The Unexpectedly Scary Story of Aurora

“Was I in the box?”

Annabelle has asked that question no fewer than 50 times in the last six months. We pause for a moment every time before we answer. “No, hun. You were born two weeks late. Aurora was in the box only because she came to meet us early.”

The box is an incubator, of course. Aurora spent 12 days in the NICU in Cambridge — 12 long, frustrating, hopeful days — before she came home. She got excellent care, plumped up like a champ, and hasn’t returned to the hospital since. But it made us realize how difficult the second time around can be sometimes. How certainty and confidence can turn to chaos in a moment. How scary having a baby can be.

Like most experienced parents, we were pretty sure of ourselves going to our second set of pregnancy appointments. (It was challenging to get to that second set of appointments, but that’s a story for another time.) Bridget was putting on weight in the right places, had some unique cravings, and felt pretty tired. We had been here before. Every appointment with the OB followed the same general structure:

“Feeling good, Bridget?”

“Yup, I think so.”

“Any questions?”

“No, not really.”

Done. In fact, while I made sure to attend every appointment when Bridget was pregnant with Annabelle, I skipped a few with Aurora. I was there for the important ones — hearing the heart beat for the first time, the ultrasounds, any time we did have questions — but Bridget went solo on the mundane visits.

But then things took a scary turn.

Around 30 weeks into the pregnancy, Bridget’s blood pressure started to rise. A lot. She was swelling up, too, in a way that didn’t seem normal and had headaches and flashing lights in her vision. She called the doctor, who told us to come in and then to get ourselves to the hospital, fast. Scared and nervous on a cold February night, we made our way to the hospital and up the elevator.

But then Bridget’s blood pressure went down. They told us to sit tight for a bit, fed us, and we joked about how we managed to get a date night out of the chaos. We went home, breathing a collective sigh of relief.

We lived life gingerly in the coming weeks, nervous that something else would happen. We took things one day at a time, excited to see 31 weeks, 32 weeks, and 33 weeks in the rearview mirror. Bridget kept going in to get her levels checked and we kept crossing our fingers. Bridget’s swelling continued, but since she was pregnant (that’s what happens, right?), we didn’t worry too much.

Then came Monday, March 7. Bridget got a call early in the morning about her protein levels. She was off to the hospital again, telling me on the way that they were worried about pre-eclampsia. While she rushed to Cambridge, I rushed to Google and then jogged down Mt. Auburn Street to meet Bridget. We held hands as she laid in another hospital bed, happy to hear that the baby was doing fine.

Bridget was sick, though, they said. The baby would really have a tough time going through a typical delivery, so the word “C-section” hit our ears for the first time. The word “emergency” was whispered, too. I can’t imagine what went through Bridget’s racing mind, but she somehow found the wisdom and calm to make the difficult decision to go into surgery.

I sat in the hospital room by myself in my oversized scrubs while they prepped Bridget. I stared at the wall with tears in my eyes. I hoped. I’ll never forget the 10 minutes of waiting that felt like 10 hours.

I walked in, smiled at Bridget, and said empty positive things that people say in those situations. I was scared. She was scared. This was our second time around with this baby thing, but it felt much, much different and, well, terrifying. We squeezed the life out of each other’s hands until we heard the first cry, which was loud and wonderful.

Aurora, who hadn’t been named yet, was very little, but she was also very healthy.

Which brings us back to the box. At 4 pounds and 8 ounces, Aurora was far from the smallest baby in the NICU. We counted our blessings, knowing that other Moms and Dads had much longer roads ahead. And we were thankful to live where we did, in a place where our harrowing adventure was “just another day” for the healthcare team.

Annabelle visited her sister in the box and asked a lot of questions, of course. “Why is she in there? Can I touch her? Why not? Will she always be in there?” And because she’s at the age when she repeats things, she’ll almost certainly ask again, “Was I in the box?”

And we’ll pause again. And then we'll
answer her.