When we got to her room she looked even better than I'd imagined.
They'd actually positioned her on her tummy! That was an impossibility before day 8 because of all of the equipment on her face. On closer inspection, we realized that the nasal cannula was gone. Additionally, her arterial line had been removed. They had told us that it would remain for an additional day, and it had been one of the big hindrances of us holding her. She had been completely weaned off the morphine too.
We watched her breathe and sleep for about 15 minutes. She looked so much like a "normal" baby. And I started to realize that what I'd most been aching for since her birth could actually happen.
I wasn't ready to be done being pregnant. I loved feeling her move inside of me. I hadn't yet reached the point of being too big or too tired. When she was taken from me I felt robbed of those last weeks. Even though I was not thrilled with the prospect of three to five weeks of bed rest, I was prepared to do it. I was not prepared to be told one day that my baby had to be born within hours. That Thursday, one week earlier, I had taken one bite of my turkey sandwich and my world changed before I got a second bite. Three hours later I was being wheeled into the operating room. I had less than three hours to process that my baby was coming seven weeks early.
With Ephram I remember how he played with me during those last weeks of pregnancy. I'd push on a foot and he'd kick back at me. I wanted to do the same thing with Macie, to enjoy every moment of the pregnancy, but that was taken from me.
Logically I know that survival for both of us depended on her birth. Emotionally I am still in a different place. For most people, when they have a baby and no longer feel it moving inside of them, they get to feel their baby moving on top of them. That was also taken from me. I hadn't nestled, cuddled, snuggled or comforted her. I had watched her in bed, touched her when nurses and doctors deemed it appropriate, and looked at her feet and hands moving about. But because she had such a fragile condition and so much equipment attached, holding her was not a safe option.
Not anymore. Not today.
Within five minutes of the nurse entering the room, I'd asked to hold my daughter. Macie happened to be awake and it was time for them to give her a feeding. The timing was perfect.
On Day 8 I held my daughter for the first time. We did kangaroo care, I held her skin to skin under a blanket.
It was one of the most amazing things I've experienced in my life. Being deprived of it for a full week made it that much more special.
For 30 minutes I held her, talked to her, played with her hair and looked into her eyes. She looked back, breathed on her own, curled her toes against my stomach, grabbed my skin with her hands, and even rooted a little bit.
It was hard to give her back. And for the rest of the day I wanted to go back and get another Macie fix, but I knew that my opportunity would be there the next day.
We couldn't believe the strides Macie had made in one week. Neither could her nurses or doctors. Her turnaround was so swift it was remarkable. She was a completely different baby.
We had cleared the hurdle for breathing. They were still monitoring her closely, and had left the cannula tabs on her cheeks under the assumption that she would need it periodically to help her maintain her sats. But my baby was actually breathing on her own... her lungs were working.
Two hurdles remained for Macie to come home - feeding and temperature. Our focus shifted primarily to feeding. She was still receiving 2ml every 3 hours, but with her morphine gone we hoped this would improve. She finally stooled all on her own that evening, and was moved up to 9ml of milk every 3 hours.
Later that night, Macie finally left the shared room she had been admitted to. With all of her equipment removed, they could transport her to a true private room. She became a resident of room 4134.
The day was pure magic in every way.
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