'I believe in miracles,' says mother of infant girl who was born 25 weeks premature

ARLINGTON, Va. (Arlington Catholic Herald) - 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.

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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.

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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 breastfeed, 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 each day.

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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.

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Mairead proved that miracles do exist. I thank God every day for my precious little angel.

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Republished by Catholic Online with permission of the Arlington Catholic Herald , the official publication of the Diocese of Arlington, Va. (www.catholicherald.com).