’d forgotten that I was a patient too. During my check-up, the doctor let me know that my BMI is a little high, and gave me some suggestions for losing weight. Less carbs, more exercise, smaller portions. She held her hands together to make a little oval indicating the target portion size.
I believe that most people, when faced with adversity, rise to the challenge without thinking about it. Only after-the-fact do we look back to say, “holy shit, that was scary.” Last week, I realized that I had been operating with clenched shoulders and a quietly panicked mind for two months straight. I reached out to my dear friend Britt asking for some resources about meditation or mindfulness or whatever; she directed me towards a Plum Village podcast. I started learning that there is a whole realm of reality, peace, and joy that could be extremely beneficial to me. I just had to be present enough to access it.
Today I am sick. Fever of 102, dizzy, achy, weak. Too mentally hazy to overthink anything. Too tired to hustle any which way. Forced to be present in a way that is rare for me. A lifetime ago, these were the good things about being hungover.
Today is the first time I’ve slowed down enough to really write about all of this. It’s the first time I’ve melted into the couch long enough to read two-year-old Margot every book she wanted–including Daniel Tiger Goes Potty six times in a row. My heart sang when she brought over Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit, originally published in 1901. Margot kept talking about how little and cute the “baby” book is. I know that Beatrix fought hard for her books to be that small, insisting that children would appreciate their tininess. 124 years after this little book was published, an hour after we started reading together, Margot snuggled up against me and said “read it again.”
Over the past two+ months, I have spent many precious hours with Muriel. But today, while holding her calves and moving them up and down, in the age-old bicycle-motion of a parent trying to help a baby poop, I was overcome with extraordinary joy. I was fully present with her soft little legs in each of my hands, her relaxed face and slight smile, the dappled sunlight on the blanket. The cosmic connection to all human- and mammalian- mothers since the beginning of time. The knowledge that to my baby, I am everything, and to me, she is everything.
I always try to be present as a parent. But so often, my mind is racing with to-dos, with worries, dreams, regrets, ideas, woulda- coulda- shouldas. Today’s debilitating fever is the Universe forcing me to slow down. I want to feel better, to have the energy to go up and down stairs, to be physically able to help around the house or take a walk. But these soft and slow moments have shown me what I could not have learned from a book, or a podcast, or from prayer or journaling. When I reflect on the deep peace I felt while being fully present with my kids, I realize how important it is for me to work on being mindful. There is profound joy and healing peace in the present moment. I simply need to root myself down and pay attention.
As for the baby turtle in the photo: I found her on the side of the road last week. Also: this is me, starting my journey of mindfulness. Doesn’t have the same ring to it as “young grasshopper,” but is arguably cuter with those big brown eyes.
FOR THE LOVE OF EARTH 