Deanna Fei
The nurses and doctors are working heroically to keep her alive. I’m superfluous to that mission. All I can do for her, I’m told again and again, is pump. When Dr. Kahn comes to my room, I’m pumping. Peter and I act upbeat and friendly. We can’t help hoping that getting this doctor to like us will improve our daughter’s chances. Dr. Kahn sits down. The pump heaves and my legs shake as she speaks. A follow-up head ultrasound. The one yesterday was clear. The one today shows an intraventricular hemorrhage. Bleeding in the right ventricle of my daughter’s brain. Blood seeping into the surrounding tissue. Brain damage. This is the worst thing, a voice in my head jabbers. I can hardly hear Dr. Kahn. At last I reach over to shut off the pump. The bleeding is the aftermath of the injury. The injury already occurred. There is nothing to be done. The question now is how far the bleeding will spread. There is a risk of brain swelling and inflammation that can lead to death within days or minutes. If she survives, the extent of the damage will remain unknown for months or years. I try to speak. At last Peter articulates a question. Do we still have that one-third chance that our daughter will somehow be okay? Dr. Kahn has worked here for decades. She has seen thousands of babies come and go. This is plain in the stoop of her shoulders, the twitch of her nose, the pallor of her kind, peaked face. “Well,” she says, “when you have a birth as catastrophic as this—” And then, as she gazes at us, she starts to cry. I’m grateful for her tears. Even more grateful for her choice of words. Here, finally, is the raw truth against the relentless farce of “Congratulations!” 8
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07/05/2015 08:30