13 years ago today, my precious youngest son was born at 1:32 CDT.   I became pregnant with his older brother 8 years earlier, unexpectedly.   I had returned to graduate school and wanted to graduate before I added to the family, planning for a 5-6 year age spread. We officially launched the “let’s have a baby” campaign, the summer I graduated, while on a trip to my 10^th high school reunion.  I had been so fertile with the first, that I just knew it would happen!  The next month, no baby.  A year passed with multiple attempts and still nothing. 

A routine annual OB/GYN appointment detected a grapefruit-sized cyst on my left ovary.  Surgery was scheduled rapidly and I spent several days letting my hypochondria feed my fears of a malignancy and/or death by general anesthesia. Alas, it was removed with precision and the tests were benign.  The doctor thought this might have been affecting my ability to get pregnant.  The attempts began again.  Nothing.  I was given an ovulation detection kit to improve the timing.  My husband traveled 5 days a week, so this would help pinpoint THE day. Nothing.  I decided to breed my black and tan cocker spaniel, Scout.  She became pregnant instantly and I was the mid-wife for her perfect litter of 6 puppies (5 black and tan, 1 solid white).  Her fertility did not rub off on me.  

My OB started me on progesterone and I continued trying.  The next step was to do an endometrial biopsy to see if the lining of my uterus was changing normally.  I went in for my appointment and as usual they did blood work and took a urine sample.  I undressed and sat on the end of the table in my  gown (I never remember whether the opening is to the front or back), waiting for the doctor to come in.  I heard a loud discussion in the hall.

 “It was positive.”

“It was positive?”

“Yes.”

The door opened and my doctor walked in.  I told him I was ready, to which he replied, “Well, we usually don’t do a biopsy when the woman is pregnant.”   The "positive" they were talking about was my pregnancy test.  He gave me a big hug and I cried.

My first pregnancy was easy.  I had a young, thin 22 year old body to start out with.  No kids or dogs to take care of.  No husband traveling 5 days a week. No house that I was renovating.  But none of this mattered.   I LOVED BEING PREGNANT!  Being pregnant is the most cool thing in the world. 

Towards the end of my first trimester, we were on vacation.  My husband and I got the little guy to bed and were having some adult playtime (more enjoyable when the stress of trying to conceive is removed).  After an incredibly intense orgasm, I started spotting.  I started crying, I was shaking uncontrollably.  My husband called the doctor and I was instructed to stay on my back as much as possible and return home immediately.  We flew home the next day, me lying on my back to and from the airport in the car.  I laid on the table with the ultrasound moving back and forth on my swelling belly, terrified that I would not see that little blob and hear the whoosh, whoosh sound of the heart beat.  There it was.  The baby was ok and it was determined that I had partial placenta previa- a placenta  that covers part of the cervical opening.  I had to stay on the couch for a week and orgasms were prohibited until further notice.  We would keep an eye on the placenta and hope it moved out of the way as the delivery date became closer.  It did move and I was cleared for orgasms and a regular delivery.

I had my first son all naturally and intended to do the same this time.  I went into labor in the middle of the night and arrived at the hospital around 8:00 a.m.  I was well on my way and boy did it HURT!  I was either older or this kid was bigger.  I was determined and after some intense moments with dropping fetal heartbeats and some hyperventilation, a baby was born.  I didn’t want to find out the sex with either child, and while I had thought one of each would be nice, I was thrilled to have another boy.  We didn’t have a name yet.  A couple of choices for a boy and girl, but no decision.  Finally getting to meet the little person who I had held in my body for 9 months (and one really long extra week) was wonderful.  He was a 9/9 Apgar score.  Perfect in every way.  His brother came to meet him after school and then it was time for me to move to my regular room.  The nurse said they were going to take him to the nursery and would bring him to me in a little while.  I got settled and family visited.  Around 5:00, I asked the nurse when they were going to bring him in.  She said they were doing some tests; he was having a slight breathing issue.  No need to be alarmed.  More visitors (why do people want to crowd the room of a woman who has just delivered a baby without any drugs?)  No baby.  I am getting worried.  My husband returned after getting our son settled with my mother.  The doctor came in and said that our baby was having some problems. They were not quite sure what was going on. 

“Try to rest.”

I was feeling sick.  I was exhausted.  I was in physical pain.  I was confused. How could my perfect little baby be having a problem?  Why weren’t they bringing him in?  Where was he? 

Midnight. The doctor came in and said, “Your baby is very sick.  We are moving him to the neonatal intensive care unit (level III pediatric trauma).  We don’t know what is wrong and we don’t know if he will make it through the night.”

My husband sat down hard on the bed.  I was stunned.  I am the type who is always on top of things, superior in an emergency, caretaker of all.  I was so tired.  I couldn’t think straight. What are they saying?  Did they just really say that he might not make it through the night?  What are they talking about? 

“I want to see him.”

“We are getting him settled and you can come down in about an hour.  What is his name?” 

Oh God.  We hadn’t picked a name yet.

“We are still deciding.”

He left.

We were both crying.  We didn’t have a name.  This was bad luck.  We had to decide.  He couldn’t just be some nameless baby in the intensive care.  As infrequently as my husband and I agreed, a quick decision was made:  B. My cousin’s name, but I had always liked it. The middle name would be my father’s name. I got out of bed and we knelt on the ground next to the bed. We held hands and prayed for God’s will for our baby B.

I was so tired.  That kind of tired you feel when you have been in labor for 15 hours and had a baby without any medication, kind of tired.  My doctor had been adamant that I take something for my pain.  I finally gave in.  I  fell asleep for about 30 minutes and when I woke up I was rejuvenated.  I was alert, clear, calm. I could go to the intensive care now and ask the necessary questions so that I could be an advocate for my baby.

The nurse showed us how to prepare ourselves to enter the NICU.  This would become our routine for the next 10 days.  We had to scrub our fingers, nails, arms to the elbow with soap for a couple of minutes then put on a gown.  I looked around the room at all the teeny, tiny babies- 10 oz, 2 lbs, etc.  B was lying in a plastic covered bed, hooked up to wires, tubes all around, IV’s in his little tiny body.  My son at almost 8 pounds was a giant compared to these other babies.  We could not touch him.  I could not nurse him.  I had to trust that they would take care of him and that everything would be ok. 

B slowly got better.  After a few days, they let me nurse him every 6 hours, so I would drive to the hospital, scrub up, and hold my sweet boy to my chest and send all my love and strength into his little body.  The diagnosis ultimately was “probable” transient tachypnea, a respiratory distress syndrome, although the pediatrician would never say that was definitely the cause.

B came home.  

A few weeks later we were at the doctor for a checkup and vaccinations.  I undressed him down to his diaper and the doctor examined him.  His belly button stub had shriveled into a little black stump.  I had been caring for it the way they tell you- a little vaseline, careful to not tug on it when removing his diaper, etc.  The doctor said, “That can really come off now.”  He snipped it off, finished his exam and left the room. 

The little stub was sitting on a guaze pad. 

I started dressing B.  Gently pushing those little, tiny limbs into his gown, straightening and wiggling his outfit on. 

What were they going to do with the stub?

I pulled his little socks on.

Are they going to throw it in the trash?

I sat him up, with my hand behind him pulling down the gown bunched up behind his back.

Will it go in that red medical waste bucket on the wall? With the syringes?

I wrapped him up and put him in his carrier, gathering my things.

I looked around, grabbed a tissue, wrapped the tissue around the gauze and the stub and plopped it in my purse. 

When I got home, I sealed it in the corner of a baggie and taped it in his baby book.

OK.  I know it seems weird.  But, throwing it away?  In the red box? With the syringes?  Besides, I already had his brother's.  It fell off at home and didn't seem as weird when I saved it.  Wouldn't this prevent some terrible sibling rivalry when they were adults looking in their baby books, realizing that I had only saved one of their belly buttons? 

Today, this baby became a teen.  A teen!  Handsome, funny, smart.  He slow danced with 5 girls at a friend's bar mitzvah last night, but still cuddled on the couch with me this morning watching Sponge Bob. 

Gratitude does not begin to express how I feel when I think back to what could have been, but was averted this night, 13 years ago.