Cate’s struggle continues . . . .

I woke up on the maternity floor in a semi-private room, but without a roommate. Mark stayed with me for hours, but had to get back home to help with the kids. As night descended on us all, Lynn, a kind, articulate nurse from the NICU was there with me explaining what was being done for Cate. Her grasp of the situation was reassuring. Lynn explained Catie had received a significant insult to her brain, was undergoing tests, could not be held yet, but was relatively stable. She described her outcome as largely unknown, a “wait and see” kind of deal, adding that the injury could possibly be more of a temporary “bruise”, or worse case scenario, there could be any number of serious and permanent brain injuries. So, there was hope. There was great concern too.

Suddenly, the loudspeaker blatantly announced “Code Blue NICU”, and Lynn flew out the door. I KNEW it was Catie. It was dark outside, the room too, was as dimly lit as my spirit. I stared at the barren, drab “hospital green” wall before me. There was nothing on it but a clock and a crucifix. At this point time had stopped and I was caught up in a suspended state of terror and helplessness. Frozen. Alone. “Please Lord let her live.” Was all I could mutter. Over. And over. And over.

It seemed like eternity, but within probably thirty minutes, Lynn, returned and explained Cate had begun to seize. She was now on a respirator and Phenobarbital. Never was a night longer or darker or more terrifying. Seizures were a concerning sign that her brain had likely been compromised for considerable time.

Mark drove back in to be with me when he learned of this setback. He curled up beside me in bed until they medicated me for my incisional pain and the excruciating spinal headache I couldn’t shake. My husband and the meds provided much needed relief. Both helped me sleep. Mark left as I drifted off, but with morning and its reassuring light, he was right back with me. Together we went to see our struggling baby girl in the NICU. All we could do was touch her little nine-pound body through the incubator holes and kiss her dark brown fuzzy head in between the tubes and wires. She looked battered and puffy. Scary. But she was alive.

Hours later the NICU staff unexpectedly came for me. They wanted to let me try to nurse Catie. She latched on with vigor and nursed like a Roche! Everyone in the nursery cheered!! I felt like I was finally doing something to help my baby. A glimpse of normalcy. Those few minutes of closeness with my sweet newborn were so needed.

No one could or would give me a straight answer as to Cate’s prognosis. The vagueness of endless ifs, ands or maybes to all my questions, was maddening. Being a nurse, I pressed them. I needed to know. We were told Cate was at risk for visual impairment, hearing loss, muteness, paralysis, and cognitive impairment. These could be to varying degrees and in any number of possible configurations. BUT once again, everyone did leave room for HOPE and I took it. . . despite knowing how fragile it all was. We had to wait and watch how she did as her brain developed over months and even throughout the first few years. We learned that scans were not necessarily good predictors of outcome. Despite evidence that Caie’s scans suggested severe injury to significant portions of brain tissue, the doctors emphasized that nothing available to medical science could see inside the cells. That meant that even a good scan didn’t predict with absolute certainty a good result, nor did a bad scan promise a horrendous outcome.

Back in my room, housekeeping was busy getting set up for my roommate. Shirelle was sixteen and unwed. Her little girl, Day Quana Latrice, needed extensive bowel surgery. Throughout the night, that is to say, ALL night, Shirelle was on the hospital phone arguing with both Jo-Jo and John Boy about who was her baby’s father. From what I could tell they both wanted it to be them? Shirelle was kind. She tried to comfort me when she heard me crying behind the curtain. She’d pass boxes of Kleenex and offer me water and even chocolate. The drama of her paternity confusion was some weird combination of tragic, maddening and comic relief. Friends and staff were telling me to complain about the nighttime wrangling and drama, but I never did. Our struggling babies had forged a common bond between us. She asked me all kinds of nursing questions. We were strange bedfellows, but we were pulling for one another. Praying for each other. I was fifteen years older and she showed me respect. (I still think of them and wonder how they all are. Ultimately Day Quana’s surgery went well and they left way ahead of us.)

And morning arrived once again. With it I met Shirelle’s grandmother. This woman was amazing. A pillar of the church, a wealth of wisdom and a heart of gold. I was in our little bathroom sobbing when she arrived and she couldn’t help but hear my grief. I tried to compose myself when I eventually left the bathroom, and quickly rushed by them, pulling the curtain around my bed, hoping they didn’t notice. I’d try to deal with my anguish alone. But “Grandmother” wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t see and hear a person hurting. Within moments, she was sweetly saying “My dear sweet girl, can I come in?” I agreed. She stood up straight, big brown eyes brimming with love. Not some flimsy, helpless, worthless sympathy, but a FIERCE commanding love I’d never ever quite seen before. This matriarch was No NONSENSE. She KNEW Jesus and she KNEW He’d help Catie.

“Girl, you get down on your knees and you BEG the sweet Lord Jesus to heal your baby! Crying won’t do nothing.” Her powerful assurance made my faith grow like the Grinch’s heart. I instantly loved her. She hugged me as if to squeeze strength into me. I’ll always love and thank her for what she did that morning. So many eyes were looking at me with fear and sadness and despair. This lady projected faith, hope and love. I wanted what she had.

I pulled it together and prayed with stronger faith, and I remembered two healings I’d heard my family talk about often over the years. Gaga’s story of how the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick had brought my Uncle John out of a coma decades ago, and the more recent one about how Aunt Julie’s friend, Daniel Bastian had been healed of bone cancer at one of Father DiOrio’s services. I resolved to find help for Cate. We were going to fight this.

Day three, while holding and nursing Catie in the NICU, several doctors came to me in direct succession within minutes of each other. Each one with bad news. Both the cord and placenta were quite deteriorated (indicating Catie was compromised for an extended time period) and her CAT scan and EEG were grossly abnormal. I sat there stoically until they left, then quickly handed Cate back to the staff before I lost it. With no hesitation, I then jumped up, and ran, splinting my abdominal incision, IV pole in hand, to the shower area so I could cry without anyone knowing where I was or hearing me.

Before leaving, I’d noticed out of the corner of my eye, the elderly nun, (She had to be about ninety.) who brought me daily Holy Communion. Her frail, tiny person was standing in the corner of the NICU waiting for me, but there was no time for niceties. I kept my head down and ran right past her.
Forty-five minutes later, this second ministering angel came bravely and faithfully to my bedside. Apparently, she’d been looking all over for me after watching my speedy exit from the NICU. She gave me Communion, held me in her arms and prayed the Memorare over me . . ..

‘Remember oh most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence I fly unto Thee oh Virgin of virgins, my Mother. To Thee I come sinful and sorrowful. Oh, Mother of the Word Incarnate despise not my petition, but in Thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.’

The peace that passes understanding came over me once again. Later that afternoon my Mom called to say that Father Liguori, a Franciscan priest, and family friend, at Siena College, had brought the entire friary together to offer Mass just for Caitlyn. There are indeed saints and angels among us.

The prayers of countless family, friends and even strangers, were having their effect. Cate had no further upsets. Every day she was a bit stronger. There were, however, no promises made about her future. “Cautiously optimistic” was the best I could get anyone to commit to.

So many of our family and friend visitors kept asking us “Are you going to sue?” It was so unnerving to Mark and I. Sue?! All we wanted was for Catie to LIVE and be alright. Money and/or retribution were the last things on our minds. We’d answer “Please just pray she comes through this alive and that she has little to no injuries from it all.” In my mind I questioned if my doctor had provided the best care, but I also knew anything he may have done wrong was due to an error in judgment and not to negligence or blatant malpractice. As a nurse myself I knew only too well how easily a mistake could happen to any of us and how disastrous the consequences could be. I tried to put myself in his place. It would be months before our grieving became angrier and we even thought of the possibility of legal action at all.