the moment we had anticipated/dreaded was upon us. Robert,Jr. was born without a c-section, and proceeded to fill his mother with a fragile hope--he took his first breath on his own. His attendants quickly started bagging him (forcing air into his tiny lungs), and quickly hauled him off to the farthest reaches of the hospital. Four hours later, panicked that I had missed any of the precious few minutes with my tiny son, I ranted to the floor nurse to allow me to attempt all of their required "firsts" that I might go up to NICU before my son died. Within 3 hours, I was creeping up as fast as I dared to see my infant.
I was horrified--he was all but nude, with tubes and wires proceeding from every orifice God had blessed him with, and a few God must have overlooked. Someone had invented a few new places to hook up to all the bleeping and blatting gadgetry behind and beside his bassinet. My precious child looked like a war veteran or a crash victim. He was bruised and swollen, intubated and bristling with wires, and no one would let me hold my own son. I cried, and sobbed, and prayed, and on Sunday at noon, I was sent home without my prize--the son I had labored 9 months to produce.
Three hours later I returned to the hospital, unable to sleep without seeing him just once more. Having been told that only 3 family members were allowed in the NICU at a time, my husband let my mother and his accompany me, assuring me that although he would mind, the next morning we would have time to go together and see our tiny baby.
Once there, the nurse in charge offered me the chance to hold him--and that flickering foolish hope flared in my burning heart again. Surely, they wouldn't let me do anything that would hurt him. So I sat for almost 2 hours holding and admiring my beautiful boy, my constant companion for the past 9 months; my secret ally who would poke his head out from under my ribcage whenever I was upset, as if he knew when I automatically stroked that lump I would start calming down immediately.
