I rushed to the hospital and arrived just in time to see her before she went into surgery. “Give her a kiss, tell her you love her, and get out of the way,” one of the medical professionals told me.
That’s what I did.
The doctors later told my daughter that her placenta started to tear away from her uterus. They worried she would have a stroke because her systolic blood pressure — the top number that measures pressure in the arteries when the heart beats — had climbed to 180. My daughter spent five days in the hospital and told me she doesn’t remember some of her time there.
Her daughter, Penelope, weighed 3 pounds, 12 ounces at birth. It’s been a rough ride so far. She spent weeks in the neonatal intensive care unit before going home. She’s been in and out of the hospital since, with RSV (twice) and other ailments. She’s growing — she’s up to nine pounds — but she’s been in the hospital almost as much as she’s been home.
My daughter isn’t allowing a lot of people to see Pea — that’s what we call her. That’s the right move. As a mother, she sees a precious baby, born prematurely, with health issues at a time virus swirls all around us.
I’m happy that they’re both on the mend, and that all seven grandchildren and their parents have a Christmas free of serious health worries. But the uncertainty surrounding Pea’s illnesses has led me to reflect on the last few months and what’s to come.
I’ve been sick since August, first with COVID, then various ailments. On Thanksgiving Day, I had a 102.5-degree fever. My unrelenting cough felt like shards of glass ripping through my lungs and my chest hurt so bad I doubled over on occasion. I still fatigue easily, and I don’t have the energy I once did.
I paint that picture because I couldn’t see Pea while I’m sick. She’s too fragile.
I’m finally feeling better now, besides the bouts of exhaustion. I hope to see Pea soon because I’ve only held her twice since September.
I feel terrible for my daughter, who has seen Pea in a NICU bed with a tube up her nose and an IV in her foot. She has the same refrain as any parent who sees their child in pain.
Stop. Just make it stop.
I feel terrible because I can’t do anything, even though I wish I could. Fathers protect their children, but all dads (me included) can forget that our babies aren’t our babies anymore. They have jobs, dreams, and families that take precedence in their lives. They have spouses whom they love, as my daughter does. Dad’s duty moves from protecting to guidance — and only when they ask for it.
My daughter used to call or Facetime almost nightly; rarely did we go more than two days without talking. She would stop by my house and give me these bear hugs that could crush a rib, even though, like her identical twin sister, she’s a little thing.
Those frequent calls have stopped. I don’t want to intrude while she’s in the middle of feeding, changing, playing, snuggling, or caring for Pea. That’s her first and highest priority.
My daughter says Pea smiles when she hears her parents’ voice and coos that baby murmur that makes adults melt. Pea laughs. Pea cries. I miss it all.
Pea’s home and safe. That’s the only Christmas present I need. Hopefully, next year, I can get a better gift — holding her and my daughter and telling them how much I love them.
Ray Marcano’s column appears on these pages each Sunday. He can be reached at raymarcanoddn@gmail.com.
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