Here we are, 20 years old

Today, Sofie turns 20 years old. In one more year, she's no longer eligible for public school, and I pointed that out to Randy. She loves the bus, and she loves to go to school. Randy shushed me and I'm glad he did. "Let's not talk about it." The idea of our last year of school kept me awake around midnight last night. Sometimes it's a relief to pretend.

I had always said that one day I would post the story of exactly how Sofie's life came to be. It seemed more important a few years ago, and less so now. But I'm hashing it out as briefly as I can for the friends and family who've been curious but maybe never known.

I was 37 years old when I was on a short flight to Boise and fell asleep on the shoulder of the passenger sitting next to me. I woke up and apologized profusely and wondered what could be wrong with me? I've never been a napper. I didn't feel sick. But a little voice told me to buy a pregnancy test as soon as I got my rental car and situated and so I did. The test strip was positive for a pregnancy. And I nearly died as we'd trudged through infertility issues and treatments for a few years and I'd sort of given up hope. I called Randy and he nearly died too.

Twenty years ago today my water broke. "Are you sure?" the triage nurse asked. Sometimes I cannot believe the questions asked in medicine. And so we were checked in. It was such a relief to be to this point. The disbelief at this miraculous pregnancy, and then making it to 40 weeks with no issues (outside of maternal age) was an incredible relief. I was so naive and blissfully thought we were good. I would be wrong. So wrong.

I remember looking out the window and seeing the snow come down, heavily and peacefully. The rumor was the power was out and the hospital was running on a generator. Our veteran nurse had another patient in labor. Maybe even a third, in varying stages. I remember pushing for hours and hours. Sofie would descend down the birth canal and make progress, and then spring back up. The OB resident would come in and check and trace her fingers around the top of Sofie's scalp and tell me to push, and I would, and then she'd comment that the pressure on her fingers was painful. She had a medical student do the same, with the same result, and maybe even another veteran nurse. Yet we continued the same course. Pushing, snowing, pushing, snowing... Later the nurse put me on oxygen. Pushing, snowing. We kept asking her to reach out to our doctor, to please call him in. But he didn't come. She said the fetal heart monitor was reassuring. Until late that night when it wasn't. Then our doctor appeared. He was quiet and quietly asked for some forceps. They brought out a mirror thinking that would reinvigorate me as I was beyond exhausted. I saw the silver reflection of the forceps and while I knew it was not a good sign I knew we needed help. Finally she was delivered...face up. Her cord was wrapped tightly around her neck. There was no cry. I remembered thinking, aren't babies supposed to cry? She was blue. The nurses tried to put her up to my chest as a reflexive bonding mechanism, but I knew she needed medical help far worse than she needed me.

A little while later, they brought her back to me and she looked beautiful. And she looked okay. She was swaddled and looked comfortable but started the tiniest little "grunting" noises. Very, very slight. Randy and I didn't know what to make of it, but it didn't seem as though anything was wrong. And she didn't latch. A girlfriend of mine came to visit that following morning and noticed her difficulty latching and then instinctively unswaddled her. Her feet and legs and mid torso were blue. The next while was a blur of shock on the heels of exhaustion. An emergency CT of the spine and brain. The NICU nurses asked if I wanted to speak to members of the Mormon church, who were handy. I said I would take anyone. Two kind gentlemen approached, and one began to tell me "he'd lost a child at birth". I stared ahead, so I'm going to lose this precious child at birth? So they're here because she's going to die at any moment and everyone must know this. I didn't hear anything else he said. They performed a blessing. A nurse practitioner from the NICU advised we let her go. She said Sofie would most likely end up with hydrocephalus and it would be a terrible life for her and us. I didn't hear anything else she said. The room was spinning. But in the background I could sort of hear the NICU physician on a phone call with a doctor from the local children's hospital. I remembered being so grateful that this man, who had just been a complete stranger to us, was trying his hardest on our behalf. He looked frazzled but took marching orders from the doc on the phone. He took out a needle and stuck it in the side of Sofie's head and started pulling back on the syringe. He said the doctor told him he needed to relieve pressure on the brain. He filled the syringe up with blood a few times and then she was whisked off to the Children's hospital. Randy went with. I sat in my blood-stained gown in a wheelchair in disbelief. 

I left against medical advice for the Children's hospital. We waited in the waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. Finally the pediatric neurosurgeon came out. They performed an emergency craniotomy (on a newborn, no less) because Sofie has suffered a very large subdural hematoma that had caused her brain to shift. She coded on the operating room table. Twice. The doctor told us "if she lives 72 hours, she might make it". I kept thinking 72 hours, 72 hours. That seemed like such an eternity...and then to think she might not live after that? How would we get through this? A day or so later, I drove home to take a shower, and passed the same cemetery I'd always passed and I thought maybe we can bury her there. I remembered wondering how does one even plan a funeral? Being the practical Midwesterner that I am, I thought maybe I could return the baby furniture. That night I read about a culture that among its most superstitious believers, does not decorate the nursery until after the baby is brought home. I thought they were the wisest people on Earth.

By the grace of God, Sofie did survive. We survived. Our marriage survived. It has not been easy. There have been lots of surgeries since. A few close calls. And we've survived those, too. Thank you God. I suppose we need to make future plans, but it is hard. How will our girl ever understand our absence one day? The idea brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. So much worse than the end of school. No one will ever love your child like you will. Except for the heroic doctors who kept her here.