Lessons From Liam

Lessons From Liam

The name Liam means "overall protector" and seemed a fitting name for a first born child.  It wasn't what we planned to call him, but it was to become his name soon after his birth and it suited him beautifully.
I wrote the other day about Dermot and Wren and Frank pointed out that I had asked you all to allow me to describe my children but that I had not written about Liam.  I understood his concern, I had always intended to write about Liam, but by circumstance he is and always will be in a slightly different category than our living children.  Frank, I think, is worried that Liam will be forgotten, and I worry the same thing from time to time.  I don't worry that Frank and I will forget him, or members of our family, but not speaking of him makes him fade faster than we would like and it also feels like utter betrayal on our parts.
I had heartburn in February 2003 and I never get heartburn.  I bought a pregnancy test on the way home for a weekend that promised to snow us in and made a note to use it in the morning.  We had been trying to get pregnant for over a year and had recently decided to put it on the back burner.  I woke the next snowy morning and took the test.  I watched it turn positive and yelled for Frank to come and see what I had in my hand.  He had not known what I was doing and came into the bathroom to find me naked and on the toilet (I am nothing if not classy) as I stumbled excitedly over the words.  He went somewhat weak and weepy and spent the rest of the weekend alternately making me tea (of which I am no great fan) and casting furtive awe-filled glances in my direction.  And thus the adventure into parenthood began.
I was excited to be sure but I was also utterly terrified.  Ironically, I was not worried so much that the pregnancy would not go well or that there would be anything wrong with the baby, nor even much worried about the actual birth.  What struck me numb with terror was the idea of what I would be like as a mother.  Would I be a good one?  Would I be capable of loving and caring for this little stranger?  Would I be patient enough, strong enough, selfless enough?
I don't have the best role model for a mother.  I don't say this to be mean or salacious, but only tell you this because it is true.  I won't go into details as to why I say this, suffice it to say that my mother is a sick woman and has been all my life.  I don't harbor as much anger toward her as I used to and I am working on releasing the rest.
Liam's entry into the world was not what we had expected and the panic and adrenaline enshrouding that event are to be written of on another day when I am more ready than I am today.  He had a heart and lung condition that we had not known about and was whisked away to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia.  Because I had had an emergency C-section at another hospital, I was unable to see more of him than his little blue toes on the day of his birth.  I did make my way to CHOP within 36 hours, mostly because time was of the essence but also because something happens after you give birth.  Something happens to the mother and to the father.  Your concern for yourself melts away rapidly and your only focus becomes for a small bundle of vulnerability, it is an animal instinct.  I can safely say this for both Frank and myself because at the same time, Frank was undergoing chemo for Hodgkins Lymphoma at yet another hospital and would walk back and forth from these grueling sessions and an even more grueling bone marrow biopsy, to see his son.  Frank and I  and his family became superhuman for the few short weeks of Liam's life.  In my opinion, Frank has remained superhuman since.
When I was wheeled into the four-pod cardiac intensive care room where they had Liam, I was still unsure of my abilities.  When Frank pointed out Liam to me in the pod by the door on the right hand side of the room, I did not see the tree of monitors, the many wires snaking from his tiny body, the blue hue of his skin, the bandages, nor did I hear the constant beeping and whirring of life sustaining machines.  I saw beauty and love.  I saw a miracle.  My heart grew and evolved in an instant and there were things I just knew to do.  There were a great many things we would be taught over the next few weeks about how to care for Liam.  We learned to insert an NG tube through his nose and into his stomach so we could feed and medicate him.  We learned to work his oxygen machine and we learned to handle the Flolan monitor and Broviac Line pack that would deliver life saving medicine at nano grams per second.  But before we learned those  things, I knew to touch him though he was too weak for us to hold.  I knew to talk to him, I knew to sing to him, I knew to assuage as much of his pain as I could by these simple acts.  I knew how to be a mother and a I knew how to be a good one.
On one of these days at the CICU we were sitting by Liam's bedside and his vital signs began to dip inexplicably.  The nurse on the pod unit was concerned enough to go and get the doctor.  In those moments there is nothing for parents to do but be there at your child's side.  Frank said to me, "Sing to him Fi."  So I did.  I sang "The Christmas Song" even though it was October, but it just seemed to make sense to me at the time and to be sure I was not necessarily thinking so clearly during those days.  As I sang and held his tiny hand, he opened his beautiful eyes and searched the space in front of them.  He seemed to focus and his vital signs began to climb to normal rates and had stabilized by the time the doctor arrived.  The nurse was incredulous and said, "What happened?"  Frank lifted his tear streaked face and said, "She sang to him."
Liam lived 9 and a half weeks.  He was gorgeous, no really, not just in spirit.  He was perfectly proportionate with a beautifully round head of wispy blond hair and piercing, searching blue eyes.  He looked just like his father and later when Wren was born, she was the feminine version of his grace and strength.  The gift of their similarity is that as she grows we will get to see a bit of what Liam would have looked like at various ages. He had laughably large hands and we joked with the nurses that they looked like they belonged to an Irish bartender!  He was patient with us and with his circumstances and truly only cried when it was too much.  He would even warn us when the crying would begin by scrunching up his face sadly and giving a little "hawah" shortly before it got real.  He also had a magic quality of allowing people generally nervous around any babies, to hold him with confidence.  I saw many male friends and family members who were intimidated by babies sit for hours holding him and melting into his calmness.  They would look at me with awe and amazement and say, "he makes this easy."  I will never forget how my father in law, normally reticent around babies, would ask to hold him and sit contentedly with his meat hook hands surrounding this sleeping bundle with a goofy smile on his face  My own father found holding Liam irresistible and watching them together was so sweet.
 There is so much more I could write about Liam, but I will save some for another day.  I will end with the fact that Liam taught me many lessons.  He gave me my first glimpse of unconditional love.  He showed me that I am capable of being a good mother.  He showed me that miracles exist and so do super heroes.  He showed me that some things just are and need no explanation.  He remains our "overall protector" to this day.