Giver of Life: Part 2

The previous post concluded with hints of an impending trial… On August 27, 2008, the Life Giver granted us a priceless gift, the gift of life. Our little Sophie took her first breath of air around 5:37 a.m. For the next hour we simply enjoyed the moment: looking at her cute little fingers and tiny toes, breathing in that wonderful baby smell, and holding her in our arms. It was absolutely amazing. Our hearts were rejoicing and our faces showed it. Then Tammie seemed to sense that something was amiss. She looked at me and said, “I think she’s having trouble breathing.” I didn’t really notice anything, but I asked the nurse to have a look, just in case. The nurse came in and assured us that everything was fine, but that they needed to take her to the nursery for all the routine checks. We didn’t want to lose the magic of the moment, but we were confident that the excitement would resume, and that she would be back in our arms within only a few minutes. Sadly, we were mistaken.

Thirty minutes passed, then forty-five, and finally an hour, but still they had not returned our daughter. We wondered what was taking so long. Deciding that more than enough time had passed, I went in search of our little one. Finally, I found the nursery and walked in. Once inside, I noticed that Sophie was getting plenty of attention. What I should have realized is that that’s not necessarily a good thing. Naively thinking all was fine, I asked the nurse when we would be able to take Sophie back to the room, and that’s when she broke it to me. “Mr. Moore, the doctor would like to talk to you.”

Walking in on cue, the doctor explained that he was fairly certain she had a condition called “Transient Tachypnea,” or in layman’s terms, “wet lung.” (Don’t worry, I didn’t know what that meant either.) The doctor explained that during a normal birthing process most of the fetal lung fluid should be squeezed out, and the minor amounts left behind are simply reabsorbed. For whatever reason, this didn’t happen for Sophie. As a result, there is excess fluid in the way and she has to work extremely hard to take a full breath. Then the doctor walked me over to the side of her little bed, and he asked me to observe her and tell me what I saw. “She’s breathing rapidly and her stomach seems to be sinking in a lot, like she’s really struggling to get air, and it sounds like she’s humming.” He said, “We call that Tachypnea Retractions and the little grunting sound that you hear sounds cute, but it’s a bad sign… We’re going to have to admit her to the NICU, but there’s nothing to worry about. This kind of thing just takes time.”

I wanted to cry for my little princess, but I had to be strong. I needed to tell my wife the prognosis and I knew I couldn’t do it with tears in my eyes. Returning to the room I broke the news, and almost before I finished with the explanation Tammie was on her way to see her. When we got to the NICU, we weren’t exactly prepared for the sight we saw. Wires, tubes, monitors, IV’s, etc., all protruding out of our tiny baby. The doctor came over and informed us that her condition was deteriorating and so they were administering high flow oxygen. If this doesn’t work, then we’ll probably have to put her on the respirator. Tammie asked, “May I hold her?” convinced that the answer would be “yes.” She leaned forward to pick her up only to hear the nurse say, “No! I’m sorry.”

“I can’t hold my baby? When will I get to hold her?”

“When she’s off the oxygen.”

“When will that be?”

“Three days, five, maybe ten, we’re just not sure.”

After spending about an hour with Sophie, just staring at her and feeling helpless, we headed back to the delivery room. The short walk down the hall felt more like a marathon, each step heavier than the last as we walked farther and farther away from our child. We wanted an expedient recovery, we hoped for a misdiagnosis, but it wasn’t to be. Arriving back in the room, no words were spoken, but we both knew what we needed to do. So we closed our eyes and falling to our knees began to cry out to the Healer of the hurting, the Comforter of broken hearts, our Refuge in times of trouble. With tears welling up in our eyes, then gently streaming down our cheeks we joined our voices with that of the Psalmist proclaiming our faith in the Giver and Restorer of Life. “I lift my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help come from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” Regardless of whichever way this troubled road turned, we were prepared for we had determined to simply “walk by faith.”