19. McKenna
Idon’t have this.
Holy fucking shit, I don’t have this at all.
Why in the fuck did I think I could do this?
I always imagined having my first baby with my husband by my side. Holding my hand. Feeding me ice chips and telling me I look beautiful even though I look like a hot mess.
Instead, I have a panicked Carson stuck to my side like glue. He keeps telling me to breathe through the pain, trying to coach me through the breathing techniques I learned in my online birthing classes last week. But I don’t give a flying fuck about breathing techniques when I feel like someone has lit me on fire from the inside out.
Because of my shortened cervix and, up until I was hospitalized a week ago, unknown placenta previa, the nurses are prepping me for an emergency C-section.
This isn’t supposed to be happening yet—I’m only thirty-three weeks along. I’m supposed to have at least another month, if not two.
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I try to breathe through the pain. But that isn’t doing jack shit.
“Can I get the epidural yet?” I scream at the nurse, who has been nothing but nice. Shit. I’m being a massive bitch.
“I’m sorry, McKenna, not yet. Once you’re in the OR, the anesthesiologist will be giving you a spinal block. After that’s in, it will help alleviate the pain you’re feeling.”
“I can’t do this.” I look to Carson, shaking my head. The same panic on his face is mirrored on mine.
He takes the hand I’m not gripping and rubs the back of his head. “It’s uh—a little too late for that, Mack. Besides, nurse Jacqueline said I could be right there with you. Isn’t that right, Jackie?”
“As long as McKenna agrees to have you in the OR, and she remains stable, you may be her support person during the procedure.”
Poor Carson. He came to visit me earlier, just like he has every day since I was hospitalized a week ago. When my contractions started to pick up, they declared me in labor after checking my cervix.
Due to the placenta previa, a vaginal birth isn’t an option, so a C-section is the safest option for both the baby and me.
Things have moved quickly since then. So quickly, that it looks like Carson will be in the OR with me instead of my mom.
“Alright, sir. I’m going to need you to change into these scrubs and put this fashionable scrub hat and shoe covers on,” the nurse says as she hands the items to Carson.
He swallows hard. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“It is. We need to get moving to keep both baby and mama safe,” she says.
With that, Carson goes into the ensuite and changes. Meanwhile, another contraction hits me. This one pulls at both my stomach and back, feeling like I’m being squeezed to death.
After another thirty seconds, the contraction begins to subside. I take a deep breath and ask the nurse, “I’m feeling a lot of pressure down there. Is that normal? I also might have peed on the bed a little bit with that last contraction.” Embarrassment heats my cheeks. The discomfort of having multiple people checking my cervix and taking a peek under my blankets the past week has been a humbling experience.
“Let me take a look,” Jaqueline says as she lifts up the blanket. “I don’t believe that is urine. Your water may have partially broken. I’m going to go get Dr. Bahati.”
Before she can leave the room, the bathroom door swings open. Carson comes out and asks, “Hey, Nurse Jackie, am I more of a McSteamy or McDreamy?”
She takes him in, then declares, “McSteamy. No doubt about it.” Then she swiftly leaves the room.
I barely get out a chuckle before another contraction clenches my abdomen in a vice grip. This one is stronger than the others, and tears stream down my face from the pain.
Moments later, Nurse Jackie, as Carson calls her, comes back into the room with Dr. Bahati and a few others.
“Good evening, McKenna. The team is going to be wheeling you to the operating room, and I’ll be completing your C-section. Once the baby is delivered, the NICU team will take over care of the baby while I close you up. Do you have any questions for me?”
Before I can get anything out, Carson intercepts. “Will the baby be okay? Will Mack have to be put under since this is an emergency C-section?”
Dr. Bahati gives Carson a small smile. She’s familiar with him and his inquisitive nature by now—if my mom couldn’t make it to an appointment, he was usually there with me. It’s only fitting that he be by my side tonight as I bring my baby into the world.
“Hello, Mr. Wilder. McKenna will be able to stay awake as long as she remains stable. McKenna, you will be receiving a spinal block when you get into the OR. As far as the baby goes, we really won’t know more until he or she is with the NICU team. But I assure you, the baby will be in the best hands. Our hospital has a level four NICU, which is the best of them. I would anticipate that the baby will need breathing assistance at this point in the incubator. You did receive two rounds of steroids to help the baby’s lung development progress, but each day the baby can get closer to term helps their odds drastically. The baby is very lucky to have been able to continue developing for the past week. McKenna, do you have any other questions before we wheel you down?”
Feeling another contraction starting up, I quickly shake my head and ask the nurses how quickly they can get me to the anesthesiologist.
The operating room’s sterility is stifling. Sounds of equipment reverberate off the walls.
A blue medical curtain blocks my view of my abdomen, but I’m not in pain anymore. They were right about the spinal block working like magic. However, I do feel some slight pressure. It’s the strangest feeling.
As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I feel a large bout of pressure and then immense emptiness.
“It’s a girl!” I hear from the other side of the curtain.
A girl? Oh my god. A girl!
I don’t hear any cries.
“She’s not crying. Why isn’t she crying?” I frantically ask. Turning my head, I see the NICU team gathered around the baby off to the side of the OR that is barely visible to me.
“We need to help baby girl breathe. Until we know how her lungs will do on their own, we are going to intubate her to ease the burden on her lungs. We’re going to take her to the NICU now, mama,” I hear someone say, though I’m not sure who says it.
Mama. I’m someone’s mama. A baby girl’s mama.
I wish Katie were here. I wish Griff were here. I wish I didn’t have to feel this unbearable pain that comes with this joyous moment.
Dr. Bahati tells me she’s going to start stitching me up, and that after I’m out of recovery, I can be escorted to the NICU to see my baby girl.
I look up to see Carson with tears streaming down his face. “She’s so beautiful, sis. I’m so fucking proud of you, Mack.” He squeezes my hand that’s strapped to the operating table.
Carse catches a few stray tears from my cheeks with his thumb. “She’s going to be okay, Mack.”
I silently nod my head in agreement. She has to be okay. My sweet girl.
After I’m out of recovery and the spinal block has worn off, Carson wheels me to the NICU to see my daughter.
The NICU nurses assist us in donning the proper personal protective equipment, or PPE as they call it, to keep the baby safe from as many germs as possible.
Because of her breathing tube and the warming blankets helping regulate her body temperature, I won’t be able to hold her for at least a few days.
I was told I would be able to stick my hands through the two ports on the side of the incubator to touch her, though.
So when Carson wheels me right up to the side of my daughter’s incubator, I stick one hand through and place my pinky in her tiny hand.
I take her in. She’s bigger than I thought she would be at thirty-three weeks—though that shouldn’t surprise me, knowing how tall Griffin and I both are. She has the faintest dusting of hair on her head and eyebrows. Her small hand barely encompasses the tip of my pinky finger, though she’s able to grip it.
A girl. I wasn’t sure what I was having, but all this time, I pictured I’d have a little girl.
It isn’t until now, at this moment, when I’m touching her, and she’s in front of me, that a name finally comes to me.
“Cadence. After your Auntie Katie and your grandmother Catherine, who are both no doubt watching over you right now.”
Carson clears his throat before he rasps, “I love it. Do you have a middle name?”
I look over at him and think for a few moments before responding. “Aelia.”
“Aelia? Hmm . . . I like it. Never heard it before.”
I’m not surprised. It isn’t a very common name. I found it when searching for names with different meanings. The meaning of Aelia is “sunshine.” Even if Griffin doesn’t want to be a part of her life, a piece of each of us exists in her—Cadence Aelia.
“I think I’m going to call her ‘Cadey Cat’ if that’s okay with you,” Carson whispers.
“I think Katie would love nothing more than for her niece to have a piece of her.” Even as I say it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to bring myself to call her by that nickname. But I love that Carson wants to.
Hearing Carse call Cadence “Cadey Cat” makes me think of Griff again. My heart hurts with the realization that he doesn’t even know he has a daughter. Sure, I told him about my pregnancy, and even though he told me he wanted nothing to do with me, he still deserves to know she exists.
“Carse, I need to call him. I don’t have my phone. Do you have yours?”
Carson doesn’t even ask who I’m referring to—he knows as well as I do that Griffin needs to know this. He hands me his phone, and I take a steadying breath before I dial Griffin’s phone number. I’ve known it by heart since I was a teenager. It is only one digit different than Katie’s was.
The phone rings twice and then goes to voicemail. Great, he’s still rejecting Carson’s calls.
Instead of leaving a voicemail, I text him.
Carson:
Hey, this is Kenna. I know things were a mess when I left Boston, but I thought you deserved to know. I had a baby girl. Her name is Cadence. Please call me.
The NICU monitors create a symphony of noises that echo and haunt my every dream.
Cadence is hooked up to so many chords and tubes, I can hardly see her beautiful face.
This first week has been hard. It feels like every step forward is met with two steps back. Progress in the NICU is slow, and each day feels like an uphill climb—though I’m told that she’s doing incredibly well. My baby girl is a fighter, and it kills me to see her struggle.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when my phone chimes with a notification. I swipe and see it’s an update on Carson’s game. Today, he plays in the national semi-finals. The Frozen Four is here in St. Paul, and he’s playing against Griffin’s team, Emery University. Both teams have been so steady all season, and I can hardly believe I’m not there to cheer Carson on.
He told me yesterday he wanted to speak to his coach and not play today. Carse said he couldn’t bear the thought of playing when Cadence was still in the NICU, especially since her status differs so much each day. I told him that if he didn’t play today, I would tell the nurses that he needed to be removed from the approved visitor list.
Carson pouted but eventually relented. He said he wasn’t looking forward to playing against Griffin, knowing the last time they saw each other ended with Carse punching Griff. Carson is also just as upset and disappointed in Griff as I am that he still hasn’t responded to my text.
I was worried maybe his phone was broken, but he’s been pretty active on social media this week leading up to the Frozen Four tournament.
I’ve come to accept that he doesn’t want anything to do with me. What I can’t accept? That he doesn’t want anything to do with our daughter. Cadence is an innocent accident that came from two people who were in love. She doesn’t deserve his neglect and abandonment.
My phone chimes again, and I see that the game is tied one-to-one after the first period.
Just as I’m about to text my mom for an update on how Carson’s playing, a monitor starts dinging loudly, alerting the nurse in the hallway to come in.
“What’s going on?” I ask her frantically.
“Your daughter’s oxygen levels have lowered, causing the alarm to sound. I paged the on-call doctor to come see her.”
The doctor comes in a few minutes later and says they need to run some additional tests on Cadence’s heart and lungs.
After an echocardiogram is completed, they determine that Cadence has patent ductus arteriosus, which is a heart defect that is sometimes found in preemies.
Even though I’m not sure if the game is done or not, I call my mom to tell her. She says the game just finished and that Carson’s team won in overtime. Carson had the game-winning goal.
I don’t have the capacity at the moment to be happy for my brother. All I can focus on is what the doctor just told me.
I choke on the sob stuck in my throat. “There was a complication with Cadence. She has a heart defect, and they want to do a cardiac catheterization tomorrow morning to repair it.”
“Oh my gosh, McKenna. I will have your dad bring me to the hospital now. Do you need us to bring you anything?”
“No, but thank you.” I take a deep breath, hesitating, before I add, “Do you think we could avoid Carson finding out? I don’t want to mess with his head before the big game. If he finds out Cadence needs to have a procedure done, he will refuse to play in the National Championship game.”
There’s a pause on her end. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, honey. Your brother cares and loves fiercely. He will be hurt if we keep this from him. Besides, the game isn’t tomorrow. It’s on Saturday.”
She’s right. I know she is. Carson will probably never forgive me if I keep this from him.
“Okay. But can you please tell him? I’m not sure I can get through it again.” Tears fill my eyes, and my throat tightens.
“Of course, honey. I’ll be there soon. I love you.”
Hanging up the phone, I let the tears that I was holding back fall.
I never imagined having a baby on my own. And I certainly didn’t expect to have that baby in the NICU, getting prepped to have a heart procedure at only eight days old.
A half-hour later, there’s chatter coming from the hallway before Carson comes into the room donned in PPE.
“What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously.
“I came as soon as I heard. Tell me she’s going to be okay,” Carse demands.
“The surgeon who will be performing her procedure tomorrow morning seemed very positive about her prognosis. He said the PDA she has is sometimes seen in preemies and that sometimes they close on their own. However, Cadence’s is larger, causing her oxygen levels to lower, so they need to do a cardiac catheterization procedure.”
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, Mack. This is exactly why I didn’t want to play tonight.”
“Stop. If you wouldn’t have played, I wouldn’t have forgiven you. You didn’t need to rush here. Cadence is stable for now, and the surgery isn’t until tomorrow morning.” I pause, then ask, “Did you say anything to him—to Griff, I mean?”
“No, I didn’t say a word. He kept his distance and acted like we were strangers. Figures since he’s ghosting my sister and abandoning his daughter.”
“God, I know he misses Katie. I’m lost without her, too. But I don’t understand how he can know he has a daughter and not want to know more about her, or see her when he’s in the same state as her!” I raise my voice. Cadence stirs, so I quickly lower my voice. “This is so unlike him. Sure, it was unexpected and an accident that I got pregnant, but it isn’t like Griffin to turn his back on his responsibilities.”
“I don’t think there’s much left of the Griff we both knew growing up, Mack. Besides, now that Emery lost, there are rumors that Colorado is calling G up for the playoffs. He’s probably on a plane back to Boston to pack his things now.”
“It happens that quickly?”
“Yeah, it’s not uncommon. Especially for someone who had as good of a last half of the season as Griff did. He was the leading point-scorer in all of college hockey.”
I already knew this. Even though Griff had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me, I still kept tabs on him. I needed to make sure he was doing okay. And by the looks of his stats, I’d say he was doing more than okay.
It shouldn’t surprise me with how he behaved the last time I saw him that he would ignore my attempts to reach out to him. But there was still some small part of me that held out hope that he’d have a change of heart—that he’d want to be in his child’s life.
The following day, the surgeon comes into Cadence’s room just after seven in the morning.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Wilder. My name is Dr. Jordan. I’ll be the cardiologist performing your daughter’s procedure.”
I don’t correct the doctor, fearing they may make Carson leave the room if he isn’t a parent of Cadence.
“Thank you, Dr. Jordan,” I say, and he shakes both of our hands before leaving the room.
“Well, he has a strong handshake, so that makes me feel like he’ll have steady hands during the operation. That’s a good sign.” Carson attempts to put me at ease.
I love him for trying, but there’s no reassuring me right now. I’m a complete mess. Signing paperwork stating I consent to a medical procedure that could cause injury or even death to my daughter is not something I envisioned doing when I thought about what it’d be like to be a mother someday.
A nurse comes in and says, “I’m going to be taking your daughter to the operating room. Can you please confirm her name and date of birth?”
I do. Then the nurse states Carson and I can go with Cadence until we get to the entrance of the sterile field. I wish I could take her out and hold her just one time before they take her away.
The moment the nursing staff wheels Cadence’s incubator past the sterile field, I crumble into Carson’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably for so long my tears run dry. I pray with every fiber in my being for my daughter to make it through this procedure and, hopefully, into my arms.
Watch over her for me, Katie.