Chocolate sampler from "Chocolate for a Woman’s Blessings"

Joanna
by Judi Sadowsky

She came too early—willing her way into the world with sheer force of her being.

"Too small" they told us. "She may be too small to survive." At just over 2-1/2 pounds, they were right. Twenty-six years ago a 2-1/2 pound baby didn’t stand much of a chance.

But it wasn’t fair. She had fought so hard to live--had defied the odds already, merely by surviving her abrupt entry into harsh lights, cold air and oxygen. Thanks to a Cesarean section she was spared the agonizingly slow journey to the light down the dark, narrow tunnel of the birth canal and now she was here--so tiny and ill-equipped and yet so determined to live.

I left the hospital a week later without her. The emptiness in my womb was nothing compared to the hollow shell that was my heart. I had left my baby. Left her there held captive inside a tiny, Lucite bassinet hooked up to wires and tubes. In spite of it all though, she was beautiful with bright red lips and thick dark hair. She was a miniature baby. Perfect in every detail, but oh so tiny.

Everyday, twice a day, I made the long trip to the hospital and home again with aching arms and swollen eyes that endlessly poured tears. There was no stopping the tears. They came all the while I tried so hard to be cheerful for the child at home. Adam, the healthy four year old who himself was trying so desperately to be patient and not ask too often when his new baby sister was coming home.

For two months my child balanced herself precariously between life and death. For two months my husband Howard and I tiptoed around the subject, never asking each other, or even ourselves the unspoken question, the "what if" we knew we couldn’t face.

Two months in the hospital with thousands and thousands of unpaid bills covering the desk top in the den. Who cared what it cost? What did money matter? This was my child. My infant that I couldn’t even hold to my breast for an entire month for fear that I would disrupt the precious lifeline of oxygen that snaked its way soundlessly into her bassinet. Each time I looked at her my breasts, dried now of the milk that was so rightfully hers, my body, my entire soul was wracked with the pain of the impossibility of the situation. We were kept from each other. Kept from bonding. Unable to touch through the boundaries of glass and metal that surrounded and sustained her.

Finally after two long months, we were told that we could take her home. She weighed four pounds eleven ounces and had to eat every four hours, twenty-four hours around the clock. We were also told that all of her reflexes were not fully developed yet and sometimes she couldn’t suck, breathe and swallow at the same time. It seems that given the choice of food over air she always chose food (obviously my child) and invariably, at least twice a day, during feeding, she turned bright blue and passed out. "And, oh, by the way" they mentioned as we made our way toward the door. "She might be retarded. Just keep an eye on her. See if you notice anything unusual."

And so we took our teeny bundle home. How she didn’t drown in my tears that day I will never know. Howard and I both wept all the way home. Be careful what you wish for. All I asked for, prayed for, all this time was to bring our baby home. I had gotten my wish but at what cost?

Early evening on my first full day home with my baby the doorbell rang. I panicked. There I was at five-thirty in the afternoon still in my nightgown. The sink was filled with breakfast and lunch dishes, and my four year old was sitting, dazed, in front of the TV. I had managed to neutralize him with an overdose of sugar and four hours of straight TV in order to give myself time to attend to the baby’s constant demands. They had told us to feed her every four hours but they had neglected to tell us that it would take and hour and a half to get two ounces down her tiny gullet. Even then, when we were successful at that, she managed to vomit one and a half ounces back up. By the time I fed her, changed her, put her down and made my way back to bed it was just about time to start again.

I didn’t even remember if I had brushed my teeth that day but I was past caring. I opened the door and there was my pediatrician, standing there with a big smile--his medical bag in one hand and a pizza in the other. I just stared, astounded.

"I was just on my way home," he said (I knew it was a lie, he lived ten miles in the opposite direction), "so I thought I’d stop by. How’s the baby doing?"

I burst into tears. Somehow he managed to maneuver me, the baby, the little black bag and the pizza--half pepperoni half mushroom--into the kitchen. He sat me down, popped the pizza in the oven and set the baby in the infant seat on the floor. While he rocked the infant seat with his foot he proceeded to wash the dishes in the sink.

"I’m just going to examine her. Why don’t you jump into the shower, you’ll feel better."

I couldn’t believe it. When I came out, Adam was fed and happily chatting with his doctor and the baby was sound asleep.

Dr. Markman left soon after, but at least once a week for the next three months his visits would be repeated. Sometimes it was Kentucky Fried Chicken or Taco Bell, but whatever the food, it was always accompanied by his warm smile and a shoulder to cry on as we cheered Joanna to good health.

There was never a bill for those house calls; and it was a good thing, because there was no amount of money that could have adequately compensated him for the kindness he showered on me.