By Nici Holt Cline
Last Wednesday night Ruby woke with a familiar cry. I didn’t know I remembered it until I heard it. She was distressed and uncomfortable. She was squirming and gasping. I stumbled from a deep sleep, begging the universe, shit NO.
Before I could find the light, I had begun counting her breaths. I could tell right away her respiratory rate was at least 75 breaths per minute. I was right. Andy and I stirred, dug for the thermometer, saline and bulb suction. 100 and then 101.7 a half hour later. Just like last time, she wouldn’t nurse. She was tired, didn’t open her eyes, laid like a beetle on her back in the hot sun.
I unzipped her soft, cotton pjs, separating the little pastel lambs that decorate the fabric and held her body to mine. I sat on my knees on my side of the bed in the middle of the night and I rhythmically rocked and hummed the mantra from my prenatal yoga class. She settled, her chest rising and falling too fast, the tiny holes in her nose encumbered, forcing her dry mouth open, her hot flesh reminding me. I didn’t want to be reminded. That it could happen again.
She’s bigger now. She stronger. She has more hair and it’s red. I wondered if the virus and two bacterias that imprisoned her last December had shoved flame into her hair. Or, if she had willed it to turn the color of her name to let us know she was going to survive. Ruby.
The physical yearning for my baby to eat returned. A primal desire that runs deep and cuts deeper when unmet. In regular intervals, I put my breast to her mouth, imagining her wide-eyed and swallowing life. She refused, unable to breathe, and I rocked.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. Andy fell asleep. I was afraid to move. I told myself I was afraid to disturb her sleep but I was more afraid she wouldn’t wake up. I was frustrated my mind even went there, I told myself I was being unhelpful and over-reactionary. And then I forgave myself. It’s only been four months since she was six and a half pounds, bound to an army of neutral-colored machines. It’s only been four months since I was 10 days postpartum, bound to a plum, pleather recliner and my wicked thoughts.
Do I take her to the hospital now?, I kept wondering. I was obsessing over that question. I knew what to look for, what they’d look for. Her chest was retracting a bit but it was improving. Her breaths were still fast but they were slowing. And they never looked anything like the 130 breaths-per-minute she’d maintained for three days of her 12-day ICU stay. The only thing I couldn’t check was her arterial blood gas but she seemed to be compensating well. I cupped my hand and banged forcefully on her back, just in case the mucus was in her lungs. I was surprised the medical procedure and terminology was so easily accessible in my memory, so intuitive. I was pissed it was intuitive.
My feet and lower legs numb from the awkward position that comforted her, I fell into my pillow without her even noticing and we slept intertwined like she was still protected in my uterus. I think we only slept for a few minutes when her uncomfortable stirring woke us both. And so we continued the counting-rocking-singing-hoping.
And then, with one attempt that didn’t seem any different than the others, she latched and nursed and nursed. The feeling of that latch rivaled her first latch in my bedroom on her birthday. It felt like love. It told me all was well, peace was as sure as tomorrow. Ruby nursing into the morning promised me there will be scary, soul-shaking moments. And it promised me there will always be recovery.
A fourth generation Montanan raising a fifth, Nici Holt Cline is a mama to Margot and Ruby, wife, gardener, crafter and runner who loves to write and take photos. She writes regularly on her popular blog dig this chick. You can read “Mama Digs” every Monday exclusively at www.mamalode.com. Read more of Nici’s mamalode articles here.
Similar Posts:
- mama digs: good morning
- mama digs: buoyant
- mama digs: stretch
- mama digs: a clearing in the woods
- Mama Digs: Ebb and flow
Love what you read? Share it!
Email This Post
You are a strong and wonderful mom.
I am glad it was just a scare and that the
red Ruby is such a tough little fighter for life.
Ruby Rubes….
Best wishes for speedy recovery….both physical and emotional!
Hang in there, mom and baby!!!
Beautifully written, btw!
You are amazing and Ruby is a little fighter. That hair matches her name for sure and her personality. I think the toughest and greatest thing in life is being a mommy.