Lesson in Courage
By Ami Fox as told to Dianne Gill
Numbly, I walked through the neonatal intensive care unit.
"He's been through so much," I breathed, as I peered at my little boy in his incubator. How long can he keep going like this?
"He's a fighter," doctors had told me. But in my heart, I couldn't find the courage to hope. Little did I imagine it would be this little fighter himself who would teach me the meaning of courage. . . .
My husband Jon and I had rejoiced when we found ourselves staring at a positive home pregnancy test.
"A baby brudder - or sister!" cried Samantha, four, and Emma, three.
Then one night when I was just twenty-four weeks along, a sharp pain and a gush of fluid jarred me awake. "Something's wrong," I panicked.
"There's a small tear in your amniotic sac," the doctor said. He hoped medication would delay my labor until the baby's lungs could develop. But one week later, contractions started.
"You have a uterine infection," the doctor said. "We have to deliver the baby now, or we could lose you both!"
"No!" I sobbed. "It's too soon!"
Holding me, Jon soothed, "Everything's going to be okay. He's going to be a fighter, just like you. You'll see."
But inside, I knew he was wrong about my being a fighter, because with each contraction, fear tore through me. How can I bear to lose this baby? I anguished.
Seven hours later, Sean Eric Fox, weighing just one pound, seven ounces, came into the world without so much as a peep and was whisked to intensive care before I could hold him.
The next day, when I saw him for the first time, I was filled with despair. Unlike the healthy, pink babies his sisters had been, Sean had lobster-red skin. His eyes were closed. And he had so many tubes, I couldn't find a place on his body to touch.
"Is he going to make it?" I stammered.
"We're doing our best," his doctor answered. He explained that because Sean was so premature, his lungs so underdeveloped, there was a chance of blindness, brain damage, death. "A lot will depend on Sean," he added. "If he's a fighter, there's a chance."
But I barely heard his words.
"We're going to lose him!" I wept.
"No!" Jon insisted. "He's going to make it!"
Back home, I tried to carry on as if everything was okay. "When is Sean coming home?" the girls asked.
How could I explain that their little brother might never come home. Sitting by Sean's incubator, my heart pounded each time a monitor went off to signal his oxygen level had dropped. What if they can't help him? I'd panic as nurses rushed over.
And when, at three weeks, nurses finally let me hold Sean, I was so scared of hurting him. Yet as scared as I was, Sean seemed utterly fearless. Even when his lungs were working so poorly that his fingernails turned blue, he'd curl his hands into a tiny fist and swing them furiously as if to say, "I'm not giving up!"
I'm so proud of him, I often thought. But deep down, I worried how long he could keep fighting. Would I ever see him again? I wept when doctors said he needed surgery to repair a hernia that was strangling his intestines.
Though he came through the operation with flying colors, my heart ached with worry. And when his oxygen level dropped again, as it had so many times before, I couldn't hold back my tears. "He's not getting better," I wept. "He's never going to come home." But that evening as I sat in the intensive care unit watching Sean kick with all his might as the nurse changed his dressings, I couldn't help but smile. "I guess he really is a fighter," I chuckled.
"That's why he's come so far," the nurse said. "Whatever life throws his way, he fights back with everything he's got. That's why babies like Sean make it."
Hearing her words, a little twinge stabbed my heart. She's right! I gulped. No matter how many times his oxygen level dropped, no matter how high his fever raged, no matter how much pain he was in, Sean never gave up. Oh, I knew the doctors and nurses had fought hard to keep him alive, but I sensed there was something more keeping Sean going. He doesn't know the odds are against him! I realized. All he knows is that he's alive and he's got to keep fighting - kicking those legs, churning those arms, clutching with those tiny fingers.
If a six-week-old preemie can fight that hard, why can't I? I thought, brushing away a tear. Constantly thinking about the worst that can happen isn't going to help anybody - not Sean, not my family, not me. And though I wasn't sure how, I knew that, somehow, I had to be more like Sean.
"It's not going to be easy for an old worrier like your mom to change her ways," I whispered. "But I promise, Sean, if you'll keep fighting, I'll try, too."
As if he understood every word, Sean squeezed my finger with all his might.
Until then, I'd been too afraid of hurting Sean to learn how to give him the special care he needed. Now, I reasoned, the more I learned, the less scary it would be. "Could you show me how his monitors work?" I asked his nurse.
At home the next day, when I peeked into the empty nursery, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I told myself to imagine Sean in my arms as I rocked him.
When the girls asked, "When is Sean coming home?" instead of sinking into despair, I'd say, "He's getting bigger every day - he gained a whole gram yesterday!"
A few weeks later, when I brought Samantha and Emma to see their baby brother for the first time, my heart filled with joy as they cooed in awe. To my amazement, I no longer doubted that Sean would one day climb the jungle gym in our yard with his big sisters. Slowly, I'd let hope fill my heart, and to my amazement, I'd discovered a strength I'd never known.
And as if Sean sensed my renewed spirit, he seemed to fight even harder. And after twelve weeks, he finally came home weighing a hefty three pounds, fourteen ounces!
"I told you he was a fighter!" Jon said as I took Sean to his own nursery for the first time. "Just like his mommy!"
"Thanks," I smiled. "But I learned everything I know about being a fighter from my son."
Today, Sean is a healthy toddler who loves Popsicles and playing peek-a-boo with his sisters. I'll always be inspired by the fighting spirit that saw him through those first hard days - and taught me everything I know about courage and hope.
