Bad Boy Judah

f o r t y

Night turns into day.

I feel the aftermath of my stitches. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

It's quiet beyond a vibration noise to my right. I'm still alive.

Long shades over the window block any sunlight from entering. A nurse is there. She files on purple gloves, as she says something too softly for my ears to hear.

My arm lifts to my face. My body severely shakes and shivers. My arm is hooked to an IV.

If someone told me that one day I'd be in this position, I'd never believe them.

Having a near death experience, while giving birth to a gangster's baby, and not knowing whether they're alive or not. How did things get this awful?

My dry mouth opens, trying to inhale again, as my swollen eyes stare up at the ceiling.

"Naah!"

I jolt at the high pitch mewl. My head snaps to the right. The nurse stands by an incubator.

Little tiny fingers flail. My head lifts, getting a closer look.

A tiny round head. A tiny heaving chest.  Skinny long legs and arms.

"He's okay," I gasp, staring at my baby taped with tubes and wires.

"When he was upstairs, he needed a nasal diet. He doesn't anymore. He's much more responsive, thankfully," the nurse nods.

My eyes couldn't stop looking at him. His patchy pink skin. His wrinkled forehead. His tongue sticking out. His short spiky hairs.

I couldn't thank God enough. I'm elated.

He makes short barely audible cries, "Aah! Aah!"

The nurse removes the mask away from his eyes and says, "He'll open them when he's ready. Ears look good."

"He's okay," I cry.

"He'll be just fine," the nurse tells me. I look up at her, patient. "He needs to maintain his body temperature, first. And before he can go home, he needs to stop having apnea and bradycardia for 48 hours straight."

I watch her hands carefully pull the CPAP tubes from his nostrils. The machine above makes a long beep.

"Why? What's that?" I ask, irked.

"To put it plainly, it's when the baby has trouble breathing regularly. We want to avoid his heart rate going too low."

The machine beeps again, which agitates me. I scoot closer to see what's the matter with my little gummy bear. His arms are quick and it looks like he's trying to fight off the nurse.

"Don't worry if you hear the alarm. It doesn't always mean that there's a problem. It just means we need to check the baby. Sometimes it could be a loose wire, because he moves a lot," she says.

I nod, even though it doesn't calm my anxiety. It breaks my heart. He's so small, so vulnerable. If I had taken better care of myself while I was pregnant, he wouldn't be suffering so much. A thought stays stuck in the front of my head. Can I really take care of him?

The nurse picks gummy bear up and turns to me. Without thinking about it, my arms open to hold him. I still can't believe he's alive. I don't remember ever being this happy.

He's perfect.

"Hi, baby. Hi gummy," I hush.

His arms stretch and give my chin a tap. He makes me smile.