Chapter 5 - Room 402
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of surgical recovery, pain medication, and the agonizing physical reality of post-delivery. Because I had undergone a classical C-section—a vertical incision through both my abdomen and uterus to extract the babies safely—I was strictly confined to my bed.
I could not walk. I could not sit up without help. And most painfully of all, I could not go to the fourth floor to see my four children.
They were all housed in Pod A of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—four incubators lined up in a row, labeled: Dawson, Infant A (Faith), Dawson, Infant B (Oliver), Dawson, Infant C (Sophie), and Dawson, Infant D (Mia).
Andrew became our designated messenger. Armed with an iPad, he spent his days walking back and forth between my recovery room on the second floor and the NICU on the fourth floor, broadcasting live video feeds of our children to my bedside screen.
“Look at Oliver’s feet,” Andrew said on Thursday afternoon, adjusting the camera angle over Incubator B. “He’s got your long toes, Hannah.”
I stared at the screen. Oliver was lying on his stomach under a phototherapy light to treat jaundice. His skin was translucent red, covered in fine baby hair called lanugo, and his chest was heaving in rapid, shallow rhythms assisted by an oscillating ventilator.
“And Sophie?” I asked, my voice hoarse from the intubation tube that had been removed the day before.
Andrew moved the iPad to Incubator C. Sophie was the feisty one. Even under heavy sedation, her tiny hand was swatting at the temperature sensor taped to her side.
“She’s had two blood transfusions today,” Andrew explained gently. “Her hemoglobin dropped, but Dr. Reed said her body is responding well. She’s stable.”
“And Mia?”
The camera shifted to the smallest incubator at the end of the line. Mia was so small she looked like a delicate sculpture made of blown glass. A tiny CPAP mask was strapped to her face, making her look like a microscopic astronaut.
“Mia is the quietest,” Andrew said softly. “She hasn't had a single drop in her heart rate all morning. The nurses call her 'The Quiet Miracle.'”
Then Andrew turned the camera to Incubator A.
Faith. The pioneer. The one who had opened the door at twenty-three weeks and zero days.
Her chest tube had been removed, replaced by a smaller nasal cannula. Her eyes, which had been fused shut when she was born five days ago, were now slightly open—two dark, glossy slivers staring out through the plastic walls of her home.
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“She’s looking for you, Hannah,” Andrew whispered.
I covered my face with my hands, my body shaking with silent, heartbreaking sobs. “I need to go up there, Andrew. I don't care about the C-section pain. I don't care if my incision rips open. Get me a wheelchair. Right now.”
