My Baby Was A Cabbage Patch Kid

cabbage patch kid button


I never had a Cabbage Patch Kid.
I think maybe it was because in the early 80’s when they really took off and became popular I was too old to play with dolls.
Or maybe it was because they were ugly as shit.
Whichever it was, the fact that I was never a fan became all the more ironic when I first became a mother at age 26 and had a real live Cabbage Patch Kid of my own.

I’m not lying.
When my first daughter was born 10 and a half weeks prematurely, the only clothes she could wear (when she was finally able to wear clothes after some of her wires and tubes were removed) were literally the clothes found in the toy store for Cabbage Patch Kids. You may be saddened at the tragic image of me as a new, first time mom wandering the doll aisles of Toys R Us looking for baby clothes instead of over in the infant section, but don’t worry. I was way too busy in the NICU every day washing my hands forty-three thousand times and learning about oxygen saturation and spinal taps and vein blowouts from IVs and trying like hell to get my impossibly small baby to learn to suck, swallow and breathe at the same time to be doing any shopping.

But I’ve gotten a little bit ahead of myself.
Let me start at the beginning, 18 years ago today.
Today.

One of the things I remember most about that day was a glass of orange juice.
I was standing at my kitchen counter drinking a glass of orange juice when I called my doctor.
For the past few days I’d been leaking — fairly heavily — what I thought was urine. Why would I, at 27 weeks pregnant, be so quick to assume the fluid that was continually coming out of me was urine and not something more critical to, oh, I don’t know, my baby’s survival you ask??
Because my doctor told me that’s what it was when I had gone to see him about it three days earlier. Told me not to worry. And of course, as one usually does, I trusted my doctor, and despite the pesky nuisance the leaking created, went shopping, took walks and even took baths over that weekend.
I know what you’re thinking. Believe me, I know what you’re thinking.

Back to the orange juice.
When the nurse told me there was an immediate opening and I should come in for a quick test,  I put my glass of orange juice in the fridge, grabbed my purse and ran out the door.
The next time I saw that glass of orange juice, I was a mother.

I won’t bore you with all the details of what transpired over the next six days, but let me give you the short version.

The nurse gave me a very quick test and discovered I was leaking amniotic fluid (and had been for three days). The he-should-be-damn-thankful-he-wasn’t-sued-for-malpractice doctor sent me directly to the hospital (do not pass GO, do not collect your $200) where I was immediately hooked up to the poison known as Magnesium Sulfate to stop any contractions. I was given a catheter (because complete bed rest is the Rx for “Premature Rupture of Membranes” — not walks and baths, obviously), my first of three steroid injections to help her lungs develop (think of the biggest needle you can imagine…and multiply by 10), and the first of several sessions with doctors and therapists who came in to try to gently prepare my husband and me for the chain of events that were sure to follow, including showing us the approximate size our baby would be…if she survived.

The next several days have become a blur of memories that include the unimaginative pain and borderline psychosis associated with a slow drip of Magnesium Sulfate, sleepless nights, fear, disbelief, worry and hope. Hope that I would defy the odds I was given that I’d have this baby any day, and worry that if I didn’t, she’d be okay.

On the sixth day, after I’d been (thankfully) taken off the Mag, my temperature spiked and I went into labor. Let me put the timing of this into perspective for you. It was October 22nd. I was due January 5th. You might think that being 28 weeks pregnant I’d have an easy labor. And you may be right. I don’t have anything to compare it to since five years later I went through the very same thing again with my second daughter. But I know this. It wasn’t fun. But thankfully, it was fast.

I’ll never forget the image of my impossibly tiny baby. She was a little broken bird, all bones folded in on each other and bluish, hairy skin stretched tightly across. But her eyes. Her eyes! Her eyes were dark and enormous, and after the team of specialists had whisked her to the back of the room to put her back into a plastic “womb” and were wheeling her quickly to the NICU, they paused to let me look at her for a brief moment. She looked right at me. Right at me. And all I could think of to say was, “Hi baby. I’m so sorry.” Maybe not the most heartwarming first words to say to your baby, but they were heartfelt. Tragically so. I was sorry. So sorry for whatever my body had done to fail her; sorry for her harsh entrance into this world and sorry for the certain struggles her little body would have to overcome.

Twenty four hours later I got to go home. Without my baby. My baby who I had yet to hold (and wouldn’t get to for another week and a half). There are two things I remember most about that day.
The first is that we were so dead tired when we got home that my husband immediately went to take a nap and I went to the pharmacy for my prescriptions (I’ve since forgiven him). There was some mix up and the clerk was short with me and I was so tired and worried and had so many hormones raging through me that I started sobbing and crying and just about collapsed right there at the pharmacy counter. Let me tell you, she turned real nice, real fast. The next was finding that glass of orange juice in the fridge. The glass of orange juice that started it all. Funny how such a seemingly inconsequential thing sticks with you.

Obviously, my story, and hers, ends well. After five weeks – five terrifying weeks full of minor setbacks and procedures (for her) and breakdowns (me) and too many needles in her minuscule hands and feet and head to count – she came home. And she immediately thrived.

And now I’ve blinked and somehow find myself here, 18 years later. With this most amazing and remarkable girl who may have started her life with an uphill climb, but who has now reached the summit. Next week she’ll officially be an adult. Fully cooked (which is kind of ironic since she started out half-baked). It’s often times unbelievable to me when I remember this story because it was such a fragile beginning to a life that, for the past 18 years, has been anything but.

Would I change this story if given a magic pill and a time machine? Of course I would. Of course I’d make it so that she got to finish developing naturally instead of with the help of tubes and IVs and medicines; so that I’d get to hold my baby and cry tears of joy instead of tears of fear. But if doing that would somehow make the fates change exactly who she was and the incredible person she’s turned out to be? Not a chance.

They say everything happens for a reason. And if having to have had a real live Cabbage Patch Kid for awhile was part of the deal for the daughter I got?
I’ll take it.

For more birthday posts on the blog, click HERE 
 



This +1 button tells Google you liked what you’ve read. Thanks!



Back to Top Subscribe by RSS Subscribe by Email Email Post
  • ~Dawn~ - This is such a beautiful story for such a beautiful girl!! How terrifying for you as a mother, but you have done a brilliant job caring and nurturing her into the amazing girl she has become.ReplyCancel

  • Amy Flory - Tears. Tears of sadness for your guilt and your empty arms when your girl was born, and tears of joy for the woman she has become and the happy ending. I love your way of telling a story so much I have almost forgiven you for calling Cabbage Patch Kids ugly as shit.ReplyCancel

    • Michelle - Now I’m crying because YOU’RE crying. Dammit. But thank you, my friend, for your sweet comment. And we’ll just agree to disagree on the appeal of the onion faced excuse for a doll.ReplyCancel

  • The Penny Pinching Foodie - Happy Birthday to your daughter and your story made me bawl like a baby! I guess because I have a similar story about my daughter! Her birthday was October 10th and 10 years ago today I was sitting by her little incubator praying they would be able to take her chest tubes out by that afternoon and I might get to hold her soon!

    She was born with an infection after I had been “spotting” fluid for my last 2 weeks. The doctor told me the same thing yours did. Turns out he was wrong! She was born with a very serious infection, fluid on her lungs, and a heart murmur. After my c-section they airlifted her to a children’s hospital a few hours away and I had to stay behind. I was ready to follow her when they took her but my hospital wouldn’t release me until I could walk after the c-section. So, my husband had to go alone to Memphis and it killed me. But let me tell you! I was up walking the halls after the meds wore off 4 hours later (truthfully I was still numb but I didn’t care)! They released me the next morning..

    When I arrived at Le Bonheur my husband told me that after she arrived she had stopped breathing and her right lung had been popped trying to revive her. They said that she probably wasn’t going to make it. Just because they gave up didn’t mean I was ready to and 2 1/2 weeks later she was good to go home. If I had of let them unplug her and quit I wouldn’t have had my sweet girl! It had to be the scariest thing I have ever gone through. Every time I look at all her scars I know what a wonderful gift she truly is!
    ReplyCancel

    • Michelle - Oh my gosh, how terrifying! Truly. And what a lesson in mother’s intuition. Thank you for sharing your story. I’m so happy it had such a happy ending! xo
      ReplyCancel

  • Elizabeth Catalano - Lovely story. You were put through the wringer! My own daughter’s birth went much more smoothly. If anything she didn’t want to come out and I was at 42 weeks when they induced. I developed postpartum preeclampsia though which was treated with the magnesium so I know what you’re talking about there. Not fun, but I’m SO glad I was the one suffering and my baby was fine. Your story is a reminder. Thanks.ReplyCancel

    • Michelle - 42 weeks??!? Sister, that makes me shudder! And you understand the Mag…and why after day three they send in psych consults because more than one person has lost her mind on it. Stuff is poison. But I suppose we should be thankful for it? Thanks for he comment! :)ReplyCancel

  • eviljoyspeaks - I was hesitant to read because I totally get the fear and love of an ‘anniversary’ as I approach November I completely understand the feelings associated with such an important day…..

    Hugs and love and peace. Lots and lots of hugs. I’m so thankful she is fully cooked now and amazing!!!ReplyCancel

    • Michelle - Oh, I know you understand…in a much different but so much the same way.
      Feeling your hugs! Thanks ~ xoxoReplyCancel

  • cynthia - I had my son at 31 weeks this past May. We had the steroids, the incubator, the tubes, etc too. Now I can’t even remember him being so tiny, but he was only 2lb 12oz and even preemie clothes (which I know are a fairly recent invention) were too big for him!
    It’s always nice to hear/read success stories about tiny babies. Happy bday to your little/big girl!ReplyCancel

  • Angels Sometimes Wear Scrubs » You're My Favorite Today - […] both of the Things were born frighteningly prematurely (you can catch up on all the details HERE and HERE) I spent weeks lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to various tubes and wires that fed me […]ReplyCancel

Your email is never published or shared. Required fields are marked *

*

*

T w i t t e r
F a c e b o o k