I teased him, "Gee, don't you look cute!!"
He stood to one side of me. For some reason, the contractions had slowed a bit. It was like a calm had suddenly come over me. The doctor sat below, waiting.
"Just push whenever you're ready," he said.
In that moment, it was oddly quiet. I could here the clock ticking on the wall.
I felt a contraction at last, took a breath, and pushed.
The doctor caught her in hands. With that one push, she had popped out completely. It was like the doctor was a catcher and she was the ball.
He handed her off to a team from the NICU. I couldn't see anything. Two or three doctors were working on her frantically. I kept trying to get up and see what was going on.
The nurses were saying, "Don't worry, they'll bring her in a minute, you'll be able to see."
Tony walked over to the table. He looked down at his newly born daughter.
"Does she have Down Syndrome?" he asked.
I felt as if the floor had been dropped out from under me.
"Why do you want to know that?" I said to him.
Children with Down Syndrome have certain physical characteristics. Since Tony had initially studied education in college, he was required to take courses in Special Education. He had learned in those courses what the those physical markers are. Some of these can be as obvious as the upward and outward slight of the eye, the smaller and lower set ears, and the flat appearance of the face, to things that are more insidious, such as white patches on the iris of the eyes, to poor muscle tone. A child can have all of these markers, only a few, or none at all. Someone can also have things like slighted eyes, etc, and not have Down Syndrome.
But it was her eyes that aroused Tony's suspicions.
I felt a sudden sense of relief. "Oh, well," I said, "I have almond shaped eyes." She probably just has eyes like mine."
It is true; my eyes are shared that way. But looking over at my husband, I could tell this didn't comfort him.
The neonatologist spoke up, saying that the only way we would know definitively whether she had Down Syndrome or not is through a chromosome test, which would take 24 hours.
By this time, she was already in an incubator. I was not able to hold her. They wheeled the incubator up to my bed. I couldn't really see much of her. There was an infant in a machine hooked up to tubes and monitors. I couldn't look in her eyes, or touch her hands. I felt a strange disconnect. I had carried an infant in my body for eight months. But was this my infant? I felt a ravishing hunger pour through me. The baby in this machine might as well not have been mine. But I knew she was. That was what was so crushing.
I was riddled with guilt. Once again, my body had betrayed me, producing a sickly, struggling infant. In my most intense moments of fear, I would have never imagined what happened with Jared could happen again; and for that matter, be worse. I once again would miss the chance of holding a newborn baby to my chest after it had just left my body; an experience many women say was one of the peak experiences of their lives; the essence of what it means to be a woman.
My doctor stood by my bed and held my hand as I cried.
They wheeled me back to my room. The look of devastation on Tony's face broke my heart. I felt as though I had disappointed him. I didn't know what to say to him.
I tried to be positive for his sake. "Well, Down Syndrome is not the end of the world," I said. "At least the baby is alive."
A moment later the doctors would bring news that would start us on a journey like no other, and would change our lives forever. At that second, our universe was permanently altered.
Two neonatologists entered my room. I don't remember the words they said verbatim, but they went something like this: "we cannot feed the baby. Her esophagus appears to not be connected. We are preparing to transport her to UCLA for surgery."
I asked him again. "Does she have Down Syndrome?"
"We will not perform the tests here because she will be leaving," one of the doctors said. "They will perform the test at UCLA."
With that, they left. There were no words to say between us. We just sat there, unmoving, as stationary as stone. There was only shock. And silence. A deeper silence than I have ever experienced before, or since.
Like everything in life went black.
"Why do you want to know that?" I said to him.
Children with Down Syndrome have certain physical characteristics. Since Tony had initially studied education in college, he was required to take courses in Special Education. He had learned in those courses what the those physical markers are. Some of these can be as obvious as the upward and outward slight of the eye, the smaller and lower set ears, and the flat appearance of the face, to things that are more insidious, such as white patches on the iris of the eyes, to poor muscle tone. A child can have all of these markers, only a few, or none at all. Someone can also have things like slighted eyes, etc, and not have Down Syndrome.
But it was her eyes that aroused Tony's suspicions.
I felt a sudden sense of relief. "Oh, well," I said, "I have almond shaped eyes." She probably just has eyes like mine."
It is true; my eyes are shared that way. But looking over at my husband, I could tell this didn't comfort him.
The neonatologist spoke up, saying that the only way we would know definitively whether she had Down Syndrome or not is through a chromosome test, which would take 24 hours.
By this time, she was already in an incubator. I was not able to hold her. They wheeled the incubator up to my bed. I couldn't really see much of her. There was an infant in a machine hooked up to tubes and monitors. I couldn't look in her eyes, or touch her hands. I felt a strange disconnect. I had carried an infant in my body for eight months. But was this my infant? I felt a ravishing hunger pour through me. The baby in this machine might as well not have been mine. But I knew she was. That was what was so crushing.
I was riddled with guilt. Once again, my body had betrayed me, producing a sickly, struggling infant. In my most intense moments of fear, I would have never imagined what happened with Jared could happen again; and for that matter, be worse. I once again would miss the chance of holding a newborn baby to my chest after it had just left my body; an experience many women say was one of the peak experiences of their lives; the essence of what it means to be a woman.
My doctor stood by my bed and held my hand as I cried.
They wheeled me back to my room. The look of devastation on Tony's face broke my heart. I felt as though I had disappointed him. I didn't know what to say to him.
I tried to be positive for his sake. "Well, Down Syndrome is not the end of the world," I said. "At least the baby is alive."
A moment later the doctors would bring news that would start us on a journey like no other, and would change our lives forever. At that second, our universe was permanently altered.
Two neonatologists entered my room. I don't remember the words they said verbatim, but they went something like this: "we cannot feed the baby. Her esophagus appears to not be connected. We are preparing to transport her to UCLA for surgery."
I asked him again. "Does she have Down Syndrome?"
"We will not perform the tests here because she will be leaving," one of the doctors said. "They will perform the test at UCLA."
With that, they left. There were no words to say between us. We just sat there, unmoving, as stationary as stone. There was only shock. And silence. A deeper silence than I have ever experienced before, or since.
Like everything in life went black.
Your words are honest and brave. I hadn't realized that you didn't know before Mishayla was born. I can imagine that this is a tough thing to write about--almost like re-living it. Thank you for sharing; I feel like I am getting to know you better and I admire you all the more.
ReplyDeleteRebecca