There are moments that divide life into before and after, even if we don’t recognize them right away. The day we headed to the hospital for the birth of baby L everything felt calm. We arrived on the same floor as we had with baby E and were taken to a similar triage room. The same monitors were hooked up to track both me and the baby. This time, things felt steadier.

The doctor came in and told me my blood pressure was elevated, and I asked if we could start the induction because I wanted to avoid magnesium at all costs this time. He agreed we could try. Labor was intense, and sleep through the night was minimal, but at around 10:20 am on March 12, it was time to push.

Delivery with baby L was much faster. in just two pushes and about ten short minutes, she was born. As she came out, something tore, and I began to lose blood quickly. The doctors and nursers were ready for it all. While several nurses and the doctor worked to find the source of my bleeding, the NICU team arrived for the first time that day.

When babies are born quickly, they don’t always have enough time in the birth canal to clear the fluid and mucus needed to breathe well on their own, so the NICU team came in to provide deep suctioning.

Ryan was able to hold baby L, but she wasn’t maintaining her oxygen levels, so the NICU team returned again. Each time, they would look, listen, adjust her position, and step back out.

Meanwhile, another doctor was called to assess me as I continued to hemorrhage and the source still hadn’t been found. There were quiet whispers about the OR. Finally, someone placed the retractor just right, and they found the tear on my cervix.

I really only remember bits and pieces; most of what I know has been retold to me by Ryan or learned later through reading my own chart. Once the tear was repaired and the adrenaline began to fade my body finally reacted to everything it had just endured. The larger delivery team cleared out of the room, it was just Ryan, me, baby L- who we had been told needed to “dry out” by lying prone- and one nurse.

Eventually, because of the blood loss, I started to feel sick and needed my nurse’s attention. At the same time, baby L decided she needed attention too. When my nurse called the NICU team for the fourth time, she told them they would need to take the baby so she could focus on me. In true movie fashion, I looked at Ryan and asked him to go with her.

Even as I type this, the heartache of watching my baby leave the room without me comes rushing back. It’s a feeling so deep that your body remembers it years later. Even with therapy, the tears still rise to the surface.

The quiet in that room was overwhelming. After a baby is born, you expect to feel an abundance of love, to have sweet, intimate moments as a family begins to form. Instead, my room was empty-just me and a nurse.

After what felt like the longest stretch of time in my life, Ryan returned to be with me-without baby L. I was taken to recovery and immediately began asking when I could go see her.

Recovery, with my baby in the NICU, was actually quiet. My vitals only needed to be checked every four hours, so the nurses didn’t come as often. I remember with baby E feeling like someone was always in the room, checking on her every hour. This time, the stillness felt differnt.

As soon as i was able, I was wheeled down to see my baby. I needed her, and I was certain she needed me.

She looked so small. She lay under a warmer, swaddled, with a large screen beside her displaying her vitals. I felt just as small as she looked. The nurse helped get me settled, and then they tried to feed her. We were told again and again-“She’s sleepy-she had a big day.” as an explanation for why she wasn’t eating.

I reached out to touch her, and something about it felt wrong. I didn’t just want to touch her-I needed to hold her. Everything would be okay if they would just let me hold my baby. She had been safe with me before; surely holding her again would make her safe now.

The required amount of time for me to medically stay in the hospital came and went, and I decided to be discharged. Baby L needed to stay, and I needed some sense of control over what I could do. I went home with no baby in the car seat. The ache-again- feels just as real.

I walked into our bedroom and saw the bassinet set up next to the bed. There was no need to empty it because baby L wouldn’t be using it that day. I sat on the bed and let the ache consume me. I cried and Ryan held me. There was nothing else to do but cry and be held.

I showered, changed, and talked about going back to the hospital. My mom was there to help with baby E, and I felt torn-there were two babies who needed me, and they couldn’t be together. I know I never stayed away from the NICU for very long; I wanted to be there as often as I could. At the same time, I tried to be intentional about taking breaks.

Many of the rooms baby L was first assigned to didn’t get much sunlight, so I would take walks when I could. There is something deeply unsettling about leaving your newborn in the care of relative strangers while you step away to do “normal” things.

Having a baby cared for by an entire team of medical professionals can make you doubt your motherly instincts in a way nothing else can. We were fortunate to have some incredible members of our care team who helped teach me how to advocate for baby L. They reassured me that sometimes a mom simply I knowing something is enough to get the ball rolling. This felt like the first small step into becoming a new kind of mother.

Baby L was being fed through an NG tube, and it felt like any slight movement resulted in a volcanic eruption of everything she had just been fed. My gut told me she needed a formula designed for babies with reflux. The first time I brought it up during rounds I felt dismissed. I remember venting to someone-maybe the feeding therapist- about knowing what she needed but not knowing why I knew it. The power she gave me when she said “You know because you’re her mom, and no one knows her the way you do,” is something I’ll never forget.

This moment stirred something in me. I remember calling the doctor and holding firm in what I knew my baby needed. He agreed to try it, and it helped. It didn’t fix everything, but it helped. I learned then that the staff was on my side and that they knew how to help me advocate for baby L with the doctors.

After about two weeks of “drying out” and several room changes, Ryan and I were growing tired of waiting without answers. A few possible diagnoses were mentioned-apnea, something internal related to the shape of her nose. And at one point, in a very causal, probably-not-it kind of way, Dr. S mentioned something rare-something this really didn’t look like. He wasn’t convinced, and neither were we. We were going to try everything else first.

Nurse C was a travel nurse, and watching her advocate for baby L during rounds became something that shaped the way I learned to speak up for my daughter. She asked direct questions and expected real answers. I had mentioned three of four things that had come up during our stay, and it felt like that information stirred her into action. When she presented during rounds that morning, she was determined to help us get things moving.

Genetic testing typically has a turnaround time of about six weeks-an eternity when you’re waiting for answers. That day, she was able to get two things started. She pushed for a dose of caffeine to if it would help and to assess whether baby L had apnea, and she advocated for running the genetic tests, knowing that waiting six weeks was simply too long.

The caffeine seemed to work. Baby L came off CPAP, and the focus shifted to continuing to work on feeds. It felt like there was finally light at the end of the tunnel. She moved to another room because she needed less support.

For the next two weeks, I learned how to feed her- how to pace a bottle, how to wake her gently to encourage more eating. It felt good. the pulmonologist stopped in because we were still waiting on the genetic results and told us it almost certainly wasn’t that super rare, scary, life-altering thing. So I held her. I read to her. I loved every small step forward we were making.

Then the social worker came by with the doctor.