The Sorrows Begin
Originally posted at The Way of the Rose Facebook group April 9, 2020
Novena Day 50
The Sorrowful Mysteries
The Agony and the Crucifixion
The sorrows began just as Kalea was turning two. At Christmas, Bill had started hinting about having another child. It was a few more months before I could even think about it. After watching our rambunctious two-year-old fall in love with her baby cousin, doing her hardest to be helpful, I decided it might not be insane to have another. Two weeks later after I passed out in a Barnes & Noble, a little blue line appeared in an EPT result window. I was shocked. I was 40 years old; it wasn’t supposed to be that easy. I thought I’d have a little time to adjust to the idea.
I needn’t have panicked. I miscarried two weeks later. Unfortunately, that was just enough time for me to decide that I wanted that baby after all. Irony is a frequent theme in my dealings with the universe.
Now that I was completely on board, month after month went by without a hint of pregnancy. I started to worry that time was running out. In addition, the dot.com bubble had burst, and the options Bill had received when his company was bought turned out to be nearly worthless. He decided it was time to leave.
That September, the World Trade Center collapsed in two fiery columns of steel, stunning the city and the world. Bill watched from the window in his new office as the second plane crashed. Fortunately for us our landlord had gotten greedy five months earlier, which forced us to move to Brooklyn. If it weren’t for that, my daughter and I would have been across the street when the planes crashed.
New York grieved as one. For weeks the air quality was horrendous despite improbably clear skies. But the worst part was the smell. I imagine it was similar to the smell near Treblinka or Bergen-Belsen during World War II. Every breath reminded us that nearly 3,000 people had lost their lives in a little less than two hours. I was glad I wasn’t pregnant at the time. I couldn’t imagine carrying a baby through that trauma.
And then, just before Christmas that year, I tested positive again.
The pregnancy went well, a boy this time. Everything was perfect—so why did I feel a growing dread throughout that summer? Yet, even as I grew more and more anxious, unable to picture a successful birth and life going on with our expanded family, I received multiple synchronistic coincidences of the sort that usually assure me that I am exactly where I am supposed to be and all is well. In short, I was a confused mess.
And then Zane was born. He was five days late, a whopping 10 lbs. 10 oz., and absolutely beautiful—but he didn’t breathe right away. We had a very experienced midwife who quickly got him going and all seemed well. My brother called to share our joy, and even as he said it I realized I wasn’t feeling joy. I was still anxious, waiting for some shoe to drop.
It wasn’t long before it began its descent. That evening I was nursing with Zane at my side when I realized he was turning blue. I yelled for Bill to make sure he was breathing. While I was on the phone with 911, he got him awake and we called off the ambulance. But Zane didn’t nurse again that night, and I was worried. We got a little bit of formula into him, but I wasn’t reassured. The midwife came over the next morning before heading out of town for the day. She said he seemed fine, but if I was still worried I should take him to the doctor.
Bill heard “he’s fine” and relaxed. He took Kalea out for a few hours, while I tried—unsuccessfully— to assuage my anxiety with action. I’ve had asthma since I was a teenager, and I had this feeling that Zane was using too much of his energy just to breathe. I called my cousin who was a lactation consultant. She gave me some tips to try to get him nursing. I called the pediatrician’s office, but it was Sunday and the emergency number was a cell phone that was out of range. I talked to my mother; she promised to take an early train out the following morning so she could help me take him to the doctor.
My cousin’s tips were helpful, and the baby finally nursed at about 11:00 that night. Oh, thank God! I thought. Maybe we’ve turned a corner! As he nursed, he gazed at me with such love that my heart rejoiced. That was probably the most beautiful half-hour I will ever experience, and the last great gift Zane gave me. His breathing got noisy during the night; I woke Bill so I wouldn’t worry alone. As we watched, Zane suddenly went silent. This time there was no question that his breathing had stopped. Bill immediately began attempting to wake him, and I called 911 again. I relayed CPR instructions from the operator as Bill worked on him.
In mere minutes several policemen entered the apartment and whisked the baby downstairs to meet the ambulance that arrived shortly thereafter. I followed in my nightgown and bare feet. Bill got himself and our daughter dressed but didn’t bother with shoes either. We waited in the police car in miserable shock until they got Zane stabilized enough to make the short journey to the hospital.
In the lobby of the emergency room, we waited while doctors continued to work on our newborn baby. We tried to believe no news was good news, but eventually Dr. Sunshine (his real name, I swear; remember what I said about irony?) emerged to tell us they had gotten a heartbeat, but Zane was still quite blue. He was going to die. A short time later, we rode the elevator up to the NICU with our tiny little boy lying on a stretcher and a nurse who squeezed breath into his lungs every few seconds. We gazed at our beautiful blue boy, memorizing his face, knowing that it was the last time we would see him alive. Then they stashed us in a side room to wait for the world to end.
