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overlooking the hospital. Heading back there later that
afternoon, waiting for the lights to change, I looked up to
see him arc his arm over his head in a slow wave. A shiver
ran across my shoulders and I waved enthusiastically back.
When Jordan weighed in at a kilo, practically double his
birth weight, it was a very big deal. As I approached his cot
that morning, midwife Andrea and registrar Claire gave a
small round of applause. I was seriously happy.
‘A kilo!’ said Andrea. ‘Hoorah!’
‘Congratulations!’ said Claire.
There was a brand new laminated photo of Jordan stuck
to the end of his cot with the words ‘JORDAN IS A KILO’
typed beneath his picture, and someone had dressed him
in a celebratory red fire-truck top.
After finishing his cares that morning, I skipped over to
our local op shop, just a few doors down from our apartment
block, and bought a basket for fifty cents. (Mum had spent
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far more time there than Benny or me. ‘I’m off to build on
my doily collection,’ she’d say. ‘It’s for your inheritance.’
‘You’re good to me, Mum,’ I’d say.)
At the counter, I was tempted to tell the kindly volunteer
lady my thrilling news, but resisted because, in my experience,
people outside the hospital so often inadvertently said the
wrong things. When the boys were just a few weeks old,
I had torn myself away from them to get my hair cut,
naively telling the idiot hairdresser that my sons were born
at twenty-three weeks instead of forty. ‘Oh my god!’ she’d
shrieked. ‘What do they look like? Are they normal?’
So at Anglicare that day I guarded my heart, kept my
news to myself, and handed over the fifty cents. ‘Nice
basket!’ I told the volunteer. ‘Really nice.’
Back in the apartment, I stacked the basket with cheeses,
crackers, strawberries and grapes. I attached a paper f lag
to a stick from the garden and stuck it into a wedge of
camembert with the words: ‘Jordy is a kilo!’
Benny and I took it to NICU together and offered it
around to staff.
‘Go, Jordy!’ they said, raising crackers in a toast.
Even though we celebrated when Jordan came off the
ventilator, the CPAP mask that helped him to breathe
afterwards was awful. Thick plastic tubing came down over
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his head; it was attached to a fitted white skullcap, and
ended in hard plastic hooks pressed into his nose so firmly
that it was pulled slightly upwards. During the times when
the CPAP was temporarily taken off, his nose stayed pushed
upwards because the prongs had been pressing so hard for
so long. It was heartbreaking.
When finally he no longer required CPAP, and was
receiving oxygen through discreet clear plastic prongs that
rested in his nostrils, it was such a relief. Oh, celebrations!
He didn’t have to endure the mask any longer, and we
could see his face al the time. Washing him required two
people—one to remove the prongs and wave oxygen near
his nose and the other to wash him.
I took a small piece of sterile gauze from a neatly folded
pile and dipped it into a bowl of warm water before dabbing
it gently over his body. ‘Hold the oxygen closer, Benny!’
I said, nervy.
It was pretty scary—when the oxygen wasn’t close enough
to his nose, his sats (short for ‘saturations’—the midwives’
abbreviation) would start to drop and, if they got too low,
the alarm would go off and scare the pants off us. It wasn’t
your average bathtime.
‘It’s okay, darlin’ . . . I’m watching it,’ said Benny.
We peered down at Jordan through the top and side of
the cot. ‘He’s looking at me!’ I said. ‘Oh—look at those
eyes . . . Look at his perfect little body!’
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‘You missed a spot . . . there . . . under his arm,’ said
Benny. Typical. Detail-guy.
‘Hey! Don’t get distracted—watch the oxygen!’ I looked
quickly at the screen, then back at Jordan.
‘Relax—it’s okay!’ said Benny.
‘Sorry . . . sorry. Just wait—I’m going to choose a clean
top,’ I said. ‘Hold the oxygen up close.’
‘Stop telling me what to do,’ said Benny. ‘Relax,
would you.’
I power walked to the clothes cupboard and rummaged
around until I found a blue flannelette top decorated with
stars. On my way back I spread it over my hand and, still in
rapid walking motion, held it up as I hailed Annie: ‘Look
at this one for Jordan! Cute, huh?’
Annie looked over and formed a circle with her thumb
and index finger. ‘Perfect,’ she said.
The hospital had employed a woman to support the families
of prem babies and follow up on the babies’ care after
they went home. She ran ‘coffee mornings’ for parents on
Wednesdays. Jennifer was glamorous, with hip-cut short red
hair and red lipstick to match. We were good at laughing
together, and I imagined we could have been friends in
different circumstances. During our first week in NICU, she
had approached me gently to introduce herself, but I was too
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overwhelmed and anaemic to engage with her, managing
only to shake my head and wave her away.
I had liked coffee mornings at first but, since Leo died,
I had not been for several weeks. How could I face the
reactions of other parents? But on a lonely day I decided to
go back—I would keep the focus on Jordan and everything
would be okay. I knew how good it was to be in a room
full of people who empathised, and in the past, Jennifer’s
coffee mornings had grounded me.
I rode the lift up to the fourth f loor and she greeted
me at the door. ‘Oh, good morning, Ingrid! I’m so glad
you came!’
‘Hi, Jennifer. I made it.’
Her face shifted into pity mode and I hid my irritation.
‘How are you, Ingrid?’
‘I’m okay, I’m okay . . . Jordan’s doing well!’
‘Yes, I heard . . . Isn’t that great.’ Jennifer had been working
with prem babies and their parents for years, and I always
thought she knew more than she was letting on. I wanted to
let her know that I wasn’t deluded. ‘I mean . . . I know . . . You
never know, but I mean, so far so good,’ I said.
‘That’s right. Great news.’
One wall of her office was covered in photos of babies
and children. ‘Here,’ she said, plucking one off and holding
it out to me. ‘Look at this little angel.’ A curly-haired boy
peered up at the camera. ‘Twenty-three weeker.’
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‘No! Really?’ I became excited, before consciously
putting a lid on it. After all, how were all the other twenty-
three
weekers going? Not that I was going to ask.
‘Really. Isn’t he gorgeous?’ she said.
‘He is . . . he is. Good on you, Jennifer . . .’ I touched
her shoulder, ‘. . . spreading the hope message.’
I joined the circle of shy parents, and we talked until
the room was a comfortable hum of voices. A cup of coffee
later there was a tap, tap at the door and Jennifer directed
a latecomer to the last chair. She recognised me. ‘Hi, Ingrid!
How are you? How are your boys going?’
All heads turned my way, and Jennifer shifted to the
edge of her seat. ‘I . . . well . . . Leo . . .’ My chest tightened
and my throat swung shut. I couldn’t finish my sentence.
‘Leo passed away,’ said Jennifer in a soft voice, and I
cried harder on hearing the words.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry . . . I’m sorry. I had no idea,’ said the
woman.
‘Of course you didn’t know,’ I said, looking down
through a wall of tears, shaking my head. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’
It was not okay. I wanted the floor to swallow me up.
One afternoon I was taking photos of Jordan while Benny
read him Harry Potter. A woman strode over, shoulders
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back, bust jutting out in front and to the sides, and offered
to take our photo.
‘That would be great!’ I held the camera out to her.
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s okay.’
Benny finished his sentence (he is not a man to be
rushed) and lowered the book to lean in closer for the
photo. Jordan lay tightly wrapped in white muslin with
his palms pressed together under his chin. Wrapping prem
babies with their hands together was meant to be good for
their neurological development. Go figure. Click.
‘I think it’s a good one,’ said the woman, handing the
camera back. ‘I’m Olivia.’ She wore a white baby-doll top
with thin straps.
‘Hi, Olivia, I’ve seen you in here. I’m Ingrid.’ I turned
to Benny. ‘This is my husband, Ben.’
‘They’re my girls over in the corner,’ said Olivia, pointing.
‘Twenty-six weekers. They’re big girls now . . . relatively.’
Olivia was brave and loud, and I liked her already. ‘Come
and have a look if you like,’ she said. ‘I know how hard it is
to believe they’re going to grow big . . . My girls were not
much bigger than your boys when they were born. That
was months ago now.’
Olivia talked me into going to a coffee morning with
her, so I did.
‘I’m nervous,’ I whispered to her.
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‘I’ll protect you,’ she whispered back, patting my leg
gently with her pale dimpled hand.
Jennifer had prepared the room with a circle of chairs and
a plunger of coffee. Seats filled. Everyone started talking,
and I was glad I had come.
‘I’m sick of people who haven’t been in the hot seat
telling me it’s a roller-coaster,’ I told Olivia. ‘The nurses
are constantly doing that. They mean well, but it makes
me mad.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Olivia plucked the t-shirt away
from her waist and shifted in her seat. ‘Anyway, roller-
coasters are fun! You pay money to go on a roller-coaster!’
‘Yeah, and you get off after five minutes!’ We snorted
together in a laugh. ‘And you get back on when you’re ready.’
‘Exactly!’
Jennifer placed a box of tissues in the middle of the circle
before addressing the room: ‘Good morning, everyone! I’d
just like to introduce Carol, who’s new here this morning . . .’
Carol filled a chair across from me; she had thick legs
squeezed into dark denim jeans, and a face like a kid’s
drawing—three dots and a pale pink line. Jennifer spoke
in her sympathy voice: ‘Thank you so much for coming,
Carol. Would you like to tell the others a bit about yourself?’
‘Okay . . .’ Carol spoke softly to a spot on the f loor.
‘Harvey was born two days ago. Things were going
well . . . we weren’t expecting any problems. I had a normal
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pregnancy and a short labour.’ She looked around at us,
then back down at the carpet. ‘Just after he was born . . .
well, I could tell something was wrong.’ She lifted her
plump hands to cover her face for three yanking sobs, and
I caught a whiff of Jennifer’s classy perfume as she offered
her the tissue box.
Carol plucked three and mopped her pink, snotty face.
‘Well, just after he was born . . . the doctor and nurse kind
of went quiet . . . Then the doctor said . . . Your baby is
breathing and wel .’ More sobs. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Jennifer. ‘Take your time.’
Carol sniffed. ‘Well, he said . . . your baby is breathing . . .
he’s fine . . . But he only has one foot!’
She bawled into her fists, holding clumps of tissues.
Jennifer extended an arm around her shoulders and cooed.
Carol blew her nose and looked across at me; then something
in her expression changed. ‘He’s gorgeous,’ she said, a smile
creeping on. ‘He’s got dimples.’
I gave a small nod and said: ‘It’s a great name, Harvey.’
‘Yeah . . . I think it suits him. He’s a real boy’s boy.’
Jennifer relaxed back in her seat. ‘And the nurses say he’s
too young to be smiling, but he does!’
Carol was kind of glowing now and I was jealous, because
I knew he would be fine—he was term. He had fully
formed lungs, stomach, brain, immune system. He would
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just have a fake foot. He would get used to that; so would
she. I smiled reassuringly over the buzz of my own worries.
I didn’t go to any more coffee mornings. It was too
risky—exposing myself to other people’s good and bad
times, their words and their opinions. Anyway, I had seen
in the eyes of other nervous parents that I had become a
reminder of the worst that could happen, and I didn’t like
that role one bit.
One morning, I woke particularly early. The news from
NICU was not great. Jordan was not coping with his first
immunisations and, as a result, his steroid quantity was
back up.
The thick, dark curtains in our bedroom were drawn.
I sat on the edge of the bed and hung my head. Benny lay
awake, the doona pulled up to his chin.
‘Hi, Benny,’ I said flatly.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. I slumped further and pressed
my fist against my cheekbone, tears rolling down my cheeks.
‘It’s just hard to keep positive. I can’t face it this morning—
the ups and downs. I can feel depression calling me and
I’m fighting it. I don’t want to go over. I’m so tired. I just
want things to go well for a while.’
‘Hang in there, my darlin’,’ said Benny.
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I showered and dressed reluctantly before making my
way, slower than usual, to NICU. As I approached Jordan’s
cot, I could see he looked pale. My brow furrowed and
the palms of my hands prickled until I curled my fingers
into them.
Jordan looked different. ‘He’s the wrong colour,’ I told
his midwife.
‘No, he’s not,’ said Janet. ‘He’s just tired.’
‘No, he’s the wrong colour.’ I leant down to press my
mouth on Jordan’s forehead and breathe in his baby scent;
at the same time panic was seeping into my blood.
‘Ingrid, he’s fine.’ She stroked his brow fondly. ‘Sleepy
boy.’
I turned to the registrar, who was looking at the baby
beside Jordan. ‘Louise!’ I said. She turned to me. ‘Jordan’s
the wrong colour.’ She took the two steps to Jordan’s cot
and leant over him, touching his cheek with the back of her
hand. ‘He does look a bit dusky.’ She looked at the screen
beside him and her forehead creased. ‘But his sats look okay.’
She followed the oxygen tubing with her hands down
below Jordan’s cot and alongside his monitor stand, until
she discovered the point where it had become disconnected.
‘He’s not getting oxygen!’ she exclaimed.
‘Oh my god!’ said Janet.
‘His lips are going purple!’ I said, sick with panic. Jordan
was literally changing colour before my eyes.
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Louise looked at Janet and spoke with authority—a side
of her I had not seen before, but one I was grateful to see
now. ‘I’ve reconnected the tubes. Turn up his oxygen . . .
Turn it right up!’ she commanded.
Janet did as she was told. Colour slowly returned to
Jordan’s face and lips, and slowed my pounding heart.
‘Oh, Ingrid, I’m so sorry.’ Janet was crying. She pulled
me into a hug, which I could not return. ‘I’m so sorry,’
she said. But it was all I could do not to shove her off me.
I crossed the room and sank into a plastic chair against
the wall, covering my face with my hands. Louise crouched
down beside me.
‘I can’t take this,’ I said. ‘I cannot take this. It’s too much.’
I sobbed into my hands.
‘You’ve been through a lot, Ingrid.’ She placed a hand
on my shoulder. ‘That was a terrible thing to happen.’