Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love (3 page)

Liz had seemed so confident of the health of our child, but after she entered the hospital her entire outlook changed. She was visibly worried, looking ashen and sad when we were alone. It was quite a reversal of roles for us. I had always been the pessimist in our relationship while Liz was the optimist. But a lot of the concerns she had early in her pregnancy were no longer the stuff of ob-gyn warnings; now they were very real possibilities.

While in the hospital, she had been reading a book about premature babies. One night she was so fed up with the negativity spewing forth from its pages that she sat up straight in her hospital bed and threw it to the other end of the room. “Fuck this piece of shit!” I looked up from my computer screen as the words left her lips and the book hit the whiteboard listing the names of her nurse and personal care attendant for the day.

“That was one hell of a throw,” I said, and turned to see her shaking as though she’d just been retrieved from beneath the surface of a frozen lake. Clearly this was no time for one of my jokes. I picked the book up from the floor and crawled into bed with her, doing everything I could to hug the pain away. After she calmed down, I opened the book and flipped straight to the copyright page. “Liz, this book was published in 1978,” I said. “I guarantee things have advanced in the field of premature babies in the last thirty years.” That was enough to coax a small chuckle from her, and for one more day I felt like I had done my best work, supporting my wife and best friend.

At night, when it got late and the visits from hospital staff became less frequent, Liz and I would fantasize about our future with our daughter. Liz talked of traveling the world, shopping for shoes and purses, mother-daughter spa trips for manis, pedis, and massages, and high tea at the ever-so-elegant Huntington Library. I talked of autumn nights at Dodger Stadium, shopping for records, father-daughter fishing trips to Alaska with her uncle Nick, and beers and Shirley Temples at the Polish restaurant down the street from our house.

As soon as we could possibly find out the sex of our baby, we did. Well, that wasn’t my choice. I had this very romantic belief that giving birth should be one of the great surprises in our life, but Liz disagreed.

“How am I supposed to have a baby shower without knowing the sex of our child?” Liz asked.

“I don’t know. How about doing what Neolithic humans did?” I responded.

“What’s that?”

“Register for gender-neutral gifts.”

At this, she rolled her eyes, which she often did in response to my sorry-ass attempts at humor. Deep down I knew that this was an argument I’d never win, because one of Liz’s finest traits was to obtain all available data so that she could have every last detail planned out. I knew it was important to Liz, so I followed her lead.

When Dr. Nelson asked us if we were ready to learn the sex of our baby, Liz brought her hands together just under her chin, clapping expeditiously, the way she always did when she was excited, and let out a squeal that indicated she was indeed ready. With a few swipes of the transducer probe and a couple of tilts of the resulting photograph, Dr. Nelson said, “It’s a girl!”

A girl.

I used to scowl at the little girls at the baseball stadium, covered head to toe in pink Dodgers gear, jumping up and down in the aisles, waving pom-poms and screaming at the top of their lungs even when the ball wasn’t in play.

“Little boys don’t do this kind of shit,” I’d say. “Can’t these girls just shut the hell up and watch the game?”

“You’ll think it’s so cute when we have a little girl and she does it,” Liz would answer.

“Maybe, but I think that’s what
you
want.”

We both started crying as soon as we heard Dr. Nelson’s words. To be honest, it wasn’t just Liz who wanted a girl. I have no idea what the hell it was, but something in me changed the day we learned she was pregnant, and from that moment on I only pictured us with a girl in our lives. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t without fear.

Liz envisioned a mini-Liz, which I was actively trying to avoid for a couple of reasons. First, I knew having two strong-willed women in my house would make it hard for me to get my way. Second, I wanted to turn our daughter into a tomboy to keep the boys away from her as she got older. Liz wasn’t exactly thrilled with this plan, but I told her it was better than my first thought.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Well, if she looks anything like you, we’re doomed, so I think we should consider giving her a nifty little ear-to-ear scar.”

“Jesus, Matt. That’s not funny.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s not a joke.”

Of course, it was a joke, and I knew she knew it was, because she gave me that slight look of disapproval I saw whenever I made a crass comment. But that was my role in our relationship. I had to do something to lighten the mood, because as we lay there night after night, trying to ignore the hum of the heart monitor and other hospital equipment, the future we dreamed of seemed so far away.

How the fuck did this happen to us?

Chapter 4

baby’s heart rate dropped around 3:30 a.m.

everyone was concerned.

dr. stopped by in the morning.

and said that it may be best
to have madeline come out and play.

I
always sort of imagined something out of a ’50s television show: Liz would shoot out of bed in the middle of the night, shake me awake, and yell at me to get her overnight bag and the keys to the car because the baby was coming. I’d say, “Are you sure? How far apart are the contractions?” and she’d say, “Trust me. This is gonna happen tonight.” I’d be nervous, trying to remember the breathing exercises we’d learned in those birthing classes. I’d put on an unmatched pair of shoes and trip on a few things on the way out the door like some slapstick comedian. I’d get her in the car and realize I had forgotten her overnight bag in the house. We’d rush to the hospital, get pulled over for speeding, and then, after shouting at the cop in my exasperated voice, “My wife is having a baby!” we’d get a police escort the rest of the way there. I’d pace the halls of the hospital with Liz’s father, my father, and my stepfather, waiting for the doctor to come out and announce that we had a healthy baby girl. “Ten toes and ten fingers!” the doctor would say, and we’d all shake hands, slap backs, and smoke cigars. And then? Happily ever after, of course.

Early on a Monday morning before I’d left the hospital for work, an alarm went off in the nurses’ station, just outside of room #7. Liz’s room. Her lucky #7. A nurse came in and told us the news: our baby’s heart rate had once again experienced a significant drop, which meant that today was the day we’d finally meet our child. Many factors went into the decision, but the doctors simply believed it was time. With Liz’s amniotic fluid level still low and our growing baby taking up more and more space in her womb, the possibility of damage to our daughter became a serious concern. In addition, as she got bigger, the umbilical cord got tighter around her neck, so if her heart rate showed a sustained drop it indicated a possible lack of oxygen getting to her brain and other parts of her body. They determined that our daughter would be better off out in the world than in Liz’s womb. We experienced a mix of excitement and fear; we were definitely ready to hold our baby, but she was still seven weeks early, and we were terrified that she might be too young to survive.

While one of the nurses was talking to Liz, I called our parents and told them to get on the next flight to Los Angeles because their granddaughter would be making her first appearance sometime before noon. Liz’s parents and my mom all said they’d be in Los Angeles before the day was over. My stepfather was unable to make it due to a work conflict, and my dad and stepmother were in Florida on vacation, but they promised to come out in a couple of weeks for the trip they’d already booked to coincide with our baby’s scheduled due date. I called Anya, Liz’s best friend, and told her to ditch work and come to the hospital because Liz wanted her in the recovery room after the C-section.

I posted something on the blog for the rest of our friends and family. It was a simple photo of the whiteboard in Liz’s hospital room. Preprinted on the board were the words, “Today is…” Underneath, I wrote, “March 24, 2008—and Madeline will be here in about 1 hour.” It was the first time I had ever written out my daughter’s name. Seeing it there on that board, in my handwriting, and knowing that today was the day we would finally meet her, made my heart feel like it was going to burst.

As soon as we had learned that Liz was pregnant, we began our search for the perfect name. She kept a book of baby names on her bedside table, and we started at the beginning, taking turns thumbing through a new letter each night, calling out names to the one not holding the book. We had pretty simple criteria for choosing our child’s name: it couldn’t rhyme with anything terrible, it couldn’t be the name of any girl/woman from our past who was in any way insufferable, and it couldn’t be the name of any of my ex-girlfriends. I suggested names of women in my favorite songs and books, and Liz suggested names of strong females throughout history. Each of us rejected the other’s idea for one of the reasons mentioned above.

It was on the thirteenth night that Liz called out a name that neither one of us objected to. “What do you think of Madeline?” she asked.

“I love it.”

And that was the last time we opened the book.

Choosing a middle name was a bit more difficult. We hadn’t even considered one until Liz’s very first delivery scare. One of the nurses asked us to fill out some paperwork, and when she got to the spot for middle name, she paused.

“We need to come up with a middle name for Madeline.”

It hadn’t occurred to either of us.

A few days later, we still didn’t have any ideas. I was walking through the halls of the maternity ward and I stopped at the window of the nursery. I looked from baby to baby, hoping that when ours was born, she would be as big and as healthy as they all appeared, when it came to me: Madeline’s middle name should be Elizabeth.

I ran back to the room, excited to share the news with Liz.

“No way,” she said. “It’s way too narcissistic.”

“What? I think it’s cute. Think about it: Maddy is similar to my name, and with your name as her middle name, she’d sort of be named after both of us.”

She digested my point of view for a few seconds, and then her contemplative look gave in to that huge smile that meant she was thrilled.

“I don’t hate it,” she said playfully.

As the nurses came in and prepared Liz for her delivery, I made a mental note of all the things I needed for the big moment. Still camera: check. Video camera: check. I had no intention of photographing or recording any parts of the birthing process, mainly because the thought of watching it had me hyperventilating; I simply planned on taking some abstract shots of the delivery room and possibly a shot of our daughter, but only after the doctors and nurses removed all the nasty birthing goo from her. I brought the video camera to record Liz’s trip to and from the delivery room, capturing our moments together just before and just after our child was born. That was it. No breathing exercises to remember, no overnight bag to forget at home—just some electronic equipment.

We heard a knock and then saw Anya’s head peek through a crack in the doorway. Liz’s face lit up immediately and the tears began to flow. She had this sadly beautiful way of crying when she felt an overwhelming sense of relief: her lower lip would quiver, her eyes would open wide, and her head would tilt slightly to the left. Despite the uncertainty of the situation she was about to face, she instantly felt better when her best friend arrived. Anya and Liz went to college together at Scripps and had been almost inseparable since they had met, becoming even closer after the rest of their group of friends moved away from Southern California. They were always there for one another, but more important, Anya was always there for me, indulging Liz’s shopping fantasies when I didn’t feel like watching her try on twenty-five different outfits or listening to her drone on and on about some idea she had for redecorating the house. I never heard Liz laugh as loud or as hard as she did when she was with her best friend. Liz was always at her happiest in Anya’s company, and I was a very, very close second. Aside from the big reason that Anya was at the hospital, this day was no different than any other time they got together. They were laughing hysterically and I was rolling my eyes at their inside jokes.

A few minutes later, we heard another knock on the door. This time it was Dr. Nelson. She entered the room with a huge smile, bringing Liz even more tears of relief. Dr. Nelson shared with us information about the delivery, answered some last-minute questions, and reassured us that things were going to go great. Liz asked again if our baby would be okay if she came out today.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “At this point it’s safer for her to be outside the womb than inside.” To illustrate the point, she unfolded the long printout, a pink and white grid with a black line representing our baby’s heart rate over the past several hours. Liz and I had become uncertified experts in reading these over the past three weeks. When Dr. Nelson without so much as a word pointed to a dramatic dip in the line, indicating a significant and prolonged drop in our baby’s heart rate, it was obvious to us that she had to come out. And soon. “Don’t worry,” Dr. Nelson continued, sensing our growing anxiety. “I’m an expert in getting them out. But I have no idea what to do with them after that. That’s going to be up to you and Matt.”

I had gotten to know Dr. Nelson quite well during the previous seven months, meeting her monthly during Liz’s checkups. She was just the kind of doctor I pictured taking care of my wife: confident, intelligent, and funny. Almost more important than being an amazing and highly skilled physician was the fact that she seemed better able to read people than most doctors. She always knew exactly what to say to Liz to make her feel better, no matter the situation. During one appointment, Liz was crushed to learn that she had not gained the expected amount of weight for someone at her pregnancy stage. I’m not sure if Dr. Nelson could sense the fear in Liz’s questions or if she saw the tears welling up in her eyes, but she said, “Nicole Richie just gave birth to a healthy baby girl, and she couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds during the final days of her pregnancy. Liz, your baby’s going to be just fine.” With that, Liz looked up from her lap. It took a special doctor to know that there was nothing like a pop-culture reference to make Liz feel better about her own situation.

Now, Dr. Nelson left the room, and I could tell that Liz was getting more and more nervous as the time to deliver approached. I went to her bed and held her hands. As I rubbed her palm with my thumb, I kissed her on the cheek then whispered in her ear, telling her just how excited I was to finally see the daughter we had created. I’ll never forget how beautiful she looked at that moment. She was pale, but this ethereal glow emanated from her. The pain she felt clouded the room, yet her eyes had an incredible gleam, like she knew that this hard-fought battle was almost over and that everything was going to work out just as we had hoped it would.

When the time arrived to wheel Liz to her first meeting with our baby, I grabbed the cameras and followed behind. With a nurse at Liz’s head pushing her bed down the hallway and Anya by her side holding her hand, I filmed the entire ride from room number #7 to the delivery room. Once we entered a sterile hallway through a set of double doors, the nurse informed me that they had to do a bit of prep work before Liz’s C-section, and told me to wait outside the delivery room until someone called me in. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. I love you so much” is what I said to Liz as she was wheeled away.

After I changed into operating room gear—a daddy suit, as the nurses called it—and Anya headed back to the waiting room, I was alone for the first time in a few hours. I nervously paced up and down the hallway, taking a few photos of the hospital equipment along the walls of the corridor, and worrying now not about our baby, but about my wife.

Soon, a nurse opened one of the doors to the delivery room and beckoned me in. My anxiousness suddenly multiplied a million times, and I started to sweat. My eyes were immediately drawn to the big blue paper sheet hanging at the crest of the mountain that was Liz’s pregnant belly. I wouldn’t be seeing anything I didn’t want to see, but suddenly I didn’t give a shit what I saw. I realized at that moment just how ridiculous my earlier neuroses about the delivery actually were. As long as everything worked out fine, I’d be happy to watch ten full-grown adults and a bear pop from her vagina, high-fiving each of them on the way out. I was brought back to reality by a nurse instructing me to wash my hands and arms up to my elbows.

As I stepped on the foot pump to start the water running, I heard Liz’s voice. I couldn’t really make out her words, but a louder, male voice said, “Your wife has been given some pain medication. She’s conscious, but she’s not totally lucid.” I was directed to a chair next to her hospital bed, and I sat down to her right, our heads parallel. I whispered to her, “I love you.” She said, “I love you, too. And I love my, uh, ana, ana, uh, anesthesi…whatever.” I craned my neck toward Liz’s new best friend, the anesthesiologist. Smiling behind my face mask, I thanked him for taking care of her.

I reached for Liz’s hand and looked around the room, seeing, in addition to the anesthesiologist, a couple of nurses and a doctor. A few seconds later, Dr. Nelson walked in and said that they were ready to get started. “We’ll have your baby out in fewer than thirty minutes.”

That’s it? I only have to wait half an hour to meet the daughter of my dreams? Awesome.

Soon the sound of hospital instruments got louder, and the unmistakable nonsmell of sterility and surgery permeated the stale air in the room. I continued to hold Liz’s hand, and I realized at a certain point that I might have squeezed it a little too hard when the sound of the doctor’s tools made a loud noise. A few minutes into the delivery, my eyes fixated on the clear plastic tube that stretched from behind the blue sheet, transporting way more blood than I ever would have imagined across the room and into a big, enclosed, cylindrical device. I suddenly felt like I was going to pass out. Fuck. This was exactly what I was worried about when I told Liz I couldn’t be in the delivery room. I felt the sweat soaking into my hospital-issued hat, and my chest tightening as I thought about fainting. I knew it was all in my head, yet the more I tried to get over it, the closer I got to these thoughts actually manifesting themselves into actions—actions that would result in diverting the attention of the hospital staff in my direction, away from my wife and daughter.

I felt like such a failure as a partner. I knew that I couldn’t do that to Liz, so I quickly talked myself into pulling my shit together. I stared down at the hospital identification bracelet hanging loosely around her wrist, straining my eyes to read the tiny print. I started to feel the way I felt after drinking a bottle and a half of red wine, like I was circling the drain of some giant bathtub. I needed something else, another point of focus.