Our Last Baby: The First Few Days

After we were released from the hospital, we brought our new daughter home.  Healing from a c-section I slowly walked up the stairs and eased my body onto the couch.  Breathing in the mesmerizing newborn sweetness, we relaxed by eating snacks and watching shows we had already seen.  It felt good, maybe too good, in hindsight.   Surgery had gone smoothly, baby was healthy and so were we.    

And then they returned.  Two tired faces ascended the stairs.  Excited raspy voices called out, “baby!” The bags under their eyes, large and dark outlined the glassy eyes that seemed to have a presence of their own, presenting themselves before the rest of their bodies.  Then their eyes lit up, making them momentarily recognizable, the second they laid them on their new sister.  

“STOP” I yelled.  “Wash your hands!”  

They clambered up onto my lap, smiling, very curious and very smitten.  They introduced themselves to the baby, declaring their love for her, as they pawed at her face and body, while I grimaced at the never ending amounts of coughing.  They were surely still contagious.  With little choice I put all of my faith on the foaming hand soap, it would have to do.  

Grandma and grandpa had graciously agreed to watch the older two girls, even to the detriment of their own health.  We probably would have asked for another night off, but they were beginning to feel the effects of the early stages of the flu themselves.  So they left us, and just like that we were a family of five.  

The hospital had provided a false reality, cocooning us.  All of our needs met in the quietness of the busy maternity ward, a quality under appreciated with the birth of our first daughter.  New parents, again, to our third daughter, we felt fairly confident, we were experienced and prepared to handle this.  Holed up in our room, swept back into newborn bliss complete with sweet cuddles, simple needs and some painkillers, it’s no wonder we were so easily mistaken.  

The two days days before I had gone into labour, our house was struck by the plague.  High fevers, body aches and burning eyes were loudly and tearfully reported by our daughters.  I doled out medicine, encouraged small sips of juice and carefully cuddled them, while the tv droned on and on.  Washing my hands every time they became free for just a moment, I decided that even with only a 10 percent chance of protection, getting the flu shot, when it was offered at work, was indeed a good idea.  

When contractions began, I was glad this baby had held on for at least the beginning of the flu days.  Two weeks and two days early, she was my longest pregnancy.  I had been anxiously anticipating her arrival, counting the random contractions for days as Christmas crept closer.  On December 16th contractions were slow but regular, we packed our bags, showered and settled into bed. I had high hopes of getting some sleep before heading to the hospital.  Contractions consistently arriving every fifteen minutes meant little sleep, but at 5 am when I stepped out of bed, something shifted and they began coming every two minutes.  Trying not to panic at the acceleration, I calmly asked my husband to get ready and to call my sister to watch the older two who were still asleep.  On her way to the gym, my sister unfazed by the presence of the flu in our home, happily turned around.  She had been waiting for this call.  Off we went.  

The very kind obstetrician I had seen for all of my births and the duration of three pregnancies, had given me her phone number, and met us at the hospital.  After losing my first baby due to birth complications, I felt very fortunate to have a kind and familiar face in the operating room at each of my subsequent c-sections.  December 17th at 7:31 am, we heard her loudly enter the world.  

After a great deal of unsuccessful pleas to hold their new sister, we put the older two to bed.  Constant coughing escaped their feverish bodies and echoed down the hall as they attempted to rest, signalling the beginning of yet another long night.  

As we prepared to settle into our own bed, we gently laid our sweet little one into her crib, five feet from our bed.  At first grunt, I pulled her into our bed, just as I had done with her sisters.  Last baby means I’m going to enjoy every minute of these sweet sweaty cuddles.  Coughs, followed by crying, repetitively interrupted our sleep.  Exhausted we took turns comforting the older two with cuddles and meds.  

Each time, I not so smoothly rolled myself out of bed, eased my body to the floor, and gingerly lifted myself into what might be called mostly-standing.  Recommending only Advil and Tylenol for surgery patients seems a little cruel.  I slowly tread down the hall to the room I heard the loud cries of “Mommy!” from.  I needed another dose of Tylenol anyway.  I returned to realize I only had inches of space on a king size bed. Unwilling to move her and risk waking her, I precariously balanced myself on the edge and attempted to replicate the only position I found which allowed even a little comfort for an aching body.  It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long until I was needed again.  

In every one of these exhausted waking moments, my brain and body so tender and so tired, my heart was full.  Our family had been completed with the arrival of our newest daughter.  It’s such a strange thing for a heart to feel such peace, while it simultaneously feels such sadness as I thought of my oldest, the son, I lost.  I had begged the universe for these nights, six and a half years earlier, where a tiny human needed me and now there were three.  Three, creating the most beautiful chaos, and I am so lucky to be in the thick of it.