Mairead Catherine Molloy was born more than three months early, weighing less than 2 pounds. She spent much of the first months of her life hooked up to machines to feed her and help her breathe. (COURTESY PHOTO)
I didn’t know my family history — I was adopted. I actually
liked the fact that I was oblivious to any unfortunate medical concerns
in my life. And I felt an eternal glow when the doctor showed me the
jelly bean growing inside of me.
This was my first pregnancy. My husband, Alan, and I were married for awhile
so it was the perfect time to increase our family. I was fortunate to not experience
the typical morning sickness — my baby made up for that with her constant
kicking. Except for developing hypertension in my second trimester, everything
was running according to plan.
But then my AFP test came back abnormal, sending shockwaves to the numerous doctors
handling my care. I was urged several times to have an amniocentesis. When the
sonogram was performed, doctors told me that I could have a baby with Down syndrome
or other birth defects. I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to
my husband and I was that we were going to have our first child. We were going
to be proud parents.
‘Shock of my life’
At 24 weeks, I got the shock of my life. My water broke — I had premature
rupture of the membranes. By time the ambulance arrived, I felt fine. Upon arrival
to the high risk unit at Inova Fairfax Hospital in Falls Church, I was given
the news that I would be spending the next 12-plus weeks on complete bed rest.
A catheter was inserted to drain my bladder, my blood was drawn and two steroid
shots of betamethasone were injected to help improve the baby’s lungs.
The next day, I was wheeled in for a sonogram. The hospital doctor — a
new doctor to me — told me I had lost a pound-and-a-half of amniotic fluid.
The baby had no shock absorption or cushioning in my stomach and she was small
for her gestational age. The doctor, unsympathetic to my situation, gave me three
options: terminate the pregnancy; deliver the baby immediately, but it would
be stillborn; or stay on bed rest. There was little doubt from this top doc that
this baby would not be born healthy.
I made sure to hold back the tears so he couldn’t see how much he had hurt
me. My own doctor entered shortly thereafter and told me that this pregnancy
would not come to term. Watch me doc, I said. I believe in God and I believe
in miracles.
I immediately called for a priest to come to my room. I needed God more than
ever. I made my confession to the priest, and he blessed the baby growing inside
of me. Every day, a member from the chaplain’s office checked on me, prayed
with me and gave me Holy Eucharist. I was determined to carry this baby to term,
even if it meant challenges.
Thank goodness for the neonatologists at Fairfax Hospital. I learned that this
hospital had one of the top neonatal intensive care units (NICU) in the country.
Along with the nurses, the doctors related to me; they gave me hope. Our goal
was to keep me pregnant as long as possible.
I spent the next six days, gulping down gallons of orange juice and water. I
was weighed at 6 a.m. each morning and luckily, I was able to add some fluid.
Every four hours, the nurse on duty would check the fetal heartbeat. Each time,
the beating got stronger. Of course this baby was Irish; she was a kicker and
a fighter.
Early arrival
On March 27, 2007, I went into premature labor. She wasn’t due to be born
until July 3. The baby was breech and had a prolapsed cord. The cord had dropped
dangerously low and her foot was exposed from the womb. Within seconds, a slew
of doctors and nurses were at my bed in panic. I heard that I was five centimeters
dilated while the doctor tried to push the cord in to save the baby. All I could
do was breathe slowly. I looked at the enormous “Get Well” balloon
my husband tied to the foot of the gurney while I was being rushed to the operating
room.
At 10:46 p.m., Mairead Catherine Molloy was delivered by emergency C-section
at 25 weeks, six days. Breathing, but not crying, she was whisked away to the
NICU. She weighed a scant 1 pound, 6 ounces, and measured the length of a ruler.
The next day, I called for Father
Dennis Kleinmann, pastor of my parish, St. Mary in Alexandria, to baptize
Mairead. I was so sick from the surgery that I didn’t see my daughter for
three days. When I heard a newborn cry in the next room or saw the proud mothers
cradling their babies, my heart sank. I wanted to storm the NICU and take my
daughter home immediately.
Tiny, fragile soul
When they wheeled me into the NICU the first time, incubators and metal cribs
lined the corridors. Bright lights, numerous machines, and alarms beeping
left and right overwhelmed me. Mairead was placed in the critical ward because
of her size. Dressed in a preemie diaper that was too big, she was skin and bone
compared to her neighbors. Heated from the overhead lights and cocooned in her
warming bed, her fragility meant no holding her for six weeks.
Her hands were covered like boxing gloves. Her veins collapsed so easily that
IV lines had to be moved from her hands and feet every three days. Patches and
tubes on her body were hooked up to heart and oxygen monitors. She was poked,
prodded and moved every four hours. The small amount of nutrients she could tolerate
was given through a tube in her belly button. Her eyes were too sensitive and
were covered with a mask — it would be a month before Mairead could open
her eyes.
Her paper thin skin meant no holding her and no placing objects in her crib.
Our only source of physical connection was to practice the containment hold.
We were only allowed to gently place one hand on the top of her head and the
other holding her feet. I placed a card of St. Padre Pio on the plastic door
of the Isolette and quietly cried.
Emotional rollercoaster
Mairead spent her first three weeks on a ventilator to assist her breathing.
An eye exam showed she had stage 2 retinopathy of prematurity; the blood vessels
were developing abnormally in the eyes. She developed jaundice and was given
rounds of phototherapy and seven blood transfusions to lower the bilirubin levels.
She also had a patent ductus arteriosus, an opening in a heart valve that usually
closes at birth. If the ductus did not close, I had to make a decision. The improper
blood flow was causing scarring of the lungs, which were so immature that she
also developed bronchopulmonary dysplasia.
Many medical decisions had to be made. Pros and cons, risks and side effects
were repeated. Papers had to be signed granting permission to numerous procedures.
My husband and I tried to brace ourselves for the emotional rollercoaster.
Even though I wasn’t planning to breast feed, the doctors and nurses begged
me to pump. It was critical for a premature baby to at least get the colostrum,
which produces the necessary antibodies needed to fight off infection.
My husband and I went every single day to see our daughter. Wearing matching
armbands to greet Mairead, we made the journey from Alexandria to Falls Church,
and spent hours by our daughter’s bedside.
I kept a journal and recorded the doctor and nurse taking care of her, weight
gain, medicines administered, food intake and milestones along the way. I sang
to her just so she could hear my voice. I read to her the book, Guess How Much
I Love You, before I left her bedside every day.
I wanted desperately to hold my baby in my arms. I blamed myself for causing
her to be born so soon. Was I being punished? I prayed every day and night for
her safe keeping. The hardest part was seeing other babies graduate. We
had to go home while our baby stayed in the hospital.
Progress
As Mairead got older and bigger, we were allowed to be more proactive in the
nursery. We routinely helped take her temperature and change her diaper. I was
able to bond with her through skin-to-skin contact known as Kangaroo Care. We
dressed her in preemie clothes and watched her graduate to a crib.
The months passed and things were getting better. To prevent sleep apnea, she
bounced back and forth from a CPAP mask and nasal cannula. The more weight she
gained, the easier it got for her to breathe on her own.
She wasn’t able to suck and swallow like a full-term baby. A swallow study
showed her aspirating the formula, which meant the food was going into her lungs
instead of her stomach. The many doses of Zantac didn’t cure the acid reflux.
Doctors suggested more surgery to correct the problem, which would make it possible
for us to take our daughter home within two weeks.
Getting to know a ‘little angel’
On August 9, after four-and-a-half months, Mairead made the journey home at 8
pounds 4 ounces. Unfortunately, she landed back in the hospital one week later,
but this time she was in the pediatric ward, so different from the NICU. One
consolation was that one parent was able to spend the night in the hospital with
her. Since the second hospital stint, she has managed to stay home.
My life is pretty hectic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I now own
a day planner and Mairead’s social calendar is busier than mine. She has
a plethora of specialists including a physical therapist, speech therapist, rehabilitation
doctor, pulmonologist, nutritionist, ophthalmologist and a GI doctor. Due to
the risk of respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) and flu, Mairead received monthly
Synagis shots, and we spent the winter indoors. To keep my sanity, I joined a
preemie support group.
Today Mairead is a jovial, healthy and very active 1-year-old. She eats from
a bottle with a thickener, loves applesauce and only gets tube fed at night.
She enjoys hearing Mommy sing to her, stroller rides with Dad and play dates
with her grandparents. With her bright blue eyes, long eyelashes and chunky legs,
people don’t believe that she was a preemie. Mairead proved that miracles
do exist. I thank God every day for my precious, little angel.
