“You have two beautiful babies,” Jean-Marc said when I woke up from the anestaesia. I wanted to ask how they were doing, how big they were, if our little boy was all right, but my throat was so sore that I could not talk. I asked for water, but I was told that I was not allowed to drink anything for five hours.
A woman in a green medical gown walked in the room. She had big brown eyes and a very calm demeanor.
“I’m doctor Gisela Diaz, neonatologist. Your daughter is doing well, better than expected,” she said. She smiled a warm smile that lasted only seconds and she was very serious again. “But your son is sick. His lungs are not mature enough. We put two chest tubes but it’s not working. There’s not much more we can do. He might not make it.” She gave us a long look. “I’m very sorry.”
Jean-Marc Junior lived only hours. I wished I could have told my son that I loved him and that I had dreamed with him every day for the past 5 months. I found comfort knowing that he would not suffer any longer, and that his father was holding his hand when he passed away.
Doctor del Boca stopped by our room later that day. He gave us a long, heartfelt hug.
“I have good news for Baby B,” he said with relief. “The head ultrasound looks good.”
One of the many risks of premature births are brain bleeds. The blood vessels inside the head are so thin that they burst easily, and brain bleeds can result in severe neurological damage.
Thank you God, thank you, I said to myself.
Over the past weeks, del Boca had visited me every single day and more than once my mom had told him that we were praying for our little boy to be born healthy, even if it took a miracle.
“I guess we didn’t get our miracle after all,” I said with a sad smile.
“Sometimes we pray for a miracle and we don’t recognize it when it’s here,” del Boca said. “Maybe this is your miracle.” He squeezed my hand tightly before he left.
He was right. Zoe was our miracle.