Page 77 of Sin Wagon
We stay and watch her sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling.
Wells whispers, “She’s perfect.” I look over and see him wiping his eyes, but I don’t call him out on it. The sight tugs at my heart.
An hour later, we’re back in our new room in the maternity ward. A new doctor comes in.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Cupo. I worked on your daughter. From the EKG and consulting with Dr. Von Bergo in Madison, he’s diagnosed her with Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“In a nutshell—and he can explain it better—it means your daughter has an extra electrical pathway in her heart that causes her to go into supraventricular tachycardia or SVT.”
“Is this a forever thing, or is it fixed now?” Wells asks, his brow furrowed.
“Hard to say. She has a good chance of it resolving itself within the first year. But if it doesn’t then we’d be looking at doing an ablation when she’s five or so. For now, we manage it. When you’re discharged, you’ll need to go to UW-Madison to see Dr. Von Bergo. He can answer any questions better than me—WPW is his specialty.”
I settle into the bed, the soreness and exhaustion catching up with me. I pump a little and wait for them to call and tell us she’s awake. I can’t wait to hold her. To feel her body against mine.
I read that having skin-to-skin contact is crucial, and it saddens me that neither Posey nor I have had the chance to experience it yet. She needs us.
“Nap, baby. Rest for when she needs you,” Wells whispers softly, his words filled with concern.
“Okay,” I whisper, closing my eyes, hoping for a few moments of peace before the next wave of challenges crashes over us. As I drift off, I try to cling to Wells’ words and hope for the best.
Every time I shift,a dull ache reminds me of the beautiful life I just brought into the world. I glance over and find Wells seated next to me, his tired eyes looking back. The sight of him brings a fresh wave of emotion—his concern, his exhaustion. My heart aches to see him like this.
“Morning sleepyhead,” he says softly.
My mouth feels dry, my throat tight. “How is she?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I’m desperate to know, to see my baby.
Wells’ gaze softens. “They just called. She’s awake and ready to eat.”
I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my body, and I fall back against the pillows. Wells is immediately at my side, his hand gently supporting my back.
“Let me help you,” he says, his voice filled with concern.
My heart races as Wells and I walk hand in hand down to the NICU.
When we reach her room, the sight of Posey in her incubator brings relief and anxiety. She looks so tiny, so vulnerable, connected to various machines that monitor her heartbeat. I can hardly believe that this is my daughter, my little girl, surrounded by so many medical devices. My breath catches in my throat, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
The nurse gently helps me into a recliner and then carefully places Posey on my chest for skin-to-skin contact. The warmth of her tiny body against mine is a balm to my soul and a reminder of how fragile she is. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation of her breathing, the slight movements of her little body.
“Hi, sweet girl,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Mommy’s here.”
Wells stands beside me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. I can feel his love and support as he leans down to kiss Posey’s head.
Despite my efforts, Posey’s tiny mouth refuses to latch as I try to breastfeed. A wave of frustration washes over me, making me feel defeated. This was supposed to be a beautiful moment, a bonding experience, but instead, it feels like another battle.Tears well up in my eyes as I struggle to get her to latch. Each failed attempt feels like a personal failure.
Why is this so hard? What if I can’t do it? What kind of mother am I if I can’t even feed my baby?
A lactation consultant comes in, offering advice and her tips are well-intentioned but don’t seem to address the heart of the problem. I feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and defeated. I just want to nourish my daughter the way I’d always imagined.
By day two, we’re introducing formula while I pump, trying to find a balance. The formula feels like a compromise, a concession that stings more than I care to admit. Watching Posey drink from the bottle brings relief but also sadness. It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what she needs. But I also never dreamed that my baby would be in the NICU.
I’ll worry about that later, though. Today the family is coming to meet our girl. They’ve given us space to bond with her ourselves but they’ve been chomping at the bit to meet her.
Their concern is evident as they walk into the room escorted by a NICU nurse, their expressions mirroring the anxiety that Wells and I feel.
Derek is the first to approach, his eyes softening as he looks at Posey. “She’s beautiful, Delilah,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
