‘Oh!’ Benny was very jealous. ‘ I want to cuddle Leo!’
‘You can cuddle him next time . . . Oh my god! It was
incredible! He’s incredible! It was amazing!’
I swooned and grinned and bragged.
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Leo’s platelet count was low again, which meant the bowel
disease had not gone away. The surgery went ahead. A
crew of staff, strangers in pale blue cotton face masks and
caps, hooked Leo up to a portable oxygen container and
wheeled him out of NICU to theatre. One small arm
lifted momentarily into the air as I took a step towards the
receding team.
I had requested that a particular midwife go with them:
‘You’ll call me as soon as he’s out of theatre—right, Annie?’
I wiped a tear from my eye, crossed my arms and gripped
my elbows.
She turned to me and raised an arm in the air. ‘Absolutely.’
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I took Benny’s hand as we walked to the cafeteria and sat
down by a window. A pair of clown doctors pulled faces for
a mother and child nearby, and I willed them to stay away.
I couldn’t bear the expectation of a smile. While we waited,
I sewed dolls’ pants in between chewing my fingernails
and staring out the window, and Benny scanned the paper.
‘I hope that surgeon has tiny fingers,’ I said, slipping my
threaded needle through a hole in a small green button.
‘ And the anaesthetist,’ said Benny.
Two agonising hours later, Leo was returned to us—
pale, bruised and hooked up to a small colostomy bag, but
breathing.
My friend Nay came to visit. She slept on the single bed
in the corner of the living room, and in the morning, in
silky short pyjamas, lounged with her legs up on the arm
of the chair. When I took her to see the boys, she gasped
at the sight of their miniature forms.
She sat beside Leo, introduced herself in a soft voice,
and let him hold onto her pinkie. I was pleased but also
uncomfortable—filled with the usual tension in my body
when anyone else, other than Benny or Peter, touched
either one of my boys.
At midday I checked who was rostered on to look after
Jordan and Leo for the rest of the day. Relieved that it was
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Annie, I gave myself an afternoon out of the hospital, despite
the loud hum of my anxiety. Nay and I walked to parkland
and lay down on the grass under a tree. My lime green skirt
spread out around me as we talked and dozed and talked.
It was indescribably good to lie on the grass with my good
friend for two heavenly hours, out of earshot of monitor
alarms and the potent smell of disinfectant hand gel.
‘Hey, Annie—did you know it’s now seventy-nine days
until we’re taking them home? If you base it around their
due date, like Peter said . . .’ I was excited.
‘Really?’ said Annie. ‘Not that anyone’s counting . . .’
‘I’m practically packed!’
Annie laughed and Benny shook his head: ‘Oh, Inky . . .’
‘Who wants to cuddle Jordy?’ asked Annie.
‘Me!’ I jumped up. The mum and dad of a new arrival
whose cot was across from Jordan turned to us, then away.
‘Me!’ said Benny.
‘Me first, then you.’
‘Okay,’ said Benny. ‘But you can’t have a long one. You
get to hang out with them all the time.’
‘Yay!’ Annie lowered one side of the cot and reached
around detaching tubes and leads and placed them into
Ben’s hands, while I pulled up an armchair and fluffed up
a pillow to support my aching lower back.
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‘Are you sure about this, Annie?’ I asked. ‘He’s in a lot
of oxygen. We don’t want to do anything risky.’
‘He’ll be fine.’ Annie lowered Jordan down to me, in
his blanket nest, while Ben followed with the leads. As I
reached out to take him, he became pale.
‘He’s not okay,’ I said, panic moving in. ‘Look at his
sats—they’re dropping.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Annie froze in her tracks, still holding
Jordan, craning to look at his oxygen saturation levels on
the screen.
Within a minute, Jordan was ashen. My heart sped up
and slammed against my chest— Bam! Bam! Bam!
‘What’s happening? Should we get someone to help?’
I looked around. ‘Suzie!’
‘Let’s just give him a chance to recover,’ said Annie,
beads of sweat appearing on her forehead. The numbers on
the screen were going down, down, down as the amount
of oxygen in his blood decreased dramatically.
‘His lips are going purple!’ I said, now f looded with
adrenalin.
‘Okay,’ said Annie. ‘Let’s get him back . . . he’s not
recovering . . . Hey, Marlene!’ Marlene hurried over and
helped to put him back in his cot and reattach his leads.
We stood together, watching the numbers on the screen
slowly, finally, coming up, up, up.
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In the corridor just before NICU, the walls were lined with
blown-up photos of happy children. In the top right-hand
corner of each one there was a smaller photo of when they
were born, prematurely, showing tubes and leads and black
masks over their eyes. Underneath the smaller photo you
could read the baby’s weight and age at birth. For example:
960 grams
twenty-six weeks’ gestation
None of them was as young as our boys, or weighed as
little. I blew a huff of air out of my nose as I walked past,
resenting them for being bigger and luckier than my little
darlings. As if that’s smal ! I thought. Ooooh . . . Twenty-six
weeks . . . What a big deal!
I would see families pointing to the small photos, and
ooohing and aaahing. I wanted to tell them about my boys—
how small they were and how young at birth. I wanted to
show them the real miracles. I imagined yelling at them:
‘Twenty-six weeks and a thousand grams is nothing! It’s
practically normal!’ It felt as if no one else had babies
anywhere near as small and as sick as our boys.
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Just as I came down with a stomach bug, a combination of
Jordan’s lung disease and a blood infection caused his oxygen
requirement to go through the roof. I couldn’t visit NICU
for three long days and I nearly went crazy.
I was told that a man called Gary was looking after
Jordan, so I rang the staff coordinator in hysterics. ‘Who’s
Gary? I don’t know him and he doesn’t know Jordan! And
he’s a man! So many people have looked after my babies
now. So many people know Jordan. Surely there is one of
them who could swap to look after him?’
‘Ingrid, you know we try to have staff with the same
babies as much as we can, but it’s not always possible . . .
And just because he’s a man . . .’
‘Christ, Rita . . . Jordan’s in a hundred per cent oxygen!
I mean, he’s really sick!’
‘I know that, Ingrid. Gary’s an excellent nurse and
perfectly capable of looking after Jordan.’
Her tone had become defensive, but I pushed on. ‘No!
Jordan was manually breathed twice last night. He should
have someone who knows him!’
I pleaded through snorting sobs, but Rita wouldn’t budge.
Three days later I sat between Jordan and Leo with a mask
over my nose and mouth in case I was still infectious. I tried
to influence the roster.
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‘Hey, Bellamy, can you ask to look after my boys on
your next shift? Please?’
Bellamy laughed. She had peachy skin, a sexy lisp and
a ponytail down to her bum. ‘I’d love to look after your
gorgeous boys, Ingrid, but it doesn’t really work like that.’
We looked at Jordan sleeping, and I was jolted by an
alarm beeping on the screen beside his cot. Bellamy turned
off the flashing alarm light and together we watched his
oxygen saturation numbers—84, 83, 82. When she turned
his oxygen up a fraction, disappointment squeezed my chest
and caused my shoulders to slump. But with more oxygen,
the numbers stabilised.
‘Like I was saying, we really don’t have any say in the
roster,’ said Bellamy, folding her arms. ‘We’re just told what
we’re doing when we get to work.’
‘Well, could you ask to swap with Karen? She’s on the
late shift and I’d so much prefer it to be you. I don’t like
the way she handles them. She’s rough. She makes me mad.’
‘Sorry, Ingrid. I would if I could, but I can’t.’
That afternoon I walked into the boss’s office, determined
to make some impact.
‘You’re doing such a good job!’ I began. ‘God, rostering
must be so tricky for you in here.’
‘We do our best. How can I help you, Ingrid?’
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‘Well, it’s just that, you know, Jordy and Leo have been
here for a while now . . . nearly six weeks . . . And lots of
people have looked after them, and know them. And it’s so
important to have continuity of care, as you know.’
‘Of course.’ A polite listening nod.
‘And it’s important for carers and parents to be comfortable
with each other, you know. So I’ve . . . well . . . I’ve got this
list . . .’ I pulled the slip of paper from my pocket. ‘It’s a list
of people who I think know Jordan and Leo well . . . and
who Benny and I know well . . .’
‘Hmm.’ She pursed her lips as she crossed her sheer-
stockinged legs.
‘It’s not a short list, so it shouldn’t be too hard to . . .
well . . . I just thought maybe we could kind of have regular
people looking after them. Or at least semi-regular. Or at
least no more new people.’
‘No,’ she said with a patronising half-smile, in a tone
so firm that for a moment I was shocked. ‘Absolutely not,
Ingrid. I can’t help you with any of that.’
‘Right . . .’ Humiliated, I crumpled the list discreetly
and laid my fist in my lap.
‘Rostering is very tricky and there are many considerations,
not just your babies. I’m sorry I can’t help you. But . . .’ She
stood and opened the door. ‘Thank you for coming to talk
to me—you know my door’s always open.’
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She touched my shoulder lightly and I wanted to slap
her hand. Fuck you and your open door, I thought.
With the passing of weeks, and Adelaide’s dry summer heat,
Apartment 19 shrank and the darkness became oppressive.
Benny was working from the main room; the kitchen was
so small that two dirty plates and coffee cups by the sink
looked like the aftermath of a dinner party. By night the
air-conditioning unit rumbled like roadworks two metres
from our bed.
‘Can you turn the TV down, darlin’?’ Benny sat at his
computer as I lay on the bed watching a DVD. ‘I’m trying
to work.’
‘I can hardly hear it as it is! And don’t call me darling
when you’re mad at me.’
‘Honey . . . you know I’ll always love you,’ said Jennifer
Lopez. Traffic hummed and revved outside the window.
‘Inky!’
‘It’s nearly finished. Then I’m going back over. Leave
me alone.’
Whenever the hospital arranged a meeting with Peter, we
knew the news was serious. At one of those meetings, Peter
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led us into the Quiet Room, and Benny and I took our
usual positions on the couch.
‘I’ll start with Leo,’ he said. ‘It would seem that his
bowel disease has returned. We are giving him strong
antibiotics. So . . . fingers crossed.’ Peter usually gave more
detail. Something was wrong. ‘But there’s something else
we need to talk about, that has shown itself on Jordan’s
cranial ultrasound.’
He was grave and I could tell it was bad. I lurched and
covered my face with my hands. ‘NO!’ Ben looked my
way, kind of shocked, then back at Peter.
‘Yes,’ said Peter, slowly nodding. ‘It seems that Jordan
has had a blocked artery to his brain since his last cranial
ultrasound . . . It’s similar to a stroke.’
‘NO! NO! NO!’ It felt like part of me left my body
and watched from a far corner of the room. At the same
time I felt Benny’s shock and dismay as he sat beside me.
‘We will need to do an MRI scan to see more detail,’
Peter continued, gentle and firm. ‘The damage is severe and
part of his brain has atrophied.’ Imagine being the one to
deliver such news. How strong Peter was! ‘We may need to
consider withdrawing his support. It is a decision we will
need to make together.’
Benny and I turned to each other and howled desperately
in each other’s arms.
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As I lay in bed that night, wide awake, I realised I’d
been sitting with Jordan when the stroke happened. His
sats had dropped wildly, suddenly, and his temperature
had shot through the roof. His monitor alarms had gone
crazy. DING! DING! DING! A cluster of staff gathered
and stared at the monitor, then at Jordan, then back at the
monitor. A midwife had given me a cold wet washer to dab
on his burning-up face. His eyes looked scared. Everyone’s
eyes looked scared. It lasted a minute, maybe less; then his
temperature started to come back down, his sats came back
up and he looked at me wearily.
I felt around in the dark for my clothes.
‘What are you doing?’ I’d woken Benny.
‘I’m going to sit with Jordan.’
It was 3 a.m. Mum had come back to Adelaide the day
before. I crept out i
nto the cool night air and knocked on
the door of her apartment. She was quick to open it and
stood in the doorway in her ankle-length white cotton
nightie, rubbing her eyes.
‘We’re going over?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll just throw on some clothes.’
We hurried across the road, through the hospital
corridors and into the bright light of NICU. As we passed
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Leo’s cot, I saw that he had a small white piece of tape
over each eye, which meant he had been paralysed. I knew
that very sick babies were sometimes paralysed when it
was important for them to remain still, and the tape kept
their eyes closed.
There was no blanket over him and his stomach looked
distended and bluish. I knew he was not well, but I turned
away. Right now I have to focus on Jordan.
We pulled up chairs beside Jordan’s cot. I don’t know
how long we sat there, but we didn’t say much. Before we
left, a midwife friend handed me a typed document—an
information sheet about Jordan’s stroke. I groaned under
my breath when I scanned it. I told her I had been unable
to sleep, so she slipped two small white pills into my palm,
closing my cool hand with her warm one.
Mum and I walked back down the corridors and across
the road to our apartments.
‘Thanks for coming over, Mum.’ I was completely
drained. What next? What next?
‘That’s alright, darling.’
I took the two sleeping pills, crawled back into bed and
fell asleep.
A few hours later, Ben’s mobile rang and I sat bolt upright.
I was dehydrated and my head hurt. Ben answered: ‘Hello . . .
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Speaking . . . We’ll be right over.’ He put the phone down.
‘It’s Leo.’
Traffic hummed and revved. ‘What time is it?’
Ben looked at the clock on his phone: ‘Seven.’
We dressed and headed for the hospital. A midwife was
standing in the NICU doorway, waiting for us.
‘Louise,’ I said.
‘Take my hand,’ said Louise. She led us in.
There were people crowded around Leo’s cot and the
tension was so thick you could have sliced the air into
slabs. A doctor had his fingers on Leo’s chest, trying to
resuscitate him.
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