A Mother Story

February is soft, round, and pink.
February is the pregnant belly of winter.

Today, I am going to tell you a story about being a mother. I was a very new mother at the time. It must have been about 3 weeks in, to be exact, as Roo had gone back to work. Pip and I had a big day- he had his weekly check-up and I was solo-managing the operation. Lucky for me, it was June, and Dr. Minear's office was walking distance from our house.

I woke Pip from his sweet sleep, carefully changed his diaper, and put a fresh, white onesie on his small body, all the while looking into his deep blue eyes, smiling, cooing, singing, loving. I wrapped him into our orange moby, swung the pre-packed diaper bag on my shoulder, locked the door, and began the short journey downtown. NOTHING made me happier than having my baby soundly attached to the outside of my body, nestled in, safe and sound, the two of us breathing back and forth. Arms free, and in love like I never knew possible, I floated down the sidewalks.

After checking in, we sat down in the midst of children drawing on a shared chalkboard, toddlers wiping runny noses while watching Peppa the Pig on their parent's phone, and distant post-shot screaming behind closed doors. It was hard to take my eyes off of Pip, looking down on his face resting on my sternum. My breath making his body rise and fall, his breath filling my senses. The day was bright and alive and full of promise.

We were called into the orange room and I was asked to undress Pip. So we reversed the process we had just completed in our living room. The nurse weighed Pip- perfect. The nurse measured his head- perfect, right on track. She made some notes and told us Dr. Minear would be in shortly. Pip waited patiently on the sterile white paper, taking in his surroundings, moving his arms and legs, both of us in complete awe of his body. I put on a diaper, loosely, just in case, and covered him with a blanket from the diaper bag. My heart swelled with love and pride as we waited for Dr. Minear's quick, double-knock.

I fully expected Dr. Minear to tell me what a perfect, beautiful child I had laid on his table for him to examine. But he didn't. He recommended I make an appointment with a neurologist. The sunlight streaming through the window dissipated.

"What? I don't understand..."

"I'm concerned Pip has a clinical condition known as the sun-setting eye phenomenon."

"I don't understand."

"You see how his eyes fall partly below his lids..."

"Yes..."

"This can be an early symptom of hydrocephalus, a condition when there is swelling in the brain. It can be treatable but is very serious."

"I don't understand what you're saying. There's nothing wrong with Pip. He's the most perfect baby. He's a healthy boy. I would know if there was something wrong."

"It's good idea to see a neurologist to rule it out."

OUT! That's what I wanted. I wanted out of this office. I wanted a second opinion. I wanted Roo. I wished I had never come to the appointment. Suddenly Pip's beautiful blue eyes were a source of fear and uncertainty. I was in an alternate universe that I wanted nothing to do with.

The neurologist agreed with Dr. Minear: Pip's eyes falling partly below his bottom lids was a sign of concern. He recommended an MRI to rule out hydrocephalus.

"OK, when is the soonest we can get Pip in for an MRI?" I wanted this over as soon as possible.

"Actually, Mrs. Reath, we can't perform an MRI until he's at least 3 months old."

"What?! You're telling me we have to wait for over two months before we can rule out or face hydrocephalus?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

We made an appointment for an MRI on Pip's 3-month birthday and left the MGH pediatric neurology department, heavy and helpless. The following months of waiting was one of the most challenging times of my life. I oscillated between knowing in my heart Pip was healthy to being so overwhelmed by anxiety I couldn't function. The worst was when people commented on Pip's big blue eyes or his look of wide-eyed surprise. We told no one except our parents. Telling any more people felt like it would make it true. I remember my hands constantly shaking.

One evening when Pip was asleep in his crib, we tried to watch some television, but I couldn't focus on the show. I was so stuck in my fear. Roo turned off the television, and turned to me:

"Georgia, as long as we can love Pip, and Pip can love us, we will be OK."

And just like that, I felt serenity overcome me and the remembering that anything is possible. It doesn't have to look like what I thought it was going to look like. I took a deep breath and recommitted to enjoying every moment of loving Pip and being loved by him.

The morning of the MRI, I wasn't allowed to feed Pip when he awoke. They wanted him to arrive hungry so I could feed him in the hospital and hope he fell asleep for the procedure. Otherwise he would have to be put under, which is never a first choice for infants. I was determined he would sleep through the MRI. And, as we all know, a determined mother is pretty unstoppable.

Only one parent was allowed into the exam room. Roo hugged us goodbye and we followed the nurse. All went according to plan at first. Pip had his breakfast like a champ, and fell asleep soundly in my arms. We transferred him onto the machine. They strapped him into a straight blanket and put a helmet on his head. He slept as they rolled his tiny body into the tube-like machine. They turned the machine on. Rapid pulses of electricity hit the machine's metal coils causing loud clanks and bangs. Pip woke with a start and began to cry and squirm. They rolled him back out and said,

"We have to put him under."

"No," I said sternly, "I can get him to fall asleep."

"We don't have time to take him out and start the process all over, Mrs. Reath."

"That's fine, I'll get him to fall asleep as he is."

They looked at me, puzzled.

"I have an idea. Please, just let me try something."

The technicians and nurse looked at eachother and agreed to let me have a go. I took off my jacket and shoes. I took off my socks and shirt. I climbed up onto the machine where my son was strapped in. Pip instantly calmed. I positioned myself in a plank pose, lowered down until Pip found my left breast (always the bigger producer) and held chaturanga. I knew I could hold this for at least five minutes. I had done it before. Some amount of minutes went by and Pip was still sucking fiercely and wide-eyed. Suddenly, I knew I could hold this position as long as I needed to. I knew he would fall asleep. As I whispered to him, his eyelids began to look heavy, his sucking slowed, and he was asleep. I gingerly lowered myself off the machine, gathered my clothing and shoes, and tiptoed off to the side. They rolled Pip back in, the clanking and banging began. Pip remained fast asleep without stirring.

The imaging was successful. We could go home. The doctor would call us with the results.

A few hours later, the doctor confirmed our hunch that we were so scared to believe: Pip's brain looked normal- there was no sign of swelling. There was no sign of hydrocephalus. The sun-setting eye phenomenon was likely a result of immature eye muscles.

This was the first of many moments of overwhelming relief in Pip's early life. For a long time, I couldn't talk about all the "close calls" we had with Pip's health - there was a very convincing voice within that told me if I talked about them, they would return, or something worse would happen. These experiences were deeply traumatic even though he ended up being OK each and every time (thank you, God). They deeply impacted the parents we are and the person Pip is today. They will forever be part of his story, our story. I believe telling our stories can heal us AND help others. The strength and hope I draw from this story are the reminders that anything is possible in the presence of love, and that when we are knotted in fear, it's important to reach out, and not listen to the voices telling us to be quiet.

Our experiences, especially the hard ones, grant us empathy. They connect us deeply to strangers and loved ones who have had similar experiences. You can be sure if someone near me has a sick child, I will show up for that person as best I can, whether I know them or not. I will never forget how lonely and scary it felt when Pip's health was on the line nor will I forget the families who didn't get to walk out of the hospital with good news like we did.

I'll leave you with a more recent Pip anecdote where once again he reminds me to never take our health for granted:

Yesterday, I walked into the house, overwhelmed and frustrated, "I'm so done with COVID," I loudly announced to no one in particular, "and I'm so done with masks!" I was (as I am often known to be) being dramatic--getting it OUT!

After washing my hands at the kitchen sink, I turned around to find Pip, now 11, looking at me:

"Mom, it's really hard for me to hear you say that."

"Say what?"

"Say that you're done with COVID. And you're done wearing a mask. Think about all the people who have died. Imagine if someone you loved had died of COVID."

At this point, I was speechless. He went on to say,

"I've been working hard all year to wear my mask everyday at school for seven hours a day and it's really hard to hear you say you're done wearing a mask."

Oh, how right you are, Pip. Thank you, once again, for reminding me of my beautiful place in this fragile world. There is definitely no swelling in that beautiful brain (just in this mama bear's heart).

As always, thank you for reading.