I look like Mother Africa and our baby is her progeny.
After I finally exhale (because I’ve been holding my breath since my mother turned toward the mural), I burst into tears.
“B-Brayden, it’s so beautiful.”
“If you weren’t on bed rest I couldn’t have hidden it.”
“I haven’t seen the outside of this room in weeks, not even walking down the hall.”
“It also helps that you sleep like a log.”
“Snores, too,” Mama adds.
“Mama.”
“Well, it’s the truth. You couldn’t hear anything over all that rattling you do while you’re sleeping.”
Now my tears turn into laughter.
“Shoot. Now I’ve got to pee.”
I slowly ease my legs over the side of the bed and slide my feet into my bunny slippers. It takes me a few moments to get into the bathroom, and more than a few to use it. This belly gets in the way of everything.
“You need help?” Brayden asks.
“No, I’m fine.”
When I’m done, I slowly make my way back to the bed. My belly is hanging too low for me to take entire steps, so I lift my foot and then slide as I place it on the floor. This movement propels me forward, ever so slowly, back to the bed.
Brayden chuckles as he watches me do my step slide.
“What is so funny? You’d be walking like this too if you had an entire human hanging in your belly.”
Brayden jumps out of the bed and runs up next to me. He links his arm into mine.
“It looks like you’re doing the Cupid Shuffle.”
“Shut up!” I say.
“Slide to the left, slide to right, right foot now, y’all. Slide again,” Brayden sings.
I give a sidelong glance to our bedroom’s full-length mirror. I’m wearing a Beyoncé t-shirt and the bottom of my belly slides beneath the bottom of the shirt. My shorts are fine, just regular black spandex, but my legs are incredibly ashy. They look like I jumped in a bag of flour and rolled around.
I shake my head and pick up my foot to do my step slide again.
“Slide to the right,” Brayden says as my foot is suspended midair.
The image in the mirror of my foot perched to make a landing, Brayden’s singing face, and my ashy legs is too much. The laughter bubbles out of me like a volcano from a sixth grade science experiment.
“Oh, shoot. I have to pee again,” I say.
I try to rush back to the bathroom, but there is no such thing as rushing when you’re nine months pregnant and your belly is between your knees.
“Oh, my goodness!” I say. “I think I’m having an accident.”
Brayden’s eyes widen. “Let me help.”
As the stream of liquid goes on for way longer than I’m used to, something occurs to me.
“Wait . . . I don’t think I’m peeing, Brayden. I think my water broke.”
“Your water broke?”
He runs into the bathroom and comes back out with a few towels, and starts cleaning up the mess.
“Are you in pain?” Brayden asks. “Are you having any contractions?”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing. Is that normal?”
“I don’t know!”
“I thought you read the baby books.”
“I didn’t get to this part.”
Thankfully, my mama comes back into the room, because we have absolutely no idea what we’re supposed to be doing next.
“Did I hear y’all say her water broke?” Mama asks.
“Yes,” Brayden says. “Do we need to go to the hospital if she’s not having contractions?”
“Sure do. Once the water breaks, bacteria can get into the birth canal and harm the baby.”
“I’ll go get the car, and the baby bag,” Brayden says. “Mama, can you help her get into some more comfortable clothes?”
“Yes, chile. Go get the car.”
As my mama and my husband stand here making decisions about what happens next, like I’m not in the room, I feel a surge of excitement. I get to meet my son soon.
Then, the surge of excitement changes over to a feeling of fear. Our son is about to meet his mommy, his daddy, and his heart surgeon.
Chapter 34
Brayden was a bundle of nervous energy in the labor and delivery suite. Dr. Peters had informed them that their son would be fine when he was first delivered, and that they could hold and cuddle him right after birth. The problems with his oxygen and blood flow wouldn’t start until the blood vessel that connects both sides of the heart closed.
Still, Brayden couldn’t make himself calm down about his son’s arrival.
He looked over at Chenille. Her hair was slicked into a high bun on top of her head, and little rivers of sweat trickled down her forehead. Brayden rushed over to dot her head with the cool towels that the nurses provided every few minutes.
“Are you sure you don’t want some anesthesia?” Brayden whispered. “I don’t like seeing you in this much pain.”
“No . . . drugs.”
The decision to try natural childbirth with no drugs had been mostly Chenille’s decision, although Brayden supported it. Dr. Peters had told them both that the drugs they give women while they’re in labor could make their son lethargic at birth.
Chenille’s breathing was even and slow until the monitor showed a contraction. Then she concentrated, gripped the bed rails, and gave quick, shallow breaths until it passed. Brayden took her hand, and she snatched it away.
“My skin feels weird,” she said.
“It’s okay, hubby,” Nurse Jessica said. “This happens to a lot of women during labor. Hypersensitive skin. Just keep dabbing her forehead with the towel.”
“Water,” Chenille said. “I’m thirsty.”
“Let me get your ice chips,” Brayden said.
He picked up the cup from the bedside table and fed a few chips into Chenille’s mouth. She looked grateful.
“Where’s my mama?” Chenille asked. “Is she still here?”
“Yes, all four of our parents are in the waiting area.”
“Can you have my mama come in here? Just for a little while.”
Brayden swallowed and put the towel down on the table. Why did she need her mama? Wasn’t he enough? He already didn’t feel like enough with her not letting him touch her.
“I want her to sing something, Brayden,” Chenille said. “If you had a better voice, I’d ask you. I need a distraction.”
That made him feel a little bit better, although he would rather she listen to the playlist of music that they’d brought to the hospital. It was part of their birthing plan to listen to Lauryn Hill and Jazmine Sullivan.
Brayden stepped into the hallway, and all four of the parents jumped to their feet, all probably wanting to be first to see their first grandson.
“Is the baby here?” Marilyn asked.
“Not yet. Her contractions are very close now, though, and Dr. Peters says she’s dilated nine inches.”
“So, almost,” Charlene said.
“Mama Charlene, she wants you to come in the room,” Brayden said.
“Absolutely.”
Marilyn frowned. “What about me?”
Brayden knew his mother was going to take offense at this, but there was no time to smooth over her feelings. Not when his wife was giving birth.
“She asked for her mother,” Brayden said. “She wants to hear some singing.”
“I sing,” Marilyn said with a pout.
Marilyn did sing. That was a completely accurate statement. She sang in the choir at her church, with all the other women of a certain age who had zero high notes in their range. She augmented the men in the tenor section who also didn’t have any high notes.
Mildly put, Marilyn’s singing wasn’t what anyone would request while they were going through the worst pain of their life.
“Mama, I promise I will come and get you when the baby is born.”
“He has to bond with all of
us,” Marilyn reiterated.
Joseph gently pulled his wife back down into her seat. “Marilyn, this is not about you today. We want Chenille to be at peace, so that this baby comes out like warm butter. Lord knows he’s already got a struggle ahead of him.”
“Mama, please just send up some prayers. Right now, the baby isn’t in any distress, and he’ll be here soon.”
Charlene pushed past Brayden and marched into the labor and delivery suite like he’d just tagged her into a wrestling match. Brayden followed her inside and watched Chenille’s face light up a bit when she saw her mother.
“What you want me to sing, baby?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a gospel song.”
Charlene smiled and opened her mouth to sing. “Lord I will lift . . .” Her voice was angelic as she launched into the sweetest version of “Total Praise” that Brayden had ever heard. Another contraction began, just as she reached the climax of the song.
Chenille gripped the bed rails again, closed her eyes, and let out a low moan.
Nurse Jessica rushed to the side of the bed. “Don’t forget to breathe, Chenille. You’re holding your breath.”
“I . . . need . . . to . . . push,” Chenille said.
“Okay, honey,” Nurse Jessica said. “I’m going to get Dr. Peters. Just hold on a minute. And breathe.”
I take Jessica’s place next to Chenille, and finally she grips my hand. Hard.
“It’s like . . . one long contraction now.”
“Hold on. We’re almost to the end zone.”
Chenille narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “Really, Brayden?”
“My bad. No football today?”
“Nooo . . . ahhh!”
Chenille squeezed Brayden’s hand so tightly that for a split second he thought he heard bones crunching. But then everything became a blur, because Dr. Peters ran in and took over. They pushed Brayden out of the way to check the monitor.
“You and Mrs. Rodriguez across the hall decided to push at the same time, huh?” Dr. Peters said as she rolled a tiny stool to the foot of Chenille’s bed.
Chenille closed her eyes and nodded. It seemed that was all she had enough energy to do.
“Well, you’ve been a champ, sweetheart,” Dr. Peters said. “Let’s get this baby boy born.”
The two nurses swirled around Dr. Peters, following her instructions. Brayden and Charlene stood on either side of the bed, waiting to help.
“Okay, Dad and Grandma, let’s each hold one of Mom’s legs back to give her leverage for this big push. The baby’s head is already crowning. Three big pushes, and we’ve got a baby boy.”
Brayden and Charlene did as they were told, and it seemed that Chenille ran straight off instinct. Dr. Peters wasn’t giving her instructions at all. It was like her body knew what to do on its own.
“It’s a boy!” Dr. Peters said, but Brayden listened for the scream.
Their son didn’t scream. Dr. Peters held him up for both parents to see. The baby opened one eye and let out a howl. It was like someone had disturbed his sleep, and he was mad about it.
Brayden exhaled, and tears fell as he watched Dr. Peters lay the baby on Charlene’s bare chest while his umbilical cord was still attached.
“You don’t have to cut the cord?” Brayden asked.
“It’s fine to wait a few minutes,” Dr. Peters said. “Let’s let him acclimate to his new surroundings first.”
“He’s beautiful,” Chenille says. “Look at him, Brayden. Isn’t he beautiful?”
“He’s amazing.”
He was amazing, and the most unbelievable part of it all was how healthy he looked. His little face was bright red from hollering and the sound level that he got on those screams didn’t seem like he was missing out on any oxygen.
“Dr. Peters, are you sure that this baby has a heart problem?” Charlene asked. “He looks healthy to me.”
“He will be fine for a few days, and then his heart will start to have trouble pumping oxygenated blood to the rest of his body,” Dr. Peters explained. “While he is breathing fine, we’re going to get him some of that awesome mommy breast milk, to build up his immune system for surgery.”
“Mama, can you go get Daddy and Brayden’s parents?”
Dr. Peters said, “We’re going to have Dad and the grandparents all put on little hospital gowns and masks. We need to be extremely careful, because little man is going into surgery in five days. Until then, he’ll be in the neonatal intensive care unit.”
“What are we going to name him?” Chenille asked.
“For some reason, when he looked at me with that one squinty eye, I thought Quincy. Quincy Carpenter.”
“Middle name should be Byron,” Chenille said. “Doesn’t that sound like a power name? Quincy. Byron. Carpenter.”
“Right. Like he’s going to be a billionaire or something,” Brayden said.
“He is. If he’s got this much of a struggle ahead of him just coming out the womb, my son is going to be incredible. Destiny has spoken.”
Brayden stared at his beautiful son as he squirmed in his wife’s arms trying to find a breast to nurse. Inside he said a prayer, that no hurt, harm or danger come to his son, and that he was going to live up to his powerful name.
Brayden’s heart said amen.
Chapter 35
Today is my baby’s first of three surgeries. The Norwood Procedure. It doesn’t sound like something that could fix a heart that only worked on one side. It sounds too plain. Too simple.
But there is nothing simple about what they’re going to do.
The two cardiac surgeons, Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Panesh, are going to basically reroute Quincy’s blood flow so that the right side of his heart can do all the work.
My son looks like a little brown angel in his tiny bassinette. He hasn’t even had surgery yet, but already there is an IV pumping something into his little arm. His hands are balled into tiny fists, as if he is protesting what is about to happen. I’m protesting it, too. I wish that the healing everyone has been praying for had come through.
“Look at him,” Brayden says as he strokes Quincy’s tiny foot. “He looks like me.”
“He does look like you, but I see me in there, too.”
“Not much. This is my son.”
I laugh as my heart swells with love for my baby and my man. I never thought I could feel so much love at once. It’s overwhelming.
But even as we bask in this love, Brayden and I are nervous wrecks as the nurses take Quincy down to prep him for surgery.
“Let’s chat in the hallway for a moment,” Dr. Benjamin says.
My own heart races. Is there something wrong? Is Quincy not a good candidate for the surgery now? I feel myself panicking. Brayden’s hand is on my back, patting me, but it’s going too fast, like he’s in autopilot mode and doesn’t recognize his strength.
“Brayden and Chenille, I know you know all the risks of this surgery. We’ve talked about them all.”
“Yes. Quincy’s heart is tiny, about the size of a quarter. All the parts of his heart are tiny. The vessels, the aorta, the chambers. A millimeter mistake could cause him to bleed out,” I say almost by rote.
“Some babies have cardiac arrest during surgery,” Brayden says, picking up where I left off. “About one in five don’t make it, but if he makes it past this one, the other two are easier.”
“This is what I want you to try to do,” Dr. Benjamin says. “Prepare for the worst, but hope for the best.”
What the hell? He’s supposed to be telling us that our son is going to come out on the other side of this okay. And how in the hell do you prepare yourself to lose your child? Already, in five days, he means more to me than my own life.
“Dr. Panesh and I have done this surgery hundreds of times. We’ve done it more than any other surgical team in the country. You have the best. But we are not gods. We have lost some of our patients. Our percentage is way higher than the national average. Ninety-eight percent of ou
r babies survive.”
“Better odds,” Brayden says.
“Absolutely. Trust us to do everything in our power to keep your little angel alive.”
“We do,” I say. “We have no choice.”
“I just need to ask you to send prayers the whole time we’re in there. The surgery takes several hours, and I need you to pray the entire time.”
“We will,” Brayden says.
“There’s nothing more powerful than a parent’s prayers over their baby,” Dr. Benjamin says and then hugs me. He shakes Brayden’s hand.
And then he’s gone, down the hallway to the operating room, with our child’s life in his hands.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Brayden’s lips moving in what I know is a silent prayer. I do the same.
No, not Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Panesh’s hands. God’s hands.
Chapter 36
The waiting was the worst part. Every forty-five minutes or so, a nurse came to tell Brayden and Chenille that the surgery was still going well. It helped to get those updates, because outside of their prayers, they both felt helpless.
It was also a comfort to have their parents present, even though Marilyn was mildly annoying with her frantic pacing. She was a distraction, though, from the praying and the helplessness.
“Mom, you’re going to wear yourself out,” Brayden said. “You’ve walked about twenty thousand steps in an hour.”
Marilyn cut Brayden a serious glare. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to Jesus about my grandson.”
“You hear how she says her grandson,” Joseph said. “You’d think there weren’t three other grandparents in this waiting room.”
“I am a glamparent. There’s a difference.”
Charlene glanced up at Marilyn, shook her head, and went back to her Bible. She obviously didn’t care about Marilyn’s made-up words, and neither did anyone else.
“Marilyn, sit down,” Joseph said. “You’re putting everyone on edge. Relax.”
Brayden was glad when his mother took her seat without arguing with his father. On any other day, their sparring was entertaining, but not the day his five-day-old son was lying on a cold operating table with his chest open.
The Outside Child Page 15