Friday, March 2
Dear Elizabeth,
You have begun to get a bit more fussy, mostly because you have the energy and maturity now to fuss. You are awake for longer periods these days, and you are often bored. We do our best to come as much as we can and to introduce things that stimulate you. This week, your grandmother sent you a mobile with black and white pandas sprawled on colorful stars hanging from its strings. You follow it with your eyes as it spins and turns above you.
Elizabeth,
Well, now it’s later, nearly midnight. As I was writing, you decided to wake up early. You were hungry and wanted everyone to know it. So naturally, I had to pick you up and hold you. Being with you always has priority over writing to you.
Before I turn in, I’m going to call PCN to check on you one last time. Did I mention that we are much happier with PCN than when we first started? We have met some wonderful nurses, and they are very fond of you. After a few rocky days, we have settled in nicely.
Saturday, March 3
My Elizabeth,
I read an article today about a group of American travelers hiking the Amazonian rainforest. Their native guides shouldered supplies and cleared the way for the novice hikers. The guides made their way expertly and energetically. Their spirits were high and their stamina unflagging. Yet, from time to time, they would take an unplanned break, pausing in stillness until bidden by an unseen signal to rise and carry on.
After observing this pattern for awhile, one of the members of the hiking party asked the lead guide the reasons for the frequent breaks. “Are the guides conserving their energy? Are they trying to cut the rest of us some slack?” asked the traveler.
“Ah, no,” responded the leader. “They are waiting for their souls to catch up with their bodies.”
It strikes me that you are in the reverse position. Your soul is here, resplendent and present. It’s your body we’re waiting on. Your spirit is complete and profoundly manifest, the elemental truth of who God created you to be, your essence uneclipsed by physical substance.
Philanthropist C. S. Mott said that children “are the most wholesome part of the human race, for they are freshest from the hand of God”. You are newborn in the purest sense of the word, a creation freshly formed by the Creator, still close to his kingdom.
At 3 pounds, 10 ounces, made in the image of God.
Sunday, March 4
Happy Due Date, Elizabeth!
Today is the day we circled on the calendar many, many months ago, the day you were finally supposed to arrive. Today is a bittersweet day for me: I’m so glad to have had you with us for all this time, but how different life would have been if you’d made your entrance now. Different for us, but especially different for you. Had you come into the world fully grown, you would have found the world a much more welcoming place.
I wonder what your impressions of the world are from your little bed. Your world is so small, but so full — of an endless parade of new people caring for you, of being wakened for scheduled feedings and procedures, of alarms sounding and babies crying and telephones ringing.
Daddy and I came back to see you at 11:00 last night. When we came into the room, you were crying, screaming, but there was no one there. I understand the math: only one nurse for every 4 or more babies, and if one baby is being fed or bathed, the others wait for attention. And the staff is busy providing medical care. Things like comforting and cuddling come second.
We picked you up, and you immediately calmed. It makes me crazy to think how often this might be happening when we’re not here. I have to admit that life in the hospital nursery is starting to wear me down. I feel like you’re growing up in the hospital, not a place where kids should live. Especially now that you’re full-term, I want you home where you belong.
Tuesday, March 6
Dear Elizabeth,
It is 8:30 in the evening, a nice hour in the unit. Both the light and the sound are softer. We are past the din of shift change, and the lights in your room have been turned down. At this stage in your development, they are trying to approximate the light cycles of day and night, dimming the overhead bulbs in the evening so that you begin to associate darkness with sleep.
I just finished rocking you to sleep, leaving me to my musings and you to your dreams. For weeks now, I have been cradling you and telling you about all of the things you have to look forward to: the simple pleasure of waking in your own bed, playing on the floor in a circle of sunlight, being strolled down the street to a symphony of birdsong. I am beginning to believe it myself.
We are starting to ready your room. Yesterday, your bedroom furniture arrived: a crib, a changing table, and a rocking chair carved with vines and flowers. Soft, fleecy bumper pads cushion the sides of your crib. A deep, yellow dust ruffle billows in the breeze. Gauzy ribbons grace the sheer panels at your windows. All these things are the handiwork of your gifted Aunt Cheryl. The room has been freshly painted, and stuffed animals spill from the shelves. It looks like a nursery; all it needs is a baby.
Your room is next to Pammy’s. Her room is crowded with over-stuffed pillows, half-drunk Pepsi bottles, photo collages, voice-activated dancing flowers. Clothes are heaped on the bed and in all corners; Calvin Klein underwear ads smirk from the walls. It makes for an interesting contrast as you walk down the hall.
There is a lot of noise from Pammy’s room, mostly the thumping rhythm of Metallica at high volume. At first, I assumed that we would have to tell her to keep it down. But the nurses have told me that when you come home, you may need noise to be able to sleep. Even though they are making an effort in the PCN to keep things quieter, you are accustomed to sleeping through alarms, conversations, and crying babies. You and Pammy should co-exist nicely.
Thursday, March 8
My Elizabeth,
Your newborn photos were delivered today. These are the pictures taken by the hospital photography service, usually within the first day or two after birth. Yours were taken last week. New parents flash these around with pride, and usually every baby pictured looks pretty much the same: ruddy skin, puffy face, bright, wild eyes.
In your photos, your face is delicate, your features are well defined, and your eyes look weary, so old. You look like a tiny war baby, a survivor of some terrible struggle.
At least your face is free of tubes. Your NG tube has been out for a few days, and you have been taking every feeding by breast or bottle. This is a relief to me as there is a possibility that you may come home next week (applause), and I was finding the insertion and extraction of the NG tube a little intimidating. Of course, I will do whatever I have to do. One of the things I have learned over the last four months is that sometimes I just have to deal with things I might have found daunting or even impossible in the past.
You still tire easily, and feeding you is a delicate process. At least once a day, you turn dusky, choke, and spit up the milk. It looks as though it will be weeks before we can have you on full breastfeeding. In the meantime, I will continue to express the milk and then give it to you by bottle, essentially going through the motions of feeding you twice.
Because your metabolism is fragile, when you come home, we will need to feed you at carefully maintained four-hour intervals. This means that even if you are able to sleep through the night, we will have to awaken you to feed you. I can see us now, setting the alarm for 3:00 a.m.: “Time to wake up the baby!” What’s wrong with this picture?
Friday, March 9
Hello, my girl,
I took you up to the NICU this morning to say hello to some of the nurses who cared for you in your early uncertain days.
“Hand over that baby,” commanded one. “You know she belongs to us.”
Another eyed you as though you were a bon-bon: “That nightgown really shows off your eyes.”
“Girlfriend!” cooed a third, “you are looking fine.”
Murmurs of agreement all around. Given the way they fussed over you, you would think you had just come from a very successful day at the spa.
These women appreciate you, Elizabeth. They know who you are and how far you have come.
On a certain level, I am glad to have had the experiences of these past four months. This has been a trip I would never have signed up for, but have learned so much through taking.
Aunt Carol compares it to planning a vacation to France. You pore over the travel brochures, planning your itinerary. You fantasize about centuries-old chateaux, sidewalk cafes, the Champs Elysees at sunset.
You board the plane, your head full of romance and hope. Upon landing, you float down the jetway and find yourself in … Venezuela.
This is not what you had planned. It’s too hot in South America. You don’t have the right clothes. You want to get back on the plane…argue with the pilot…complain to your travel agent.
And then you start to see. There are fragrant trees, bright with orange fruit. The sun is brilliant and the air is light. A green sea beckons before you; mountains peak in the distance. The people are beautiful. South America is okay. You think you’ll stay.
The past four months have been our trip to Venezuela. Lots of bumpy terrain, but lots of beauty, too, if you open your eyes.
Saturday, March 10
Dear Elizabeth,
You had two visitors today. A dear friend of mine, Mary Ann, flew up from Atlanta to see you. She brought you your first pair of Nikes. Of all the gifts you have received, I think this one is your Dad’s favorite.
Later, after I’d returned from the airport, a doctor I didn’t know came to see you. She said to me, “You don’t remember me, but I was in the delivery room the night Elizabeth was born. I had heard about her remarkable progress and just had to come see her.”
She asked me if she could hold you. When I said yes, she took you from me and looked at you admiringly. “She’s a miracle baby,” she said. “No question about it.”
I have heard this word, miracle, on more than one occasion from the doctors. I find it interesting that they turn to the spiritual once the scientific has been exhausted.
You were born at 24 weeks gestation. The Premature Baby Book, which has been my guide throughout this journey, doesn’t even address babies born this early. When I opened the book and saw the chapter entitled “Very Premature Babies: Babies Born from Week 25 to Week 30″, I got a quick insight into the gravity of our situation.
From the beginning, Elizabeth, you have defied the conventional wisdom. The doctor was right, no question about it.
Sunday, March 11
My Elizabeth,
It is a gray day outside, but my heart is so light. We have finally been given a day when you’ll come home: next Thursday, the 15th. I am at once overjoyed and terrified. I’m sure we’ll do fine taking care of you, but it’s a bit daunting to take you from round-the-clock nursing care to just me and Dad. Dr. Edwin has approved the home apnea monitor, so at least I will be able to relax enough to sleep.
I went to church this morning, and tucked a note about your homecoming into the prayer requests as they were being collected and taken forward. I watched as Reverend Reh silently read each slip of paper, lighting up when he got to ours. He stood up in the middle of the meditation and said, “I just received incredible news. Elizabeth Grace comes home on Thursday. Let us give thanks to God.”
There was a moment of utter stillness as though the congregation had drawn a collective breath and emptied the church of air. And then a rush of joy and gratitude. We bowed our heads in praise:
“I will give thanks to thee, O Lord, among the peoples,
I will sing praises to thee among the nations,
For thy steadfast love is great above the heavens,
Thy faithfulness reaches to the clouds.”
– Psalm 108:3-4
Monday, March 12
Dear Elizabeth,
It was so good to celebrate our happy news with the people of Grace Church. It may be my last chance to get to church for awhile. For the first few weeks that you’re home, we will not be able to take you out or have many visitors because we don’t want to expose you to anything or anyone who could make you sick. I spent the afternoon disinfecting your furniture, toys, and practically every surface in the house with a solution of bleach and water. I have even been stockpiling supplies like food, shampoo, and postage stamps as though I’m going to be permanently cloistered, never able to leave the house again.
I know that this is an incredible overreaction, but it’s hard not to do it. I’ve promised your father that I’ll try to lighten up when you get home.
Wednesday, March 14
Dearest Elizabeth,
I can’t stand it. I have to write to you one more time before you come home. It’s 11:00 p.m., and I’m so full of anticipation that I can’t imagine sleeping (and I’d better sleep because this is the last good night’s sleep I’ll be getting for awhile).
Over the last three days, it has turned from winter to pure summer, just like that. The temperature has been around 75, breaking all records for this time of year. All of a sudden, the sky is bright, the air is warm, and the days are lengthening. It is as though the whole earth is heralding your homecoming.
And the crowning touch: when I walked out of the house tonight to make my final visit to you, I found that all my crocuses in the back yard had bloomed at once. They went from being tender, green shoots yesterday to full purple, gold, and cream blooms today. They are so beautiful they make my heart ache. God is so good.
Thursday, March 15
Dear Elizabeth,
As I write this, you are lying in the center of our bed, swaddled in blankets and sleeping peacefully. I can’t believe you’re here, and I can’t take my eyes off you. And, for once, Elizabeth, I can’t find the words.
Welcome home, my girl. Welcome home. You are here with us at long last. Here with us, all of us home.
Miracle Baby 