Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love (4 page)

I looked to my left and found Liz. I stared at her face, studying each pore, every freckle. I admired the extraordinary vividness of her blue eyes glinting beneath the hot lights of the delivery room, and with my own eyes I smoothed out every hint of a wrinkle on her face. Wrinkles barely visible even at this close distance; wrinkles that would inevitably deepen as we grew old together.

As I stared, I realized that I had never seen her face this closely. I couldn’t believe how different she was from the Liz I’d been looking at for a little more than twelve years. She was even more gorgeous than I remembered, and right then I felt like the luckiest motherfucker in the world. It was the beauty of her face that brought me out of my stupor and into the place I needed to be for her and for our baby.

Chapter 5

madeline met mom.

mom met madeline.

i cried a little.

cleaned up my act.

cut the cord.

and took a nice close-up of baby.

madeline took a little trip to the nicu.

mom took a nap.

i paced.

A
ll of a sudden I heard a baby screaming. Then I had a moment of clarity. Holy shit! That’s not
a
baby! That’s
our
baby! A few weeks ago, we had been worried about our daughter’s lungs being fully developed. A nurse told us that if she came out screaming, it was a good indication that she was doing well. I started crying immediately upon hearing that little scream. Liz, on the other hand, panicked. “Is she okay? Is she okay?”

“Yes, Liz, she’s doing great! Don’t you hear her screaming?” I squeezed my wife’s hand as hard as I could, in an attempt to calm her down, to let her know that all of the pain, all of her hard work, had paid off.

From behind the blue shield came Dr. Nelson’s voice. “Guys, she looks great. She is absolutely beautiful.”

I looked at the clock hanging high on the wall. The red, interconnected vertical and horizontal lines formed by a series of LED lights came together to indicate the exact minute our lives changed—11:56 a.m.

Before I knew it there was a nurse at my side, directing me toward the sink. Standing nearby was another nurse, holding my daughter in a generic blue, pink, and white striped blanket. My first glimpse of her took my breath away. Yes, there was a small amount of goo stuck to her face and in her hair, but wow! She had hair! I could see it around her ears, sticking out from underneath the little knit hat that was already on her head. And her nose! It’s beautiful, and her cheeks are full, and she has the same chin as me! And her eyes! Her eyes are closed, but I bet they look just like Liz’s eyes! Wait! How tall is she? How much does she weigh? No one counted her fingers and toes! Are there ten of each? My mind was racing. The thrill I felt upon seeing my daughter was unlike anything I’d ever felt before. It was like our wedding day, a new Neutral Milk Hotel record, and a trip to Nepal, all wrapped into one tiny screaming bundle of joy.

I was jolted from my thoughts by one of the nurses, who asked if I would like to cut the umbilical cord. Of course, I thought. Then another thought: Holy shit! That must be the longest umbilical cord of all time. I mean, I had no idea how this usually goes, but I didn’t know the thing could stretch from Liz’s womb all the way to the sink on the other side of the room. I soon realized that my cutting of the cord was a mostly symbolic gesture, because when the nurse lifted the blanket and uncovered our baby, I saw that she was already untethered from Liz—there was just a small, one-and-a-half-inch piece of cord pinched off by a little plastic clip. I grabbed the scissors from the nurse and struggled to get the two blades to slice through the sinuous, rubberlike thing that had kept our child well fed for the last thirty-three weeks.

Suddenly, I heard Liz’s voice; she sounded far more alert than she had during the delivery. “Can I see my baby?” I turned toward her as she strained to see the child she’d dreamed about all her life. The nurse walked toward her with our daughter, and I asked if I could take a photo. She responded, “Make it fast—we have to get your baby to the NICU.” I grabbed my camera and snapped a couple of photos of Liz getting her first look at our daughter, Madeline Elizabeth Logelin.

In the commotion, however, I failed to immediately process the words spoken by the nurse. NICU? What the fuck? I thought our baby was doing great. The thrill I felt was replaced by equal parts dread and fear. Dr. Nelson stepped in to explain: “Madeline looks great, but we need to get her to the NICU to confirm.”

I tried to remain calm for Liz. She was just coming down from the high of the pain medication, and the last thing she needed was to have me in a panic. While the nurse wheeled her to the recovery room, I went to get Anya from the waiting room. I knew that Liz would need us both.

When we arrived, Liz was in good spirits but was still reeling from the drugs. She was calmer than I expected. I held her hand as she and Anya talked, but I don’t remember a word of what they said. I was anxious to see our baby and to confirm that she was okay, but I couldn’t leave Liz. It was impossible to reconcile those feelings. Where do my loyalties lie? I thought. And where
should
they lie? With the woman of my dreams and the mother of my child, or with the child to whom she just gave birth, the child who was born seven weeks early? I’d never felt a pull this strong. The only thing even kind of similar was when I had to decide whom to cheer for when the Los Angeles Dodgers played the Minnesota Twins in interleague play—and I assure you, that didn’t come close.

“Liz, I’m gonna go check on Maddy,” I blurted out.

“I see how it is,” she said. “I’m already number two.”

Shit. I felt awful, but then she gave me a smile to show that she was just fucking with me. I grabbed my camera and calmly walked out the door. As soon as it closed behind me I started running—I just had to get to our daughter. I stopped in front of the window with all the babies, and only then did I realize that I had no idea where the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was. I had walked by the regular nursery every single day and that was where I had expected to see Madeline, but things hadn’t really happened the way they were supposed to. I knocked and someone buzzed me in; I stuck my head just inside the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Can you tell me where the NICU is?”

“Down the hall to the right.”

Without so much as a thanks, I bolted down the hallway and made my way inside. A nurse stopped me. “Sir. Are you Madeline’s dad?”

“Yes I am.” Madeline’s dad. Wow. I understood then that I would forever be defined by my relationship to my child. It felt amazing.

Pointing at the window in front of her desk she said, “Madeline’s in here. You need to remove your ring and wash your hands and arms up to your elbows for at least two minutes before going in.” I did exactly as I was told. I didn’t want to be responsible for ruining the health of someone else’s baby—or of my own—because I had cookie crumbs or bacon grease on my hands.

I stepped inside and was stopped by a male doctor who introduced himself and immediately started telling me about Madeline. “She’s doing great, considering how early she was born.” He told me that she was in an incubator to help regulate her temperature, and she had a tube covering her nose to deliver her oxygen. He said that this was merely a precaution and he thought they’d be able to remove it in the next couple of hours since she appeared to be breathing just fine on her own. He then explained that she had a feeding tube in her mouth, running directly into her stomach because at her gestational age, she had yet to develop the ability to suck and swallow. I was so concerned about my baby’s health that I couldn’t even laugh at the double entendre.

“Let’s go see her,” he said, walking me into the room. There was a see-through plastic box and a small, handwritten sign with her name—Madeline Elizabeth—and the words Welcome Baby Girl.

Inside was our baby, on top of the same blue, pink, and white striped blanket that had covered her when she left the delivery room. She was now loosely covered by another blanket, this one with multicolored hearts. I tensed up at the sight of my daughter’s face covered in an oxygen mask, tubes and wires peeking out from under her blanket, running through to the monitors next to her box.

The sounds of the machines humming and beeping put me into a trancelike state. Those few minutes with my daughter seemed like hours. There she was: out of the womb and into our world. I couldn’t help but think how fragile she looked—she had seemed more robust just seconds after delivery. Our baby. I watched her chest. Was it moving? Yes. Up and down, however slightly. I relaxed a bit. As scary as things looked with the oxygen tube and all the wires, and as unsure as I was about the situation, I reminded myself that she was being taken care of by an amazing group of doctors and nurses. For the first time since Liz had gone on bed rest, I felt oddly content that everything was going to be okay.

“Would you like to touch her?”

The words that brought me out of my thoughts. Touch her? I thought. Why can’t I hold her? Wasn’t she supposed to be in Liz’s arms by now, just finishing up her first breast-feeding, then being lulled to sleep by Liz’s rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” while I filmed the whole thing? I guess I hadn’t thought of the logistics. With all of the wires and tubes, there was no way she could be in my arms. Then I wondered how long she’d be in that box. Liz was a rather impatient person, and I knew that she’d want to hold Madeline right away and take her home as soon as possible.

“Please,” I answered. The doctor unlocked the hinged plastic that covered the armholes, then stepped out of the way and nodded at the box.

I moved toward it and reached both of my hands inside, careful not to disturb any of the wires. Madeline was lying on her right side. I reached my left hand underneath the oxygen tube so I could touch her head, and I slowly rubbed the small patch of skin not covered by the straps that secured it to her head. It felt so soft. I studied every last bit of her, starting from the top down. With her hat now off, I could see that she had a covering of light blonde hair. I touched it, feeling a few strands between my thumb and my forefinger. They felt like tiny threads of silk. Her skin was light pink in color, and it almost appeared to be gently coated in white velvet. Her eyes were still closed. I wondered if they stayed closed for a few days, like a baby raccoon or something. I had heard that babies have very pliable heads, and I was seriously concerned that the straps securing the oxygen tube to her face would leave a permanent imprint on her head and cheeks. On her left arm was a little pink splint that appeared to hold the IV in place.

Just then I wondered about her fingers and toes again. Were there really ten of each? I gently lifted her arm and felt her fingers, in my head counting each one as I touched them. Good news: five on her left hand. I grabbed her right hand. Once again I touched and counted five fingers. I lifted the blanket covering the lower half of her body and went straight for her toes. I noticed an electrode on the bottom of her left foot, but paid little attention to it as I counted off her toes. Five on each foot. The ultimate indication that your child is perfect, right?

I didn’t want to leave Madeline, but I knew I had to report back to Liz before she jumped out of bed and made her way down here by herself. I snapped a couple of photos before giving my daughter’s shoulder a few more strokes, and then I closed the doors to both of the armholes and headed for the door. Before walking out of the room, I paused and turned back toward the doctor. “Can you tell me how big she is?”

He looked down at the chart on the desk in front of him. “Three pounds, thirteen and a half ounces, and seventeen and a quarter inches long.” Statistics I’ll never forget.

Back down in the recovery room, I gave Liz and Anya the rundown, relaying everything the doctor told me and emphasizing the part about Madeline doing great, considering how early she was born. They both seemed relieved.

Liz’s eyes lit up with excitement when I offered to show her photos of our baby. I pulled up what I had taken in the delivery room, followed by the ones I had just taken in the NICU. “Oh my God! Is she okay?” I could hear the panic in her voice and immediately realized that I should’ve withheld the photos of Madeline in the box, wires protruding, her face covered by the oxygen tube. I reassured her that our baby was going to be okay, as the doctor had done for me.

The nurse in the room piped in, as if to take some of the pressure off me. “The doctor told me that you’ll be able to see your daughter in twenty-four hours.”

That didn’t help as much as any of us hoped, though. “I want to see her now. How can we make this happen?” Liz was a great deal maker, but this was one negotiation she wasn’t going to win, and the nurse told her so.

Soon after, we said good-bye to Anya, and Liz was wheeled into her postdelivery room. It was different from the one she had been in for the previous three weeks, but all our things had already been moved for us, including the uncomfortable armchair on which I’d been sleeping. We settled in and I made phone calls to our parents, telling them the good news. My mom and Liz’s parents had found flights and would arrive in Los Angeles that evening. Liz napped. I listened to some new music and updated the blog:

madeline was born

at 11:56 am (march 24, 2008)

at a bruising 3 pounds, 13.5 ounces.

17.25 inches long (almost as tall as her mom at age 30).

kidding of course, but liz is really short

and baby is really long.

we’ve been joking over the past few days…

if madeline gets daddy’s height and mommy’s looks,

everything will be okay.

if it goes the other way, she’s in trouble.

thankfully she’s long…