Thwarting Frankie's Escape

Thursday, June 30. It’s twenty minutes to midnight, and Anna has finally fallen asleep. The Ambien has taken hold, and she is snoring, loudly and rhythmically. It’s strangely soothing. We’ve made it through another day, which means 3 less that Frankie will have to spend in the NICU. By the time our folks arrive tomorrow morning, we will have made it to the 72-hour mark, and the steroids will have had enough time to begin working on Frankie’s lungs. The doctors don’t sound very optimistic about the chances of putting off his arrival much longer than a couple of days, but at this point, every hour seems like a blessing.

Friday, July 1. It’s shortly after 7am. I’ve been awake since 5, when I awoke to find the doctor and two nurses huddled around Anna’s bed, whispering nervously. Anna has two sensors strapped to her belly, one monitoring Frankie’s heartbeat, and the other registering contractions, which have so far been few and far between. I asked what was happening and the doctor explained that Frankie was probably lying on the umbilical cord, and that had caused his heart rate to decelerate significantly. I heard him tell the nurse on the way out of the room, “If it keeps happening, we’re going to have to get him out of there.” So, I’ve been more or less awake since 5am, watching the heart monitor and making Anna roll over each time the rate drops below 120 bpm. If the nurses on the Labor & Delivery floor are making bets, my guess is the odds are against us making it through another day. Then again, I doubt many of them would have given us much of a chance of making it this far, and they don't know Anna.

11am. We've hit the 72-hour mark. Frankie's heartbeat has been steady all morning, and Anna's doing so well that they let her out of bed to take a shower. I've been trying to make myself useful, rearranging our room to make her more comfortable, rubbing lavendar lotion on her arms and legs, and constantly reminding her that she's the most amazing person I know. Still, it doesn't seem like very much compared to what she's going through. I'd give pretty much anything to trade places with her right now.

11pm. 84 hours and counting. Anna is once again in the grips of the Ambien, snoring quietly in the bed next to me. Frankie's heart rate has been strong all day. I've been listening to the monitor for most of the last hour, and the steady pulse is my new favorite sound. I don't know how much longer we'll be here, but we've settled in for the long haul, and Anna has pretty much made up her mind that she'll stay in this bed until September if that's what it takes. She's an incredible woman, and I'm the luckiest man in the world. Well, me and Frankie both, I suppose.