We brought Brian home August ninth, exactly one and two years after my first and second miscarriages. My parents had lunch waiting for us when we returned to Portland late the next morning. Also waiting were baby clothes and toys, including a huge stuffed Snoopy Dog more than twice the size of Brian. We were all ecstatic. Even my father greeted us with a big smile. I hoped he and my son would have the kind of relationship he and I never had. I hoped he and my son would learn to talk to one another.
Chapter 8
Laura and Kari met us at our house with a long banner that stretched out across the porch. Welcome Home, Brian, it read. Laura had made dinner for us: a macaroni and cheese casserole, salad, and peach cobbler. And she informed me she was planning a baby shower for later that month.
During those first few weeks our house was over-run with the comings and goings of family and friends. Aunts. Uncles. Nieces. Nephews. Cousins. Friends and friends of friends. Everyone was excited, wanting to meet the new arrival and to welcome him home. Bouquets of flowers, balloons, and gifts were delivered almost daily. I spent my time writing thank you notes while Brian took his naps.
Overnight the appearance of our home changed from the pristine clean of no children in sight to the careless, haphazardness of baby toys and paraphernalia everywhere. It took me time to obtain some kind of routine, but eventually I acquired a system. We moved comfortably into our new life. Brian was an easy baby. He was a good sleeper, a good eater, and was on a self-regulating schedule. He loved to be held and cuddled. There was no shortage of that.
I couldn’t get enough of my son. I sat in the bentwood rocker and stared at him while he slept, watching his tiny chest breathing in and out. I loved how his eyes twitched in his sleep. Was he dreaming? What did an infant dream about?
As I held Brian I thought of how rich our lives were now. How he’d grow up happy and healthy. I’d walk him to school. Bob would teach him how to shave, teasing him when he took his first razor nick. We would see him graduate, get married, become a father. God willing.
“You’re mine forever,” I promised him. “I’ll be there to keep you safe.”
Chapter 9
It was Karen Davis’ job to come to our home every three months to see how we were doing. She and I sat in the living room over coffee, while Brian played on the floor before us and Punim stretched out at my feet.
I told her early on that we wanted to adopt more babies. Two more. It was my dream to have a large family. But Karen always told us the same story — she hadn’t placed another newborn since Brian. It seemed our odds for getting a second child were slim.
Chapter 10
Brian gave us our first real scare when he was six months old. It was late December and he’d been battling a cold for several days. Temperature. Sneezing. Runny nose. Our pediatrician had advised baby Tylenol, lots of liquids, and rest. Late one night as I was going to bed, Bob suddenly rushed into our room.
“Brian’s having trouble breathing,” he said anxiously.
In moments I was up, racing across the hall. Before I reached the nursery, I could hear a deep, raspy sound. An inhuman, rhythmic noise. Like a seal, perhaps, or an injured dog. Certainly, not a sound I’d ever heard before.
Fear gripped me as I flipped on the light and looked down at my baby. His eyes were large, helpless, staring at me. I picked him up and hugged him closely. Bob stood beside me, feeling as helpless as I.
“Call the clinic,” I ordered, my heart pounding. “They’ll tell us what to do.”
Brian was limp in my arms. He struggled with every breath, trying to force the air in and out of his lungs. I could feel the effort.
“Breathe,” I begged him. “Just keep breathing, baby.” I forced my voice to stay calm for both of us.
Bob hurried back to Brian’s bedroom. “The doctor on duty said to take him to the hospital.” His voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him.
I threw on a pair of jeans and a sweater and grabbed a blanket. In just minutes we were running out of the house. The streets were icy. Bob took the route to Emanuel Hospital carefully, and I prayed all the way. Breathe, baby, breathe, I repeated again and again inside my head. I wasn’t sure whether I was saying the words for Brian or instructing myself.
“Don’t mind the speed limit,” I told Bob. “If we get stopped, maybe the police’ll give us an escort.” No cop in his right mind would give us a ticket, I decided.
Suddenly I was aware of how quiet it had grown in the car. All I could hear were the car’s tires grinding into the chards of ice on the roadway. The windshield wipers thudded back and forth as they worked clearing the snow flakes from the glass. I could no longer hear Brian gasping for air. With growing fear I turned to look at him in the back where he sat in his carseat. In the dim light projected from the moon and street lights, he sat looking at me, his tiny hands reaching out, grasping. His small puckered mouth, forming a grin.
“Look! I think he feels better!” I exclaimed.
“We’re almost at the emergency entrance,” Bob said, swinging into the hospital lot and parking near the entry door.
I climbed out of the car and unbuckled Brian from his carseat. “How’re we going to convince them that he couldn’t breathe? He’s just fine now.” I laughed with relief.
“Maybe the doctors can tell us what happened. How we can prevent it next time.”
I couldn’t imagine a next time.
I wrapped the thick baby blanket around Brian to protect him from the cold night air. Then we entered the hospital, inquiring where Pediatric Emergency was.
Chapter 11
Brian had the croup several more times. Bob and I became experts after that first episode. We ran the shower, keeping the bathroom door closed and the window slightly opened as thick steam filled the space. I paced the room holding Brian, singing to him, cooing to him, telling him to relax and breathe.
Or if that didn’t work, I sat with him on the front porch huddled under thick blankets, attempting to get him to breathe the brisk, icy air. Sometimes the cold air helped. Sometimes the steam. We never knew which. And the Tempra every six hours, the Pediazole, the Accurbron helped, too.
Even with these attacks Brian continued to thrive. Our little family was wonderful for the time being. We were certain, however, that another baby would eventually come our way.
Brian began to crawl. His first word was “Baba”, his name for my mother, followed by “Da-Da”, “Ma-ma”, “tickle”, and “dog”. He cut his first tooth in January and sat up in his high chair to eat. I now added an egg yolk to his diet twice a week, yellow and green vegetables, and crackers at snack time.
He loved playing with Punim, who seemed very protective of her two-legged brother. They followed each other everywhere.
Brian wrestled with his dad and enjoyed quiet times with me. He loved to cuddle. He loved to be held, read to, and sung to. I played my childhood records for him while he bounced on his chubby, solid little legs holding onto the railing
