Page 71 of Forever Christmas
Finally Dr. Jamison rushes in, his gown flapping and loose. He’s wearing sweats and tennis shoes. He didn’t have to come, I know, but he did, in the middle of the night, so Corabelle could have her regular doctor.
“We have everyone on standby,” he says. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The head starts to come out, covered in white. I blinkand blink, because the view is so much like last time with Finn that I can barely keep the two moments apart.
The team assembles, two men and a woman pushing a covered crib into the room. I don’t know what they expect, but for once they are doing more than I have asked for.
“Just one or two more good pushes,” Dr. Jamison says. His gloved hands cradle the baby’s head, turning it ever so gently.Then one shoulder pops out, then the other, and the baby slides free.
“Got him,” Dr. Jamison says. He suctions the baby’s mouth, and there are cries, loud and lusty. Everyone in the room visibly relaxes.
A nurse whisks away all the straps on Corabelle. For a brief moment, they let the baby rest on her belly.
She’s crying hard, absolutely sobbing, her hand on his head, as if this is the onlymoment she will ever have. There is no reason for her to think otherwise. It’s all she got before. Once Finn got wired up, we did not get to hold him again until it was time for him to die.
“Let’s check him out,” one of the doctors says and comes forward to take the baby.
“He’s beautiful,” Mrs. Rotheford says, wiping her eyes.
Corabelle’s gaze follows the baby over to the cart, but her viewis blocked by the crew assessing him. I stay by her side. We can hear him crying, loud and indignant. I would laugh if I wasn’t so sure I might cry myself.
“He’ll go to the NICU since he’s premature,” Dr. Jamison says. “But if he’s stable enough, he’ll just be in a regular bed there, and you can nurse him and do all the usual mother-and-baby things.”
He strips off his gloves as the nurses workto clean up Corabelle and take away the stirrups and cotton pads.
After a moment, one of the doctors turns to us. “His Apgar is good, a seven. Excellent oxygen, good cry. Really, really good for his prematurity. We do hear a murmur, which isn’t unusual. We’re going to take him to clean up and then do a cardiac ultrasound just to be sure.”
Dr. Jamison stands. “Gavin, you can go with them if youlike. Grandma, you should be here with Corabelle.”
He shakes my hand. “Congratulations. I’m thrilled for you both.”
The cart starts to move. “You want me to go with him?” I ask Corabelle.
She nods. “Just like Finn.” Then she’s bawling again.
Her mother holds her close. “I’ve got her,” she says. “Keep us updated.”
I follow the team with the baby. When I pass Mr. Rotheford sitting in the waitingarea, I point to the Isolette rolling down the hall. “He’s here. Seems okay. Corabelle is in the room.”
He heads to his daughter. I totally agree with his choice, although I wouldn’t mind someone in my corner right now.
I guess I have the team, the specialists. We move past a nurse’s desk and through a back door into the NICU.
“You’ll need to scrub in,” a nurse says, pointing to the washingstation. “There’s instructions.”
I remember the routine, the soap, the pick for your nails, how clean they want everything to be.
This NICU seems set up similarly to the one we were in before. The bigger, healthier babies are near the front, some lying in open cribs, others minimally wired up in covered ones.
As you go back, the room gets dimmer and quieter. Those babies have full gear, breathingtubes, ventilators, and multiple monitors. Finn was with those.
This baby is nowhere that I can see. I finally spot him in a brightly lit room with glass windows. I’m not sure if I can go in there. It seems separate.
I stand outside. I don’t know what they are doing, and this makes me start to feel a little crazy. Corabelle texts me to ask what is going on. I don’t know what to tell her.
Oneof the nurses sees me and goes to the door. “You can come in. We’re doing a short version of the cleanup. The cardiologist is on his way to assess his heart.”
A paper has been affixed to the end of the crib with the word MAYS in big letters, then “Baby Boy” written beneath. We need to give this boy a name. I feel deeply ashamed that we have nothing to call him.
