November Blues (23 page)

NOVEMBER PUSHED AWAY THE TRAY OF
hospital food. She was sitting up in bed and feeling a little better, but every time she moved another pain assaulted her.
Nobody tells you how bad it HURTS afterward—even just trying to pee!
she thought.
My guts feel like scrambled eggs.
Her mother had brushed her hair and helped her to wash up. November had been touched at the tender way her mom had squeezed the warm washcloth into the basin and gently wiped away the tension from her daughter's face. It was a mother's touch. Would she ever learn that?

“This is worse than school lunch food, Mom,” she said as she nibbled on a piece of dry toast.

“For sure this isn't the Ritz,” her mother replied.

“The Labor Day fireworks show on the river is tonight,” November commented. “I guess I'll miss it.”

“They show it on television,” her mother offered.

“It's not the same. You gotta be there.”

November noticed that once again she and her mother had fallen back into the old habit of not talking about the thing that was screaming loudly in each of their minds. But she couldn't play the game this time. She needed to talk. However, the question she most wanted to ask just wouldn't come out of her mouth. She cleared her throat, opened her mouth, closed it again. But she knew she had to ask.

“Will the baby die, Mom?” she asked finally.

Mrs. Nelson blinked back tears and looked directly at her daughter. “I think she'll live, November. When I talked to the doctors earlier, they seemed to think she'll pull through. She's a tough little cookie.”

“I want to see her. All the other mothers on this floor have their babies with them. I've got to see my baby!” She looked among the wrinkled sheets for the nurse call button, but before she could find it, a plump, cheerful-looking nurse wearing an outlandish blond wig bumped through the door pushing a wheelchair.

“Would you like to take a little trip down to the preemie ward to see your daughter?” she said in a booming voice. After all the silence and whispering, this boisterous woman was a pleasant change.

“Oh, yes! It's not going to feel real until I can see her and hold her.”

“Well, you can't sit down and hold her in your lap—not just yet at least—but you can touch her. Is that okay?”

November nodded vigorously and eased herself into the wheelchair. Wow! Did it hurt to sit down! She was surprised
at how weak and dizzy she still felt. When they got to the neonatal intensive care ward, November was buzzed into the unit. Her mother waited in the hall.

The nurse, whose voice had lowered to a whisper, rolled November over to the baby's incubator. November gasped, not really prepared for the sight. But even though the miniature baby was surrounded by tubes and wires and equipment, November knew she had never seen anything more beautiful.

The baby looked delicate, as if she was made of rosy crinkled paper. Her skin was nearly translucent—November could almost see the little blood vessels beneath it.

“If you put on this gown and these gloves, you can slip your arms through those openings and touch her,” the nurse said softly. “Her skin is very thin—that's why she looks so red—but she's tougher than she looks.”

November trembled. She could barely get the gloves on. She pulled at them, trying to get two fingers out of the pinky hole.
It looks so easy on those TV medical shows
, she thought. Finally they were on. She took a deep breath, then put her arms into the incubator. As she gently placed her fingertip on the baby's leg, the infant jerked in response. November pulled her hand back in alarm. “Did I hurt her?” she yelped.

“No, honey. She was responding to you. Babies know their mamas.”

“Really?” November began to stroke the tiny infant's legs, which kicked vigorously, and her arms, which were no thicker than pencils. As November continued to stroke her,
the baby's movements slowed, as if in response to her mother's touch.

This is a real little human person
, November thought with reverence.
She was in me, and now she's not. And I'm her mother.
It was almost too much to comprehend.

“Have you named her yet?” the nurse asked, interrupting November's musings. “We like to call the preemies by their names. It helps us to connect with them, and I think even these little ones respond better.”

“Her name is Sunshine,” said November with tears in her eyes. She couldn't stop touching the child.

Just then, a doctor with a thick head of curly red hair entered the unit and walked over to November. “Hi,” he said cordially as he pulled up a chair and sat down next to November. “I'm Dr. Mitchell, chief resident for the NICU ward. You must be the mom of our newest guest here.”

“Hi. I'm November Nelson, and I'm not feeling very much like a mom right now,” November answered honestly, keeping her hand on the baby.

“You're doing exactly the right thing,” said the doctor. “A mother's touch is sometimes the best medicine we have around here.” He paused and looked at the baby's chart. November noticed that even his eyelashes and the hair on his arms were pale red.

“How sick is she?” November finally asked bluntly.

“Well, we think you had something called toxemia, also known as pre-eclampsia.”

“Huh? Is that contagious? Did I give it to my baby?” November felt frantic.

“No, not at all. It is a dangerous condition that occurs in about five percent of all pregnancies and is characterized by high blood pressure, swelling, headaches, and other symptoms. The elevated blood pressure can reduce the supply of blood to many of your organs, including the placenta, and that can deprive your baby of essential oxygen and nutrients.”

“So this is something
I
did?” November felt overwhelmed with guilt. “Maybe I shoulda eaten more oranges like my doctor said. I didn't exercise like she told me to. I ate a few french fries, even after she told me to quit!”

“This is not about a few fries or the lack of an orange. Sometimes, even though we try our best, problems arise in a pregnancy. We cannot control them or prevent them, and I do
not
want you to waste time with what-ifs. Are you hearing me?”

November, trying not to cry, nodded. Then she looked up at the doctor. “Please tell me everything.”

“Now you're sounding like a mom,” the doctor said encouragingly. Then he continued, “We think your baby, either in the womb or just after delivery, suffered a lack of oxygen. Oxygen is what keeps brain cells alive and thriving, so that is a serious problem, and your little girl might face some challenges in the future because of this.”

“Like what?”

“She might have developmental delays, meaning that when other children are learning to walk, she won't be ready yet, and she might have some learning disabilities.”

His voice was gentle, but it was cutting November like a razor. Her head, reeling from the list of horrible possibilities,
throbbed. “Could you be wrong?” she asked, desperation in her voice.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Mitchell said. “As doctors we hate to be wrong, but in your case, I hope I'm way off base and you'll come back in a year and visit me with your fat and healthy little girl giggling and laughing as she runs up and down these halls.”

“I gotta believe that's possible,” November said quietly.

He put his hand on November's shoulder. “I'm a practitioner of medicine, but I still allow myself to believe in miracles, November. We have no way of knowing what brain cells, if any, were affected. I've seen seriously ill babies in the very space your daughter now lies and been amazed by their remarkable recoveries.”

“Thanks for being honest with me,” November told him.

He stood up. “For now, let's just get this little one strong enough to go home with you. We've got to get her eating and breathing on her own. What's her name?”

“Sunshine.”

“Well, I'll be checking on little Miss Sunshine every hour. If you need to call me at any time, have them page me.” He gave November his card as he adjusted some of the dials and monitors on the baby's isolette.

November sat there for a few minutes, absorbing all the doctor had said. As she touched the paper-thin arm of this person who was her daughter, she could not help but think of Josh.
Oh, Josh. Look what we have done.
He seemed so very far away.

The nurse came over then and insisted that November go back to her room and get some rest but promised to let
her return later in the day. November reluctantly agreed, but asked, “Can my mom come in now? She's tried for months not to love this baby, but I know she does.”

“I understand,” the nurse said. As the two of them went out into the hallway, November was shocked to see the Prescotts and Henderson Grant, the lawyer, in deep discussion with her mother. No one looked happy.

“What's going on?” November asked from her wheelchair.

“You're not going to believe this, November,” her mother said. “I'll let them tell you.”

Mr. Grant spoke first. “I hope you're recuperating well, Miss Nelson,” he said, walking over to shake her hand.

“I'm doing okay,” November mumbled.

“We've been here all morning, talking to the doctors and trying to assess the condition of the baby,” explained the lawyer.

“Why? And what business is it of yours anyway?” November asked bluntly, although she knew exactly what they were up to.

“Well, in light of our previous discussions, we originally came here today with the papers for you to sign so that the Prescotts could take custody of the child when she is released from the hospital.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The Prescotts, holding hands and standing near the far wall, were silent.

“So what has changed?” November crossed her arms across her chest, a look of challenge on her face.

“Well, ah, because of the premature birth, and the associated physical problems that can occur with such births, my clients are concerned that, ah…” He stopped.

“That the baby will be messed up? Brain damaged? Retarded?” November asked harshly.

“We certainly wouldn't use those, ah, words, but, ah, it seems as if perhaps this decision should be put on hold for a few months until developments become more clear.” He wiped his forehead with a beige silk handkerchief.

“So you're telling me that you want to wait a few months to see if the baby will have physical or mental problems, then, if she's perfectly normal, they still want to take the baby from me, but if the baby is messed up, I get to keep her. Am I reading you right?”

“I wouldn't phrase it quite like that. The Prescotts need time to consider how a disabled child would affect their lives.” The lawyer looked embarrassed. The Prescotts refused to look at November at all. “You still have the opportunity for a college scholarship and a sizable check, don't forget. If everything works out,” he added.

November glanced at her mother, who seemed to know what her daughter was thinking. Both of them smiled.

“Can I see those papers, Mr. Grant?” November asked, reaching out a hand.

“Sure, but it's all just legal talk. You don't need to bother yourself with them right now.”

“Yes, I do. Just let me take a look at one thing.”

Reluctantly, the lawyer handed her a thin sheaf of papers.

November took the papers and, without glancing at them, ripped the pile in half, and then in half once more. She tossed them on the floor. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Grant. And you, too, Mr. and Mrs. Prescott.” Josh's dad put his arm around his wife's shoulder.

“You can't do that!” the lawyer said in dismay as he picked up the papers.

“There's a trash can behind you,” November stated. “I will not play games with my daughter's future. I had already decided not to take your money or your scholarship, but now that I see how shallow you really are, there is no way in heaven or hell that I would sign anything that gives custody to people who only want her if she's perfect!”

“We just wanted to make sure,” said Josh's mother weakly.

“Life doesn't come with guarantees,” November declared, her voice strong. To the lawyer she said, “And if you ever so much as
whisper
the words ‘unfit mother' in my presence, I swear I'll turn into one of those mother bears you see on television and tear you to pieces!”

“I consider this matter finished,” the lawyer said to November dismissively. He turned to pick up his briefcase.

As he and the Prescotts walked away, Josh's mother turned around and said, “I'm so sorry. Take good care of her.” She was crying.

NOVEMBER CURLED UP IN HER FAVORITE
chair in her mother's living room, sleepily thumbing through a book on infant care. She had clicked off the television because nothing on those shows—the soap operas, the game shows, the old movies—could match the reality of life. The house, for the moment, was pleasantly peaceful. Her mother wouldn't be home from work for another hour, and Sunshine was finally asleep in the next room.

Today would have been my due date
, she thought ruefully.
A nine-month, fully developed, plump, healthy baby. Well, maybe. Instead, Sunshine is already two months old—still delicate and fragile, but alive.

She switched on the satellite radio, found the blues station, and let the sounds surround her. Heart-thumping rhythms. Soul-grabbing refrains. Melodies of sorrow and joy. If she'd had a box of crayons, only the shades of blue would have worked to visualize what she heard.

She hated to admit it, but her mother had been right about the high cost of everything. Formula, diapers, bottles, the cost of Sunshine's pediatrician—all of it was stretching their budget to the max. And this was just the beginning. November knew she would have to get a job when the baby got a little stronger.

Sunshine had been released from the hospital just two weeks before, so November was still getting used to the new routine. Instead of going to the hospital every day, as she had for the past six weeks, spending hours in the intensive care ward with little Sunshine, November finally had her at home.

But it wasn't easy. Sunshine usually slept only an hour at a time before waking fretful and irritable. She cried most of the night, every night. November, dizzy from lack of sleep, woke every hour to feed the wailing child, and then tried to get her back to sleep. The only thing that worked was to walk with her—up and down the short hallway, into the living room and kitchen, then back to the hall. Every hour. Every night. It usually took about thirty minutes to get her quiet and back to sleep, then November would fall, exhausted, onto her bed, not even bothering to get under the covers. An hour later Sunshine would be up crying once more. The nurse had warned her this would happen—Sunshine's stomach was so tiny she could only take in a small amount of formula at each feeding, so she got hungry again really quickly.

It wasn't like this in the hospital
, November thought as she patted the wailing baby on the back one black morning at three a.m. It seemed as though Sunshine had slept more when she was there. But then November realized
that she had never seen the baby's night routine.
Maybe this is what the night nurses went through. I gotta send them a card or something! How do they do it?

November also had to bring Sunshine to see the doctor once a week. Yesterday's visit had been a nightmare. November was still reeling. Sunshine, instead of acting like her name, had performed like a true thunderstorm. She didn't just cry, she screamed—from the moment they arrived at the doctor's office through the entire examination. Other mothers looked at November with obvious disapproval on their faces as November tried in vain to quell the baby's tantrum.

“Is something hurting her, Mom?” November asked helplessly, walking the baby in the small waiting room. “I don't think she's hungry, and she's not wet,” November added, as she slipped her finger under Sunshine's diaper.

“Maybe she has a tummy ache. Let me have her.” Mrs. Nelson took the baby and hugged her closely while she rocked and hummed, but Sunshine, her face red and blotchy from exertion, continued to wail.

“Sunshine Nelson,” the nurse called finally. November gently took the screaming baby from her mother and hurried to the examining room in the back, avoiding eye contact with the other mothers, whose babies gurgled and played quietly while they waited to be called.

Sunshine screamed while they waited for the doctor, screamed while she was being undressed, screamed while the doctor weighed and examined her, and continued without stopping while November got her dressed again. November had developed a pounding headache.

“Well, it's clear her lungs are working fine,” Dr. Emory said.

“Why won't she calm down?” November asked. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“I don't think she likes me,” said Dr. Emory with a smile. “Seriously, this is probably a good thing. Your daughter has strong opinions and does not like to be out of her comfort zone. This is a strange place, and we poke her and prod her and stick her. I don't really blame her,” she said over the baby's continued protesting yells.

“She cries a lot at home, too,” November admitted. “She doesn't sleep much.”

“She's so tiny she needs to eat often, so I'm not concerned about her frequent waking right now. Does she go back to sleep after you feed her?”

“Eventually. But sometimes it takes a long time.”

“I bet you could use about eight hours' uninterrupted deep sleep, right?” the doctor asked as she looked in the baby's ears.

November exhaled. “My mom says I don't get that for the next eighteen years!”

“Your mom is very wise.” The doctor scribbled notes on Sunshine's chart, which was already thick from all her hospital data.

“How is Sunshine doing?” November asked.

“Physically, I'm very pleased. She's gained seven ounces since last week and her heartbeat and respiration are right on track. Her stitches from where we removed the feeding tube have healed nicely. Her muscle tone is still a little weak, however, and her sucking reflex is not what I'd like it to be, but we're taking one day at a time, and today
looks good. I'll see the both of you next Wednesday.”

As soon as November and her mother placed the baby back in the car seat, which had been a gift from Jericho, Sunshine took a deep breath, burped, and promptly fell fast asleep.

 

The phone rang, breaking the silence. November snatched it up on the first ring. She didn't want to wake the sleeping baby. It was Dana.

“How's it going, little mama?” Dana asked.

“Better every day. The doctors took the feeding tube out last week, and she's doing pretty good at learning how to suck from a bottle.”

“Babies have to learn that?”

“Sunshine does. She has a special little bottle that helps her—like training wheels on a bike, only this is a specially designed bottle. And she only needs the oxygen at night, just as a precaution.”

“And you do it all yourself? The medicine, learning how to work a feeding tube and a breathing machine?”

“I guess it's just like a new job. You learn the equipment and do the best you can.”

“What's the hardest part?” Dana asked.

“Not sleeping. You know how I
love
cuddling in my bed with six pillows and staying there for twelve hours. Well, I used to.” November laughed. “But she needs to be fed every hour and a half, and when she's not asleep, she cries. She doesn't just cry—she screams.”

“Really? Is she in pain or something?”

“No. The doctor told me it was just irritability and she'd
grow out of it. But she cries and cries and cries. Sometimes I want to scream!”

“I don't blame you! When you feed her, does that help?”

“Yeah, for a minute. Then she sleeps for maybe half an hour. But she wakes up and starts crying again. Sometimes she cries for a solid hour. You should have seen her at the doctor yesterday. It was embarrassing! I rock her and walk with her and even sing to her. Nothing helps. Eventually she gets tired and falls asleep, but by then she's hungry and the whole cycle starts again.” November rubbed her eyes and stretched. “I'm
so
tired.”

“That's really rough, girl. Do you feel like a mom?” Dana asked curiously.

“I haven't really thought about it. I just kinda do what she needs—I even know what she's gonna need ahead of time. I guess that's what a mom does. What's going on at school?”

“Not much. Hathaway forgot she was human and assigned us a forty-page research paper.”

“I'll never catch up!” November groaned. She hadn't been back to school since Sunshine had been born. Since the baby had such serious complications, she'd had no choice but to stay home and care for her. She worried that she might lose her entire senior year. Graduation looked unlikely. She shook the thought away. “So tell me more about school. I can't believe I miss it!” she told Dana.

“Well, Eric Bell—you know, the kid in the wheelchair? He's trying out for the school play. He thinks he should have the lead in
Macbeth
, in spite of his disability.”

“Good for him. I hope he gets the part. What about Arielle? Wasn't she the superstar of the drama club last
year? The part of Lady Macbeth, the killer queen, really fits her!” November laughed.

“I don't know if she's trying out or not. But our Miss Arielle has had big troubles lately. Brandon Merriweather broke up with her. She got kicked off the cheerleading squad for not showing up to practice. And she just plain got dissed in the main hall before class. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.”

“What happened?” November asked as she got up, walked over to her mother's bedroom door, and peeked at the sleeping baby, who was surrounded by a circle of sofa pillows on her mother's bed.

“Girl, it was too funny! It was first thing in the morning. You know how crowded the main hall is before the bell rings.”

“Yeah,” November said, remembering with a pang the noisy confusion. “So what did she do?”

“Well, she had gone to the bathroom when she first got to school, and I guess she left out of there too quickly.” Dana started to laugh.

“What?” November couldn't imagine.

“From what I could figure out, she must have been in a hurry. She rushed out of the bathroom in her cute little outfit, and dragging behind her, tucked in the waistband of her new leather jeans, was a long, slightly soiled length of toilet paper! It looked like a long, white tail.”

“Girl, shut up!” November couldn't help but giggle.

“She was flouncing around like she always does, flirting with everybody else's boyfriend, making sure everybody saw her new jeans, when people started to laugh. It got louder and louder, with everybody in the whole main hall,
mostly seniors, cracking up and pointing. She couldn't figure out what was going on.”

“You're kidding!”

“I'm straight up! Finally somebody told her to turn around, and she saw the toilet paper. She screamed and ran back into the bathroom. People were laughing so hard they were rollin' on the floor.”

“That's really cold.” November was still chuckling.

“I think if it had been anybody else, a friend or somebody would have taken her aside and told her quietly.”

“I guess what goes around comes around,” said November.

“When she got to physics class the next day, somebody had placed an unopened four-pack of toilet paper on her desk.”

“Oh, no! What did she do?”

“She tried to act like it didn't bother her. She just put it under her seat and pretended it wasn't there. But kids still giggled behind her back. The teacher asked what was so funny—you know how teachers get that clueless look. But nobody would tell.”

“That's the best story I've heard in a long time,” November said, still laughing. Then she heard the doorbell ring. “Hey, I gotta go. Somebody's at my door. Will you call me back tonight?”

“Sure. I got rehearsal for the debate team anyway, and me and Kofi are on the committee to plan the Christmas Dance. But I'll catch you later.”

November thought longingly of all the school activities she was missing, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She hung up and went to answer the door, then grinned when
she saw who it was. Jericho stood there, stomping his feet on the porch, and Olivia, wearing a puffy down jacket, stood behind him. She carried a plastic bag from Target.

“You tryin' to freeze somebody out here?” Jericho joked as he walked in the door. “It feels like winter already.” He was carrying a small foil-covered bowl and a leather case.

“Hi, November,” Olivia said quietly as she walked in with him. She took off her coat and laid it carefully on a chair. “How's Miss Sunshine? She could warm up any day.”

“She's growing, and eating, but still crying a lot. More than normal, I think.”

“That's what babies do, right?”

“Not like this. But guess what?” November said as she took their coats.

“What?”

“Yesterday she smiled at me for the first time!” November almost danced as she told her. Olivia hugged her.

“That's a good sign,” Jericho said. “Real good.”

“How's football?” November asked Jericho.

“We won the last two games! And I heard a couple of college scouts have been taking a look at me.”

“That's great. No more pink games?”

Jericho laughed. “No. The company replaced those funky uniforms, so none of our games have been quite so colorful.”

“You didn't tell November that a recruiter from Juilliard has also talked to you,” Olivia reminded Jericho, her voice full of pride.

“Yeah, well. I guess I got lotsa options!” He grinned and pretended to swagger around the room. “And he hasn't even heard me play yet! Mr. T put in a good word for me,
so I guess I better get it together before the audition next month.”

“That's great news, Jericho,” November told him enthusiastically. “What about the band, Olivia? How's that going?”

“It's not as much fun marching when it gets cold, but the season is almost over.” She looked at Jericho shyly and added, “But after the games sometimes me and Jericho go get pizza. That's pretty cool.” She looked pleased and embarrassed all at the same time.

Then she switched gears and asked about the baby again. “Is she awake? I brought her another outfit.” She handed November the Target bag.