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“Hold her?” I repeat. “Is that… safe?”
“It's okay.” The nurse smiles. “She’s stable right now, and skin-to-skin contact is very important for preemies. It encourages bonding, and it can even help regulate her breathing, heart rate, and blood sugar. If we can do skin-to-skin contact every day, we aim for that because it usually means the babies will get to go home sooner.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I ask helplessly.
She glances at my shirt as if it should be obvious. “Usually, skin-to-skin is during breastfeeding, but in this case, you’ll be bottle feeding, so—”
“I need to take off my shirt?”
An image of me holding my daughter for the first time nestled against the scars on my chest makes me ill. She will hate me from the start.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” the nurse assures me. “But just think of it as a way to help your baby. You’ll give her all those feel-good chemicals, help her sleep better, and give her the best possible start.”
Not seeing an alternative, I reach for the hem of my shirt and peek up at the nurse. “You may not want to look at this.”
“Trust me,” she says. “I’ve seen it all. But you just get comfortable in that seat, and I’ll get baby out for you.”
I do as she says, awkwardly folding up my shirt and setting it onto the table beside me when I sit down. My hands feel hot, and my chest is tight when she removes my daughter from the case, adjusting the wires on her body and removing her hat before she brings her to me.
Extending her arms, the nurse leans down toward me and waits for me to take her.
Terror claws at me as my eyes move over the tiny face in disbelief. I have a daughter. And I'm alone, and I have no fucking idea what to do with her.
"Here." Sensing my shock, the nurse settles the baby next to my chest, helping me cradle her in my arms before she covers us with a small blanket.
She’s warm, and soft, and I’m expecting the screaming to start right away, but it doesn’t. One second passes, then two, and I draw in a quiet breath, settling into the position as the cloudy blue eyes open briefly and then shut again.
And finally, I get a good look at her. The small swirl of dark hair on her head. Pink cheeks. The tiniest nose I’ve ever seen and even smaller fingers. She’s the most beautiful baby in the world. I’m certain of it.
Emotion wells up in my chest, and there's nowhere for it to go. Already, I'm horrified that I might fail this tiny human who depends on me. There's nobody else to do this for me. I have to do it on my own, without Ivy, until she wakes up. Until she comes back to us.
And I’ve never been so scared in my life.
36
Santiago
"Have you thought of a name for her yet?" Katie asks.
I look up at the nurse watching me from the doorway. She's been here every step of the way, keeping me updated on Ivy and helping me process each milestone of my daughter's transition from the womb to the incubator to the real world.
My daughter's tiny fingers curl inside mine as I cradle her against my bare chest. Something I’ve admittedly come to look forward to every day. They tell me she's doing well, and every day seems to be a new learning curve. So far, I’ve accomplished feeding her and changing her diapers, though I still feel as if I'm fumbling through the process every time.
She hasn't been allowed to meet any of the other family just yet, but they've been able to see her through the window of a special visiting room, offering smiles and waves with tears in their eyes.
Ivy is still in the ICU, still asleep. Unchanging, even as my world is changing every second. She should be here for this. She should be holding our baby's hand too. Stroking her hair and laughing at how terribly I fail when I try to bottle-feed her, or as I’m trying to ascertain which part of the diaper is back and which is front.
It's all so overwhelming and painful. And it's all I can do to focus on each moment rather than the large picture in front of me. The one where the dark reality is, I might not ever get to see Ivy with our baby.
"I don't want to pick a name until her mother wakes up," I confess quietly.
Katie offers me a sad smile, leaning against the doorframe. "I get it. But at some point, that little beauty will need a name. Maybe you can think of something you would both like. Her mother's middle name, perhaps."
"Perhaps." I shrug noncommittally.
Agreeing means admitting that Ivy won't ever be able to help me choose, and I don't think I can ever accept that.
