“Hold this bag of ice over his face,” the doctor said. “It will feel like you’re suffocating him, but I assure you, you’re not. We need to get his heart rate down — it’s over 200.”
My husband, Johnny, did as he was told. That’s how our new baby and second son, August, was welcomed into the world. Then he was zoomed down the hall into the NICU, hooked up to machines, under garish lights, followed by a small army of white coats.
I sat alone in the postpartum hospital room, confused and scared, thinking, What is wrong with him?
The nurse told me his vital signs weren’t good. He had trouble latching onto me, and he was small for a full-term baby — just 5 pounds, 12 ounces. His mouth was minuscule, his body rigid. I felt like a failure for not being able to nurse him, angry at my body for not growing a perfect human, and scared I might not see him again. I was hoping Johnny would bring our newborn back and tell me everything was fine.
August was far from fine.
