Blessings

On November 19, 2002, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Based on the deaths of two babies previously, while under the care of the public hospital, I decided to obtain a private gynaecologist. A costly venture since, firstly, the gynaecologist needed to stitch my womb (called a cervical cerclage) to ensure the baby stayed in, something the doctor should have done years ago with my third pregnancy. Secondly, after giving birth, pieces of the placenta became stuck to my uterus, so I had to go under anaesthesia for its removal. Thirdly there were added hospital and paediatric fees as my baby developed severe newborn jaundice.

Thinking I would be taking my son home the day after delivery, they told me he could not leave until the jaundice level dropped. To test the level of jaundice, the doctor needed to draw blood. I felt sorry for my baby, his little hand and heel dotted with countless needle marks. As part of his treatment, they placed him under blue light.

The doctor discharged me and, while I would have loved to stay with my son, I could not since, as a private hospital, every night's stay cost. However, I visited him twice a day for the three days of his stay. Upon arrival one afternoon, a nurse said to me, "Miss, why are you coming here every minute? You just had a baby; you need to rest." But I couldn't bear being away from him.

On the third day, the doctor said the jaundice level was not dropping, and my baby may need a blood transfusion; at the public hospital. The thought of my newborn son undergoing a blood transfusion in the public hospital was frightening, especially as the doctor, too, had misgivings. At home that evening, I prayed, "Please Lord, heal my baby from this jaundice. Please don't let him undergo this transfusion."

Early next morning, the hospital called. I held my breath, and then these words: "... Come collect your son." Oh, joy! I hustled to the hospital. As I entered the nursery, I noticed him lying in his cot, dressed, with no blue light and no intravenous (I.V.) tubes. I promptly bundled him, thanked the nurse who cared for him and took him home.

Four years later, on April 14, 2006, a Good Friday, I gave birth to a baby girl; at the public hospital. I chose the public hospital since I lacked the funds for private care, especially if the placenta again became stuck. Surprisingly, I received good prenatal care. The doctors at the hospital performed the cerclage and gave me antenatal steroid treatments to help develop the baby's lungs in case of premature birth. About four weeks before the due date, they removed the stitch and kept me overnight for observation. During the night, labour pains began.

When the time came for delivery, they wheeled me into the labour ward and 'prepped' me. The midwife assigned to me was at the back of the ward scrubbing. Close-by and separated by a curtain, a nurse was delivering another lady's baby. While I waited, I felt the baby advancing and screamed, "Nurse, the baby coming!" The nurses ignored me. Well, if that's your attitude, and the baby falls, don't blame me. So, with each contraction, I pushed, and then the head burst through.

"Nurse, the baby has come out!" I shouted. The neighbouring nurse peeped and, on seeing the baby's head, at once left the other woman and came to my aid. She held the baby's head and shouted, "Nurse Diane, come quick, girl, this baby out already!" Nurse Diane hurried over and, shortly after, delivered my baby girl. She raised her for me to see her. Her little eyes were closed, and her face scowled as though displeased, taken out of her comfort zone. Then they took her away, and after cleaning her up, brought her to me briefly, then again took her away.

As happened after the birth of my son, the placenta became stuck, and the doctor performed minor surgery to remove it. A few hours later, they wheeled me to the postnatal ward. Looking around, I saw the other mothers with their babies at their bedsides but, by my bed, no cot. I flew to the nursery and saw my baby lying naked, except for a diaper, with IV drips and under that dreaded blue light. Jaundice.

Even though discharged, they allowed me to stay in the hospital for the duration of her stay. We spent three days at the hospital. Every day I woke I hoped that would be the day I could take her home. On the second day, in the afternoon, I went to tidy her and saw her lying in the cot, clothed with no blue light. Excited, I expected to take her home the next day. But next morning she was back under the light. Confused, I asked a nursing assistant what happened, and he told me that her jaundice had gone back up. I stared at him open-mouthed. What? How? "Jaundice does not usually go back up," he said. I trudged back to the ward, dejected.

The next morning, I lay in bed, refusing to go to the nursery. I couldn't bear to see her under that blue light. Eventually, a nurse came to get me. "Miss Granger, you forget you have a baby to feed. Please come and feed your child." Reluctantly, I got up, tidied myself and went to the nursery.

I scooped her out the cot, sat on the bench and grappled with the I.V. tube, trying to comfortably position her to breastfeed. Finally getting comfortable, I gazed at her as she hungrily suckled. As I fed her, the nurse told me, "Your daughter, only pulling the drips out her hand; she feels she's smarter than me." I smiled and instantly made up my mind to take her home that day. Somehow, it never occurred to me to pray for her as I did for my son when he had jaundice. Maybe the reason was I knew she would survive because of her fighting spirit.

Returning to the ward, I approached the nurse who sat chatting with the doctor and told her: "I would like to discharge my baby, please."
"Are you sure? I don't think that's a good idea."
"Yes, I'm sure; I want to take her home."
The doctor then chimed in. "Listen, if you take her home and she gets sick, you know what will happen? You will bring her back here, and she will get even sicker and spend weeks on the ward. You want that to happen?"
"That will not happen," I heard myself say.
"Oh, that will not happen?"
"No, it will not"
"Ok, if you say so," she said with a sour look on her face.

The nurse gave me loads of forms to fill in and a notebook to sign, attesting that I discharged the baby against the hospital's advice. After the paperwork, the nurse told me I could leave. I hastily packed my bags, hurried to the nursery, collected my baby, and left. Two days later, I had her assessed by a private doctor who saw no sign of jaundice. I was not surprised.

In 1992, when my baby died, I walked out of the hospital promising never to have more children as, two years prior, I suffered a similar fateâ?"the death of a baby. When the first incident occurred, I was 20 years old, a newlywed and recently moved into my new home. One day, while laundering, a sharp pain shot through my stomach. Then I felt a pop and something trickling down my leg. My water broke. How? I'm only five months pregnant! I hastened to the hospital and preliminary examinations confirmed contractions. A nurse wheeled me to the labour ward and, upon entry, said, "Premature labour; no chance of saving this one."

Hours later, I delivered a baby boy. I heard his cry then the nurse whisked him away. After waiting an eternity, a nurse finally came and told me he had died. "Do you want the body for burial?" I shook my head.

I watched as she unceremoniously wrapped him in brown paper, then strode out the room. Heartbroken, I buried my head in the pillow and sobbed. Why Lord? Is this punishment for my sins? For weeks I felt empty. Lifeless. I received no counselling, and my husband appeared nonchalant to my suffering. The ensuing months were miserable and lonely. I hardly ate or spoke, and I knew something was wrong with me, but I didn't know what. It was not until later I understood my feelings to be grief.

Two years later, I conceived again, and, in my seventh month, I went into premature labour. After delivering a baby girl, I asked the nurse, "Would she live?"
"I don't know; only the doctor could answer that."

I lay on the ward eyeing the other mothers with their babies, wondering when I would get the chance to do the same. Then a nurse came and told me the doctor wanted to talk to me. He explained my baby's organs were under-developed and her chances of survival were slim. As I listened, I already knew what the outcome would be. I went back on the ward and waited. Shortly after, a nurse came and confirmed her death.
"Do you want to see her?"
"Yes, please."
When I entered the nursery, she was in an incubator, lying on her back, as though sleeping.
"You want to touch her?" I nodded.
The nurse slid open the door, and I gently caressed her tiny face. So smooth and warm. I fought the tears but being too strong, they broke free. The nurse gently seated me and tried comforting me. She asked if I went to church and, when I nodded, she told me to pray and draw strength from Jesus.

When asked if I wanted the body for burial, I again declined. That's when I resolved never to have more children. Incidentally, I already had a daughter who was four years old at the time. After counsel from my pastor, I drew strength from thoughts of seeing my babies again at the resurrection. A year after, I was divorced, at age 25.

The Bible says, "Many are the plans in a person's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails." (Proverbs 19:21). Although happy to remain 'family-less,' God had other plans for me. He didn't wait for the resurrection; he restored me a family and my babies this side of heaven, and I couldn't ask God for more loving children. They are my blessings.

My story reminds me of Naomi from the Book of Ruth. Fleeing famine, Naomi, her husband and two sons migrated from Bethlehem to Moab. While there, her husband and two sons died. Empty and bitter, she returned to Bethlehem with her daughter-in-law Ruth. I am sure in her despair, Naomi thought she would remain forever destitute. But God had other plans for her. Naomi regained a family when a guardian-redeemer, Boaz, married Ruth. Ruth bore Obed, and he became Naomi's pride and joy. Her life, no longer empty and bitter, became filled with joy, happiness, and hope.

In hindsight, I see God's hand in my life. Back then, when my babies died, I didn't understand what was happening. However, God was not punishing me, but saving me from becoming a young single mother with three infants to care for. He waited until I was mature and secure to raise a family.