Today the mommy’s story is from Heather. H.E.Eigler is an aspiring writer who typically presses the delete key more than any other. She blogs at Maternal Spark – it’s where Creative Moms Shine.
She features creative moms and hosts giveaways while giving product reviews. She also has created her own meme Monday’s Muse.

Our daughters name is Hannah Olivia Pearl Eigler.  We decided on the names prior to her birth. My husband and I picked the first name because we loved it.  The middle names were chosen for her great grandmothers.  That her initials spell HOPE was a special touch but we had no idea how profound it would become until she was three days old.  On that day, June 15^th 2007, I learned what it meant to hope, and more importantly, I received a lesson in motherhood that I would never forget.

Hannah’s arrival was not the natural delivery I had planned.  Nonetheless she powered through a failed induction and emergency c-section to make her way into our lives.  June 15th was the day we were to be discharged from the hospital.  I’d had enough of interrupted sleeps and needle pokes, bad food and the constant noise of many crying babies.  I longed for the quiet of our home and the comfort of my own bed.  I wanted to show our new baby her nursery and all of the things we had lovingly collected for her.

That morning I woke to the sound of Hannah throwing up in her hospital bassinet. She had thrown up the day before as well and the doctors and nurses told me she had excess mucus in her tiny system.  They told me not to worry about it, it was normal for c-section babies who don’t get all the gunk squeezed out of them during delivery.

I picked her up and calmed her. I could feel her warmth against my chest and the softness of her skin on mine.  Her small cries were lovely.  I changed her sleeper and blankets while imagining many more years of comforting her during childhood tummy upsets.  She continued to cry as I tried to nurse her.  She refused to eat.

Ejecting the mucous must have brought her some relief as she quieted down and fell into a deep, restful sleep.  I called for my nurse and told her that it had been at least four hours since my baby had eaten. I told her about how Hannah had thrown up and even showed her the soiled clothing I’d removed.  She reassured me that she must be getting colostrum – the high fat pre-milk because it was all over the soiled sleeper. She pointed out the yellow color of the stain.  I asked her if I should wake Hannah.  She said that we would allow her to sleep, if she didn’t wake soon then we would disturb her.

Shortly after she did awaken; she had soiled her diaper.  I picked her up and prepared to change her and I noticed she was quiet.  As I changed her she remained quiet.  I felt very uneasy as my new mommy instinct kicked in.   I knew something was wrong.  In my limited experience with my tiny baby Hannah, she liked to scream incessantly during diaper changes.  This time, she just lay there, listless and unaware of me.  Again I tried to breastfeed her but she refused.

I called the nurse again to express my concerns; it had now been about six hours since Hannah had eaten.  She was still not moving much and her face seemed a bit blue.  We moved out into the hallway to see her under better light.  Her cheeks pinked up a bit and

Hannah began to cry.  I was relieved to see this change.  The nurse agreed that she was just sleepy, and perhaps a little cold.  “Put a hat on her,” the nurse said, “the pediatrician will be by soon to discharge you.”

Still, my baby wouldn’t eat.  I began to feel nervous and concerned for my Hannah.  Did I really see the blue tint to her skin, or was it bad lighting in my room? Why wouldn’t she eat?  Did I have any clue what I was doing?  How could her little life be entrusted to me when I had just undergone surgery and could barely move? 

Days of pain and not enough sleep led me to place all trust in my nurse when I should have trusted in myself.

My husband Rob arrived and began loading our bags into the car.  We also began working on the paperwork required to declare parent status of the baby girl we waited nine long months for.  Hannah was sleeping peacefully. As every new mother does, I watched her chest and tummy moving up and down indicating she was breathing just fine. 

The pediatrician was running late, hours late.  We were becoming impatient and wondered if we would ever go home. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. The Dr. finally arrived around noon.  She was a tiny woman with mousy brown hair and bright blue eyes.  I immediately liked her; she had a kind smile and the soft demeanor of someone who loves their work with children.  The Dr. woke Hannah up and began to examine her.  Her color was good, she seemed alert and her tummy was soft.  The Dr. flipped Hannah to be able to listen to her chest better from the back.  “I’m just going to take her to the nursery,” she said.

Rob and I replied “OK” and finished our packing up.  We were oblivious to the fact that a team of NICU emergency staff were rushing down the hallways towards the nursery and our baby. Hannah had stopped breathing right next to me during the pediatrician’s examination. 

We were waiting for our daughter to be brought back when the Dr. returned without her.

“Your baby stopped breathing, I had to resuscitate her,” she said.  Her eyes were moist with tears. “She is ok now, we moved her to the NICU for observation.”

I was hit with instant fear and pain like nothing the 20 hours of labor and subsequent caesarean section had caused me.  My husband and I clung to each other, both trying to comprehend how our baby had come that close to death while sitting so near to us.

Within minutes a social worker came into our room and introduced herself to us.  I don’t remember what she looked like or what she said to us. I was too busy crying.  I do remember being angry at her presence but not knowing why.  I didn’t want to speak with her. I didn’t want to look at her.

She directed us to a waiting area and we made our way slowly to the NICU where Hannah was being fitted with an IV and hooked up to the monitors.  We were told her glucose levels were very low, probably because she had thrown up all she had eaten.  They said it was likely she choked on some mucous and didn’t have the strength to cough and overcome it.  Glucose was being pumped into her system through the IV in her little hand.

I was afraid to see my baby.  My eyes were swollen from crying and I could barely breathe during our walk down the hallway between rows and rows of bassinets.  Those bassinets were home to many tiny preemie babies.  Hannah was the biggest baby in the NICU as she was 41 weeks gestation and nearly eight pounds, but to me, she looked small and helpless with the wires and monitors all around her. 

I felt out of control of the situation and unable to help my Hannah.  Every two hours, around the clock, I journeyed down the hallways from my recovery room to the NICU.  The walk was painful but I needed to ensure she was eating enough.  Being on time for her feedings was the one thing I could control and I made sure I wasn’t late for a single nursing session. Her blood glucose was tested before each meal and she remained on the IV until her levels stabilized over two days. 

During our time in the NICU I hoped for a lot of things.  That she would eat well. That her glucose levels would increase.  I hoped that the IV would be removed quickly and that she would be ok.  I also hoped to have the skill needed to take care of her once we were discharged.  I learned that becoming a mother is more than giving birth to a child.  It is more than diaper changes and kissing booboos. 

Becoming a mother turns on a switch inside the heart – the Mommy instinct.  Something was wrong with my baby girl that day.  That day, I learned to trust in myself and what was right for my baby. I learned that nurses don’t have all the answers and I would have been right to wake my Hannah to feed her and if she wouldn’t nurse, asking to see the Dr. would have been ok.

On June 15^th, the pediatrician who saved our baby’s life was running late.  If she had been on time, our little one might have stopped breathing at our house or in our car. 

June 15^th was the best day of my life because our baby survived.