4.
Oliana entered this world at 11:49 pm on May 10, 2007, with her pale, almost translucent eyelids closed.
Gazing into the dark depths of my newborn’s eyes was something that I had imagined as my belly grew heavier with pregnancy. I visualized forming a deeper connection with my tiny new daughter as the nurse wrapped her in a warm blanket, placed her in my arms and I peered into her eyes for the first time.
The pictures that I had seen in my mind’s eye of this moment were unceremoniously ripped from me by a destiny that I couldn’t yet understand.
The delivery was so quick (and painful) and the moment that she came into the world, pink, wet and screaming, I was unaware that my world was about to shatter to pieces.
The neonatologist, who had assisted with her delivery at my request, carefully examined her on the warmer. At 35 weeks, there’s always a slight concern about the baby’s lung development. Thankfully, Oli’s lungs appeared to be in perfect condition as she lay there, pink and crying. After a thorough check-up, the doctor reassured me, “She looks perfect. Good job, Shannon. Let me know if you need anything else,” he was eager to leave the delivery room.
Although he was certainly willing to come to the delivery, my labor was not necessarily something that we wanted to share as coworkers. II completely understood his urgency to make a quick exit and, unable to stop myself from blushing, softly uttered my gratitude as my legs remained splayed apart, now inconveniently numb and confined to the stirrups.
That morning, I had debated even asking him to come to her birth, not wanting to experience this exact situation. Ultimately, the health and welfare of my infant outweighed my vanity and dignity. Even if that meant never looking this doctor in the eye again. If she needed help, I wanted a well-respected neonatal physician in the room, ready to act. Now that everything turned out okay and she was fine, I was second guessing my decision. There certainly were aspects of my body I had never intended to share with a colleague.
Once he departed, the nurse placed Oli on my chest, and at first, everything seemed normal. However, after a few minutes, I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t opening her eyes. This struck me as odd, as my son had opened his eyes immediately after birth. Oli seemed to be keeping hers tightly shut. I tried to dismiss the growing unease in my chest, but the feeling persisted, a gnawing tightness whispering again…something is wrong.
The nursery nurse eventually came in to whisk her away from the warmth of my chest. She took her back to the nursery to gently clean her up, administer her vaccines, and apply medication to her eyes, which are standard procedures for all newborns at the hospital.
“Go with her” I instructed my husband, not wanting to leave her alone for a second within the sterile white walls of the hospital. This protectiveness would persist for decades, and Oli would never spend a minute alone without one of us while hospitalized.
Seth accompanied the nurse to watch over our new daughter. When he returned, he shared with me that she was slightly cold, so they placed her under a warmer to raise her temperature. Then he delivered news that heightened my sense of unease.
“The nurse couldn’t open her eyes to administer the eye drops. She expressed concern that her eyes may still be fused shut,” he told me, his eyes betraying a significant amount of fear.
“What? That doesn’t make sense. Babies’ eyes typically stop being fused shut after about 23-24 weeks. She’s 35! No, they’re not fused. They’re just swollen. I’m sure they’ll be fine in the morning,” I responded, trying to reassure both of us.
“Well, maybe” he responds nervously. “But the nurse intends to call her pediatrician first thing in the morning to come and examine her. I’m sure you’re right. They’re probably just swollen,” he appears slightly more at ease, relying on my medical knowledge of newborns.
Despite my efforts to dismiss my concerns, deep down, I knew something was not right with her eyes. She should have been able to open them, or at the very least, the nurse should have been able to.
However, at that moment in time, I forced myself to believe that she was fine. I was exhausted and didn’t have the compacity to explore what that could possibly mean. Even if I had, the result was something I couldn’t have possibly imagined.
The nurse brought Oli back to the room and I tried to sleep. By then it was nearly 4:00 am.
Before I did, I whispered a heartfelt prayer to heaven, the first of many for my sweet girl, which went unanswered.
“Please open your eyes, baby girl. Please open them and look at me.”
5.
I awoke a few hours later to a nurse gently shaking my shoulder. “Mama, it’s time to feed your baby.”
Already? It felt like I had just closed my eyes. I looked over into the clear, plastic bassinet that held my sleeping daughter and then at the clock; 5:30am.
“Will you hand her to me please?” I ask as she lifts the scratchy hospital blanket to palpate my deflating and squishy abdomen. We were transferred to the postpartum floor a few hours after delivery. Unlike the hive of activity on the labor and delivery floor with the sounds of monitors beeping incessantly and the hushed and urgent voices of the doctors and nurses, this unit was quiet and calm. Except for the periodic kitten-like mews emitting from babies still unhappily protesting being ripped from the safety of their muffled, dark and warm environments, this floor is silent. The babies, still unaccustomed to the cacophony of unfamiliar sounds and the cold chill that assaults their once tightly curled limbs, cry out as they flail in the open air.
My infant, cradled in her soft blanket, sleeps peacefully and I watch as the nurse leans into the bassinet.
She hands me my tiny baby burrito swaddled in a light pink and blue striped blanket. Oli has a fine covering of light blonde peach fuzz on her head. I smile, remembering how focused my attention was on her hair, prior to her delivery. She is bigger than I had expected her to be but still so tiny, weighing only 6lb 0oz and 18 inches long. Her little fists clenched tight; she pulls her knees to her chest to object the sudden temperature change as I unzip her onesie.
I unfasten the sticky tabs on each side of the reusable diaper to change her and run my hands along her soft new skin. She’s perfect in every way. She has a perfectly round head, ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes and sleeps so peacefully, all curled up not realizing she now has the entire universe to stretch out in.
I peer into her serene face and will her to look at me. Taking my finger, I run it along her face and tickled under her almost nonexistent chin, trying to wake her. She stirs and slowly turns her head from side to side, attempting to shake this annoying intruder trying to rip her from her slumber. She doesn’t open her eyes. “Oli. Oli. Open your eyes Oli. Please? Please open them for me.” I beg her as she continues to keep them tightly closed.
I glanced over at the snoring lump draped across the couch along the far wall and considered waking my husband, not wanting to obsess and worry alone.
It was probably nothing. A swollen face… nothing more. Nothing to be concerned about. Despite my self-assurances it was becoming increasingly challenging to maintain the illusion that everything was okay.
I couldn’t imagine what would keep a baby from opening their eyes. This was new territory and something I had never encountered while working.
Stuffing the uncomfortable feelings being stirred within my mama heart back down, I put my delicate little flower to my breast and began to nurse. I would continue to stuff all of my disquieted feelings, until eventually, like a beach ball being held beneath the water, the constant effort led to overwhelming exhaustion, and they exploded to the surface.
I'm fine, but my mommy has issues! 
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