In certain circumstances, there is nothing in this world so terrifying as silence. Chief among those situations is at the birth of a baby. You expect to hear an angry cry, to see a purple face with eyes scrunched in rage and effort. You don’t expect to hear a faint whimper and raspy breaths. You don’t expect to see a grey and bloody little form shivering on your abdomen before someone scoops her up and out of sight behind a wall of white coats. In a silence like that, the squeak of wheels and scuff of feet as they take your baby away are deafening.
But that’s how it happened. Before I could even hold her, she was out the door and on her way to the NICU.
The next two hours were a blur. I remember making Ruyman, always a fan of blood and guts, look at the placenta. Then he left to find our baby and hopefully get some answers. I dozed, feeling more thirsty than I’ve ever been in my life. (Ice is a rarity in Spain. Ice chips for women in labor? Forget it. I got two small sips of water.)
Eventually I was wheeled into a recovery ward. I had no idea where Ruyman was and really hoped the feeling wasn’t mutual. A nurse questioned me about my medical history and, as I had no other options, I did my best to communicate. My sister-in-law Tatiana helped where she could, which I appreciated.
A few hours passed and I still had no word about the baby or from Ruyman. I started to get a little panicky. Calls to Ruy’s cell and questions to the nurse went unanswered. When my husband finally came in the room, he told me the baby was in an incubator in the NICU. Scans had revealed a hole in one lung, so she was hooked up to a respirator and several monitors. He had been able to touch her, but only with two fingers through a special opening in the incubator. She was stable, but still not breathing well.
“Oh, and she has part of an eleventh finger attached to her pinkie,” Ruyman said, off-handedly.
“Not funny,” I replied.
“Who said I was joking?”
After this brief update, Ruyman returned to the NICU, taking his mother, sister, and uncle with him. He promised to bring me as soon as he could track down a wheelchair and get the nurses’ okay. I was left with the patient on the other side of the curtain and her entire extended family. This included her four year-old son who was the proud possessor of enough head lice to occupy Paris. Needless to say, this was not the calmest half hour of my life.
Just when I thought it couldn’t be worse, the night nurse came in. I have nothing but respect for the gentle, caring, hardworking Florence Nightingales of the world. They are a boon to patients and their families everywhere. This woman, however, had done her nurses’ training at Auschwitz.
“Get up,” she barked. “You’re going to take a shower.”
I explained I was waiting for my husband to return so I could visit my baby and would it be possible for me to shower later?
“If you don’t shower, you’re not going anywhere, especially not to see your kid.”
“At least let me call my husband and tell him where I am.”
“Absolutely not. Listen. I got a lot of patients and I don’t have time to waste on you. Get in the bathroom, take off your clothes, and take a shower!”
Having no other choice, I followed instructions. When the nurse followed me into the bathroom to observe the shower, I half expected her to take my valuables and inspect my mouth for gold teeth she could retrieve after she’d gassed me to death. Instead, she eyed my naked, blood-covered body and commanded me to pee. Given that this same nurse had, hours earlier, forbidden me to drink anything, I was unable to comply.
It was at this point I broke into tears. The nurse was unmoved. She tossed a towel and fresh gown at me, then watched as I dried, changed, and shuffled back to bed.
Ruyman came in with a wheelchair a half hour later and together we went to see our child. This is what she looked like.
I wasn’t allowed to touch her at that point, so all I could do was look, worry, and pray. In all honesty, that evening was probably the worst night of my life.
But it got better.
On the afternoon of the next day, the baby was transferred to a less intensive care unit and we were able to hold her for the first time. The nurses working with Anya were considerate and kind. They provided much-needed instruction and advice on how to care for her. It wasn’t long before the hole in her lung healed itself and she was breathing without help. She was kept a few more days to monitor some tremors she was having, but those subsided as well. (The eleventh finger, by the way, was merely a large mole on her pinkie. Some day we'll get it removed but it's really not that big a deal.)
Meanwhile, after an altercation between Ruyman and the nurse from hell, things in the recovery ward improved, too. My roommate went home and I was able to enjoy some quiet time by myself, complete with mostly-edible meals delivered regularly. My doctors took pains to make sure I transitioned to new medications successfully and extended my stay so I could spend as much time as I could with Anya.
One week after her birth, Anya and I were released from the hospital and the real business of parenting had begun.
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