Cottonball Dreams

As I type these words, cotton ball, my favorite kind of snow, is delicately falling on the grass infront of my apartment, melting the very moment it would touch ground – candy flossy, something so special about how it makes me feel – happy, sad, pensive and nostalgic, all at the same time, besides being surreal and magical, like a page out of a book of fantasy. It instantly drifts me into a reverie; of days lived in the recent past, of nights and days disappearing in a blur in my sleepless zombie-like existence for the early parts. But most of all, it reminds me of the birth of this soft cuddly cotton ball next to me that is slowly drifting away into her dreamland, sleeping peacefully in the living room couch, cozily wrapped up in the warmth of her blankets, in the most awkward position one could envision, as a result of her newly acquired skill of ‘rolling over.’ Phew! Who would have thought that an act as trivial as ‘rolling over’ would one day become the most passionately debated dinnertime topic of our lives! ‘No, it takes time.’ ‘She is not ready for it yet.’ ‘I heard some kids skip roll over and sit up instead.’ ‘Do you think she will do that too?’ ‘Its ok, she is fine, let’s just eat our dinner now, shall we?’ hashtag firstworldproblems hashtag newparentwoes

What however makes these clumsy, silly discussions worthwhile now is when I think of the day our munchkin was born, when we were asking more serious questions such as, is she breathing fine, is she responding to sound, eye movement, human contact and so on and so forth. This cotton ball of mine, impatient to see the world, was born pre-term, on the 35^th week of my pregnancy. After spending 35 weeks in my womb, she had spent the first 12 days of her ‘life’ in NICU (Neo-natal intensive care unit) with busy nurses and doctors attending on her, flipping her and poking her for blood samples, urine samples, heartbeat count, breathing, hearing and what have you. And as soon as I was discharged from the hospital, that is two days after delivery, instead of ‘bringing’ her home, the ordeal of ‘visiting’ my daughter in NICU had began. I still remember the drive from hospital to home; it was anything but easy to have left behind a part of me in the company of strangers. Strangers who arranged for a suit for me and baby in the hospital for the night before she was finally going to be discharged, so that they can monitor my ‘performance’ of caring for this infant child of mine. This probably was the greatest test I ever had to sit for. ‘Will they not let me take her home if I fail?’ Luckily I passed this test. But far from being offended for having to prove my capability as a mother, I could only feel a deep sense of gratitude towards these people who saw to it that my baby was fine before she was to be whisked away and taken under my wings. On the 12^th day of her existence, she was finally ready to be ‘brought home.’ Paper work was sorted, important documents were handed to us, and signatures were printed wherever required, and this tiny little thing was strapped to the car seat in which she was barely able to sit up. I remember a young and petite nurse escorting us to the gate and how profusely I had thanked her for all that they had done, making her a little uncomfortable in the presence of other people; these nurses deal with anything between five to ten of these infants on a normal day, how are they to fathom what they mean to the parents of these babies!

Just the other day I came across a very heartfelt letter written by a mother of twin boys who were born pre-term with some complications in a cold January morning in Chicago. This mother, so grateful to the doctors and nurses of the Intensive care unit, had decided to write ‘thank you’ notes to them every year till the boys turned 18. Heartwarming isn’t it? That’s what I thought. What inspired this thoughtful gesture, besides her obvious gratefulness, was that, while she would pray and beg for her babies to recover during those trying days, she would see ‘thank you messages’ from parents of recently discharged babies, freshly brought in by the nurses everyday, that would be dutifully hung on a wall across the room. She had said that these notes used to give her hope in thinking that she too, would be writing them very soon. Finally she said,  “those parents who are right now peering into the bassinet which has their heartbeat in it, they should know that they too would be sending these sloppy, emotional notes of gratitude eventually.’ Ah! All so wonderfully relatable!

The image of ‘peering into bassinets’ must be one of the most common sights in the NICU of any hospital. Since one cannot exactly lift and scoop the baby in arms as one would like (thanks to the numerous wires and pipes attached to them) one could only gawk at them as they sleep away for most parts of the day, oblivious to the world. When I think of our errands to the hospital during those days, the first thing I remember are the anxious, tired and worried faces of new parents, some nursing, some dozing off right next to their child on a chair, some sanitizing hands before entering the special unit, too happy to adhere to protocols this one time. Protocols remind me instantly of the ‘car seat test.’ This was a requirement of the US government for pre-term babies. This was important so that we know if baby is ready to take the ride home; to avoid choking or difficulty in breathing considering pre-terms are usually tinier. So it was not just I, but munchkin too, in the 11^th day of her life, sat (quite literally) for a test!

So finally and eventually baby came home at long last, leaving behind her tiny human friends in NICU, with whom she struck a chord in their synchronized crying, just to think of the level of patience these nurses need to have to be able to handle a bunch of wailing, screeching babies at once. Munchkin’s homecoming was a plain and simple one in the absence of grandparents who had booked their tickets as per my scheduled delivery. So we just said a little prayer and marked her homecoming. Some of our friends made up for the absence of family. Soon began the business of the husband offering hand sanitizer to the uninitiated at the drop of a hat, while I would pray he be less direct about it. The first night at home was an easy breeze, thanks to my rehearsal night at NICU. Countless sleepless nights followed thereafter, having to wake up after every two to three hours for feeding. The husband meanwhile jostled between a full time MBA, a part-time job, and between serving as  full-time cook and part-time nanny. God bless this man who, prompted by keen in-laws, made concoctions out of fenugreek and milk (yuck!), celery soup, khichdi, chicken soup so that I heal better and faster. Soon I was back on my feet; marveling at how quickly the labor pain was forgotten, all so easy it seemed now. Parents arrived soon after, and it was already a month! A small ceremony to mark  baby’s  first month was performed. Days melted into weeks and weeks into months. And then I batted my eyes, and baby turned all of 6 months! Seeing my unabashed display of excitement on baby’s ‘halfie birthday’ over social media, my cousin said she feels dizzy to imagine what will happen when she turns one. To be honest, I dread to think about it too. However, before we touch that mark, we have some more exciting dinnertime topics stored ahead - sitting up, solid food, crawling, standing, taking the first few steps and if only this list ever ended! Till then we pray that this journey always remains as exciting, well, little less tiring if possible, sometimes compounding, occasionally challenging, yet never ceasing to be full of fun.

The Birth Story

                                                           

It is Thursday evening. A sharp pain like cramping of my lower abdomen would come and go. Given my high threshold to endure physical pain, and an aversion for pain killers, I decide to not panic and observe for as long as I can handle it. After letting an hour pass, when the pain does not subside, I calmly tell the husband, that this certainly does not feel like a normal abdomen cramp. He, almost leaping out of his seat, asks me, if this is ‘contraction pain’ I am experiencing. Bless the parenting classes we went for, this man is well prepared. So we decide to call the doctor’s clinic, a calming voice at the other end tells us to watch and keep count of the contractions, and also casually adds that, this must be ‘early labor’, or ‘Braxton hicks’ as medically known. Needless to say, the next few hours are spent doing what we are advised to - earnestly keeping count of contractions. I realize the pain keeps coming back in pattern, and the fear and anxiety of an early delivery becomes more and more palpable starting from this point.  

The day retires into a never-ending night of anticipating pain after every 5 to 10 minutes. But I know I still want to give it some time. Towards Friday afternoon, I call the clinic again, and get referred to the Sister’s charity hospital – the one we chose for delivery. They take couple of long and hard look at me, and send me home. Why? Because apparently I am not dilated enough, in other words, my body was slowly preparing for delivery, but I was not quite there yet. They want to wait for another week since I have just completed my 35^th week, and 36^th is considered ideal for labor and delivery. We drive back home – a quiet drive since both of us are doing our own mental calculations and weighing the situation. We reach home, clouded with questions, burdened with the uncertainty of things. How bad is it going to be if I deliver within this week? Will baby do just fine? Does this happen often? Why am I in labor so early? Parents aren’t going to be here shortly, how will we manage? Will friends be in town this week? We will see. We reach home, and the pain doesn’t fade, but doesn’t pick up either. By next day (Saturday evening), I am exhausted from the ordeal of hanging in there, of expecting the pain to magically disappear, or to build up just enough for delivery, but neither of this happens. And after testing my patience for as long as I could bear it, slowly, steadily and eventually the pain picks up. I say enough is enough and call the Doctor once again. He now asks me to go to the hospital for the second time (I pray let this be the final time). We pick up our hospital bags (both mine and husband’s), which was kept ready from a month (finally I get my answer to why this was so important), say a little prayer, glance through the house for the last time, because something was telling me, next time I step in, I will be carrying a baby in my arms. Just the thought of it! Sigh!

In the hospital reception counter, paper work gets done and a very kind and friendly nurse preps me up for check-up. The resident Doctor, Dr Singhal, a petite young Indian lady, repeats the ghastly and excruciatingly painful process of checking for dilation once again, and declares that although I am progressing well, they still can’t say anything for certain till it picks up and reaches 7cm dilation. I squirm, change sides, as I lay on the bed of the room for early labor, almost bruising husband’s hands for transfer of some magic power to help me endure the pain, but nothing ever helps. Probably more than the pain, the uncertainty of things makes me lose my cool. Will I finally get to see my baby today? Or could dilatation stop and I could be sent home for one more time? Aren’t you going to give me some sedative? ‘I cannot take this anymore, do you hear me?’ I want to shout from rooftop, so they would listen. But only if they could feel my pain! By 2 am my screams and pain get harder  to ignore, they finally decide to give me painkillers, starting in small doses, going up in every half an hour. The nurse and the resident doctor is keeping a close monitor of how things are progressing and keeping the attending Doc, Dr. Bartles (the one who was going to do the delivery) informed over phone, who probably must be delivering another baby right at this point. An Indian Anastasia practitioner walks in with epidural now. A cathode, to pass the epidural through, is carefully placed on my spine. It fails the first time, he takes the whole darn thing off my back like drilling out a nail from the wall; pokes my spine for the second time in a different spot, between the same lumbers, between frustration and annoyance, declares, “never seen anyone show such resistance to epidural.” Well, not intentional! I wanted to say. He murmurs that if it fails the second time, he would like the 7 am guy to do it, instead of poking me for the third time. My mental calculation of the wait from 2.30 to 7 am sends me into a tizzy. But luckily, even before I could protest, it works magically the second time. It slowly relieves me of the sharp piercing pain, just enough to still feel the contractions, which I am told is necessary to be able to push, and slowly my lower body starts to feel partially numb. Now the new nurse (new shift) shoves a pipe up my urinary track right after a courteous hello (Jesus Christ!! what the hell was that!); this is done so that I can relieve myself on the bed, no question of getting up from bed now with all the wires hanging from my body. By now I lose all sense of time and day. Probably around 10 am, Dr Singhal shows up, checks for dilation for what I realize is the last time. The process feels less painful now, thanks to the epidural.  She says I am 8 cm dilated and this is when she declares that I would be delivering in few hours from now! What so far felt like forever now feels hasty, sudden, and almost abrupt. So there! The moment has finally arrives. A mixed feeling of relief and nervousness grips me. I look across the room for the husband who arrives just in time from an errand home. Dr Singhal comes back in no time; a sense of urgency builds up in the air as the support staff preps up the room for delivery.  Dr Singhal very casually tells me what she is going to do now, ‘I am going to break your water now, okay?’ Holy mother of God!! What!! Sorry, whaaaaat? Did you just say…are you going to…are you insane…can I run away? But alas, she is dead serious. She does exactly what she says, just with a prick which I cannot feel, she breaks my water; no sensation whatsoever, I mean by now even if a bulldozer ran through my lower body I couldn’t care! This however helps move baby slowly down the birth canal.

Now I am ready to push, no I am not, I am only brainwashed to think I am. Nurse asks me to push when the contractions build up, which is after every 15 minutes. Phew! Now the technicalities of pushing - keeping chin down, of getting it right, of believing I could do it, bruising husband’s hand for the final time, between contractions, ice chips, to sooth the dry mouth from screaming my gut out, and just keeping at it, not losing focus, not giving up, just trying to push baby down, that’s all, but that’s everything. Thousand questions running through my tired mind. When is the real doctor making his grand entry? Why is he taking so long? Would he even make it? Or am I going to deliver with a resident doctor after all the wait? And as I wreck my brain with these concerns, all of a sudden, Dr. Bartels walks into the room almost stealthily in his white armor. A middle aged man who has ‘gentleness’ written all over him, one who lets his work do the talking, who doesn’t speak, but coos, and all that sass, who prepares you (even in that condition), before touching you, a voice, soft enough to sound gentle, and firm enough to sound confident, that comes with years of experience I suppose, giving you the confidence that he can’t get anything wrong; most importantly that I am not going to die! He is settled in now, but a little hiccup – the nurse declares that I am not getting the pushing bit right. So the husband, this time my knight in ‘midwify’ armor, cutely jumps in to show how to push (sending me into a giggle fit in my mind) Good lord! Have to admit the support and encouragement help. ‘You are doing fab honey’, the nurse goes, thanks for the motivation, I need all of that and more. Doc calls husband to show the hairy head that is visible now, hubs witnessing the unfathomable sight gulps so deep and hard that it almost reverberates in the room; nurse quickly checks on him to see if he is alright, something that needed doing considering how often men faint in delivery rooms. After some more sweating and shrieking and pushing, Dr Bartles decides to make few cuts down there, to make the process easier. Quite freakishly I exactly know what is going on right now (Hail birthing classes again), but too numb to feel any pain. I am asked to push again, nurse getting excited, “daddy, is your camera ready?’ I, insanely happy hearing these words, probably this is intentional to get me motivated for the final push, I couldn’t tell, but hey, it worked! And with that one final push, baby’s head floats out while the doc pulls out the rest of the baby from within me, as i lay there marveling at the miracle that birthing is! Baby cries relentlessly, shaking, almost fainting with the wailing and protesting. The father is asked to cut the umbilical chord. Time of birth is yelled across to the person who is assigned to record it. I remember saying ‘O my God’ for as long as it tires me. An expression I choose when my brain stops to function. I lay on the delivery bed – bare, exhausted, happy, proud and most of all, in pain, while the doc stitches me up like the Thanksgiving turkey, with attention to minute details. Pictures of baby are dutifully taken by one of the many attendants who swarm into the room for various duties. Baby is wrapped in the trademark hospital cloth with pink and blue stripes and handed to daddy and then to me for a wee bit, before she is whisked away for tests. 

This sure is my mini celebrity moment, despite the obvious oddity of lying on a delivery bed in my full glory. The time of our daughter’s birth is yelled out over phone to my dad. We thank everyone in the birthing room profusely. Pictures are instantly sent across million miles, putting anxious parents and siblings to relief. Friends arrive on the scene and more than make up for absence of family. Congratulatory messages from the hospital staff start floating in the room. And the two of us, the new mommy and daddy, we declare that we finally became parents!! All so dreamlike! We name our daughter ‘Tanaya’, Sanskrit for ‘daughter’, and hope and pray that she lives a happy, healthy an a fulfilling life.