When the Bomb Dropped

When the bomb hit...

I was sitting in the NICU at the MHH (Medical School Hannover) one evening holding both of my twins at the same time. This was sometime in late December, around Christmas. It was quiet in the nursery at that time. I did not mind that the other parents were not around, as usual. I did, somewhere in my brain, take note that the other “regulars” who came at the same time as I did to hold their babies were absent but I took it as a blessing that I had a chance to sing quietly to the girls and not disturb anyone else.

This was a wonderful time for me. The girls had made it through all of the trials of the NICU. Both were breathing without oxygen. Both were eating regularly. We would be doing a 24 hour sleeping test soon that, if the girls passed, which means they had not bradycardea during this time period, they could both go home. I was truly at peace.

It was like any other evening for me, except that the other parents were missing. It was around 6pm and I had already changed both of their diapers, pulled over a rocker and lifted both of them, all by myself, with their wires and so forth, and settled down to spend a few hours alone with my new babies. At home I had left Katja, now 1 year of age, alone with Papa and Samantha, now 13. This was my private time with the girls. The only time in the day I truly had. I could not be there every minute. They had strict visiting schedules and I could not leave the one year old at home alone. So, this was our time. Our bonding time.

I was singing, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” and kissing both of their fuzzy heads. Kelly was on my right shoulder and Sabrina was on my left. This is how I always held them. Each had their own spot and both were always in my arms, at the same time. So, here we were, us three, singing and loving each other, when along comes the spider and sat down beside us. Oh, did I say spider, I meant doctor. Along came one of the doctors on the twins team. He was not one that I spoke to often. His English is excellent but he was not our “Main” doctor. I remember him coming in and pulling up a chair. “I need to speak to you about Kelly, Mrs. Meyer.”

“Okay, gulp, he needs to tell me something about my Kelly. Probably had to increase her medication again or some study they wanted to do with her. Where were all the nurses and parents and why on Earth was this usually busy place so quiet and peaceful? What does the spider want?”

Kelly has brain damage.

My face goes numb still, here, almost 2 years later typing this sentence. I remember the fact that I was very, very calm. I think that I squeezed Kelly a bit tighter to me and then began to question the doctor further. I told him that it could not be true, we had had a brain ultrasound 4 weeks earlier, and the doctors said it was fine. “No, it was not fine. That was just what we were all hoping. She has damage from her first few days struggling to breathe before we intubated her. It was a chance we knew we were taking.”

The rest of the discussion revolved around the fact that Kelly had PVL. Her damage, unfortunately, was bi-lateral which meant for her that unlike other children who only have the damage on one side, Kelly had it on both sides. This meant that the chances for one side of the brain to take over the functions of the other, were almost impossible. It was at this point that he started talking about a 90 percent chance that something would be wrong. It could be mild but most likely it would be serious. She would most likely have Cerebral Palsy.
When he left, I began to pray…and I do not think I have stopped praying since the bomb dropped.