Win Some, Lose Some
When my grandaughter entered my life it was like a million twinkling lights went off all at the same time. She's two years old now. And in the past two years she has woven herself into the fabric of my heart. She has joined the threads of two families weaving a new pattern into all of our lives. I look at her and see in her, as in all children, the embodiment of life and hope.
I have another grandaughter. She's thirteen now. Through a series of paranoid decisions, this little one has not been allowed to be a part of my life nor me hers. Without a doubt the loss of her presence in my life has left its mark.
There's one part of her story that I'd like to share simply because I have a need to do so. She really was a miracle baby. Her mother had many medical problems. The hospital had even advised her to abort in order to not put a strain on her own body. But the pregnancy was to go on and I stood ground with her. For the next nine months I spent all my time at the hospital. Seven of those months was just making sure the baby stayed where it was supposed to. Finally the decision had to be made that it was time for the baby to be born. The mother's body couldn't take any more strain. I remember the day my son and I stood outside of the operating room waiting anxiously for any sign to let us know what was happening. Suddenly the one nurse turned, gave the thumbs up and we heard a cry. She was here at last. The neonatal ICU crew came and in a few short moments had carried her away to their unit. She weighed in at 2 pounds 3 ounces. Wow! A pound of meat and a pound of cheese would never look the same to me again.
For the next two months I came to know the NICU inside and out. Every evening and weekends was spent sitting by her incubator. Just the fact I could reach in and touch her brought a thrill to me. I could hardly wait to hold her. But as we watched our own little one fighting for her life, I saw many others around her doing the same thing. Babies would be flown in by helicopter, others from within the hospital itself and still others brought in by ambulance. Some of the babies stayed for a couple of hours. Some stayed for a day or two. And then there were the "others". Each day I'd walk to the unit and stand at the sink scrubbing up like a doctor before I could put on a gown to see my precious bundle. I'd push the door open to the unit and wonder what child would still be there. I always held my breath to see which space was now empty and cleaned. Teddy bears and pictures decorated the incubators of the "regulars". I remember one mother who had a space near ours. Her little boy didn't have anything in his incubator. So the next day I brought him a teddy and the mother thanked me. We talked for a little bit, hugged and then went to our stations to watch and pray. The next day I came in and his bed was empty, the space cleaned and readied for the next crisis child to arrive. I cried for the loss of that little life and the mother that would never be able to hold her son again. Each time this happened I held my grandaughter a little closer, prayed a littler harder and whispered the secret things a grandmother does to her grandchild.
I saw life come and go in this unit. To me this was the war room of the hospital. Battles of life and death fought on a daily basis by the smallest of the human race. These, to me, were real troopers, real soldiers. They were brave without knowing it. I stood in awe of the care given by nurses and doctors who tirelessly stood by these little ones to help them take their next breath or to help them learn to suckle. Here they were still developing outside of the womb. Lungs were still developing, eyes were still being joined to the brain, intestines still forming for future work. What a wonder it all was.
The moral of my story? There isn't one. Just a need to bring to light the life of a little girl that I pray will one day be in my arms again. Some have asked if I would ever do it again. Of course I would. I'm a little older now and I'm not so sure the stamina is there. But I would do it again.
I have another grandaughter. She's thirteen now. Through a series of paranoid decisions, this little one has not been allowed to be a part of my life nor me hers. Without a doubt the loss of her presence in my life has left its mark.
There's one part of her story that I'd like to share simply because I have a need to do so. She really was a miracle baby. Her mother had many medical problems. The hospital had even advised her to abort in order to not put a strain on her own body. But the pregnancy was to go on and I stood ground with her. For the next nine months I spent all my time at the hospital. Seven of those months was just making sure the baby stayed where it was supposed to. Finally the decision had to be made that it was time for the baby to be born. The mother's body couldn't take any more strain. I remember the day my son and I stood outside of the operating room waiting anxiously for any sign to let us know what was happening. Suddenly the one nurse turned, gave the thumbs up and we heard a cry. She was here at last. The neonatal ICU crew came and in a few short moments had carried her away to their unit. She weighed in at 2 pounds 3 ounces. Wow! A pound of meat and a pound of cheese would never look the same to me again.
For the next two months I came to know the NICU inside and out. Every evening and weekends was spent sitting by her incubator. Just the fact I could reach in and touch her brought a thrill to me. I could hardly wait to hold her. But as we watched our own little one fighting for her life, I saw many others around her doing the same thing. Babies would be flown in by helicopter, others from within the hospital itself and still others brought in by ambulance. Some of the babies stayed for a couple of hours. Some stayed for a day or two. And then there were the "others". Each day I'd walk to the unit and stand at the sink scrubbing up like a doctor before I could put on a gown to see my precious bundle. I'd push the door open to the unit and wonder what child would still be there. I always held my breath to see which space was now empty and cleaned. Teddy bears and pictures decorated the incubators of the "regulars". I remember one mother who had a space near ours. Her little boy didn't have anything in his incubator. So the next day I brought him a teddy and the mother thanked me. We talked for a little bit, hugged and then went to our stations to watch and pray. The next day I came in and his bed was empty, the space cleaned and readied for the next crisis child to arrive. I cried for the loss of that little life and the mother that would never be able to hold her son again. Each time this happened I held my grandaughter a little closer, prayed a littler harder and whispered the secret things a grandmother does to her grandchild.
I saw life come and go in this unit. To me this was the war room of the hospital. Battles of life and death fought on a daily basis by the smallest of the human race. These, to me, were real troopers, real soldiers. They were brave without knowing it. I stood in awe of the care given by nurses and doctors who tirelessly stood by these little ones to help them take their next breath or to help them learn to suckle. Here they were still developing outside of the womb. Lungs were still developing, eyes were still being joined to the brain, intestines still forming for future work. What a wonder it all was.
The moral of my story? There isn't one. Just a need to bring to light the life of a little girl that I pray will one day be in my arms again. Some have asked if I would ever do it again. Of course I would. I'm a little older now and I'm not so sure the stamina is there. But I would do it again.
posted by Gammys Perspective at 12:19 AM
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