This is a one of a series of chapters from my book about life with our special-needs daughter, Catherine.
After all was set in place and all plans mapped out, the busybodies slowly disappeared leaving Nicole and I alone in the room to prepare for the inevitable moment of her hour. Between contractions we talked, laughed, and prayed. She held my hand and comforted me. I think I tried to do the same for her. Outside the door a man in black paced the floor fingering worn wooden beads in one hand and a vial of Holy Water in the other.
The man in black was the last to leave the room when all the preparations were ready. He had spoken to the doctors about his role in the birth and first moments of Catherine’s life. They offered him a sealed bottle of sterile water for his purpose and explained to him the steps they would be taking and when he would be permitted to step in. He stayed and prayed over Nicole, Catherine, and me. I don’t think he ever stopped praying. I thanked and continue to thank God for his vocation and the grace he was given to answer that call.
I’ve witnessed the birth of all 8 of our children. I’ve stood by Nicole’s side, holding her hand and resisting the urges of well-meaning nurses to have a seat. At this point, this was my fifth labor and delivery. I knew how things were supposed to go. I knew what all of it looked like. I’d seen the good and the bad, the messiness and the beauty, the pain and the joy. On the surface, this labor and delivery looked like that and then it didn’t.
“
There’s a lot of blood,” the doctor whispered to the nurse, “
I think she’s ruptured.”
What did that mean? Who ruptured? What ruptured? Nicole? She seemed to be doing okay. Bells went off in my head and in the room as Catherine’s heart rate dropped. Nicole was pushing when she was told to do so by the doctor and the pitocin. Catherine needed to come out now. Our little problem child was having more problems, unexpected problems, unplanned-for problems. I kept praying a stupid little prayer but it was all I could do, “
dear God, dear God, dear God, help us…”
Catherine finally emerged into the light of this day. She came forth from the darkness into a new kind of darkness. Her life hung in the balance within her mother and now again in the artificial womb of science and art.
I can still see Anthony, our first-born as he emerged into our world. His face was scrunched, muscles flexed, limbs jittering, and he was a little angry. He looked like a tiny, angry old man who had just been told he couldn’t have another piece of cake. It was beautiful. Christopher emerged much the same way but I was struck by the beauty of his face. William was a giant baby full of life and vigor. Samuel too had a manly face, tone muscle, and the voice of life sprang forth when the gunk was cleared away.
Catherine emerged limp. She emerged with no muscle tone and a purplish blue color not the raging pink of flesh and blood, power and energy. She was limp, lifeless, and barely moving. I knew this labor and delivery would be different but I wasn’t prepared for this. It was as if I were watching a movie, a stupid documentary with no title or purpose. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. We’d done this before four times. Someone messed up this film reel, it wasn’t the director’s cut. Little did we know at the time, it was the director’s cut. We just weren’t up on the script yet.
Sometime during Nicole’s contractions which were strong, and in my mind artificial with the pitocin, her placenta ruptured. There was enormous clot that had ruptured as well. I saw it. I can still see it. Catherine had aspirated blood. Her little sponge-like lungs, the size of quarters, that were supposed to absorb air were filled with blood. She was suffocating on the same blood that had nourished her for nearly 9 months.
As soon as Catherine was out and the umbilical cord cut, the only one I didn’t cut out of 8 kids, the room looked like it was being overtaken by special forces. A door I hadn’t noticed before opened up to reveal an incubator-changing table. Catherine was placed on the table and set upon by the team. They cleared her lungs as best they could and administered oxygen. In reality, I have no idea what they did. All I saw was a little lifeless body of my only daughter being worked on by a group of people. I was in the fog of war. In my mind I can see Nicole being tended to by her doctor, Catherine being tended to by her doctors, and me standing outside of time and space witnessing the entire event.
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Father Hahn wiping off the water
after Baptism with Nicole smiling. |
I didn’t come back from my journey to the outer reaches of the cosmos until someone told me it was okay to get my brother. The man in black, I needed to get the man in black. He could do for Catherine what no other person in that room could do, what no other person in that room was trained to do. He could bring down upon her and the entire situation the power of the Creator of the Universe. He could bring forth, through the grace of God, Catherine’s healing and safety or he could send her back to the Lord radiant, beautiful, and perfect to wait on us as we continued our journey.
They wheeled the cart with Catherine closer to Nicole’s bed. Catherine’s uncle opened the sterile vial of water and poured life into the water. He in turn poured that life-giving water onto the tiny head of his niece as she struggled for her life. Today there would be no white gown, no candle, no chrism, no resounding “
I do’s” or promises made on her behalf. Today there would be no party afterwards, no cake, no pictures with godparents or grandparents. Today, May 2nd, 2008, was a day of survival for her and for us. We prayed as best we could as infinitesimal drops of water splashed her now pink forehead.
After her Baptism, they continued to work on her, test her, poke her, prod her, and stabilize her. Because she had aspirated so much blood, she was intubated and placed on a ventilator. In what seemed like a split second, when all that could be done was done, she was gone. Our first daughter, not even an hour old, was whisked away in a 3 ton iron chariot across town to her new home and what would be her home for a long time, Nationwide Children’s Hospital.
That was it. Catherine Therese Hahn was born on May 2nd, 2008 at 2:22 in the afternoon weighing in at 4lbs 7 oz with a length of 17 inches. She hung around for a while and then went off to make new friends.
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Catherine telling us bye before she headed
off to Nationwide Children's Hospital |
We were empty-nesters in a matter of minutes. The room was quiet and dark again. The beeps and buzzing were minimal. A single nurse checked on Nicole, took some notes and then disappeared through another door I had not noticed. Father Hahn too had slipped out at some point. It was just Nicole and me holding on to each other for dear life and praying for the life of our daughter. We laughed, cried, worried, and prayed.
I went out to the waiting room where our parents and children were waiting and praying. Nicole began making preparations mentally, physically, and emotionally, to escape this room of many doors to go be with Catherine. That was the first of many long nights spent in anguish over our daughter. It was probably the worst because we were so far from her at that point. Even if it was only a mile, it felt like a million miles. It felt like an uncrossable abyss had opened up between us and her. We prayed for the strength to make the journey that was beginning.
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