When Baby Is Born 11 Weeks Early, Mom Turns to Superstition for His Survival
Isabelle FitzGerald and her 2-year-old son Henry who was born 11 weeks premature. (Photo: Isabelle FitzGerald)
When I learned I was four months pregnant, I went shopping. I was a 26-year-old from Manhattan, careful with birth control, and the surprise baby with my fiancé blindsided me. I was a meticulous planner by nature, and five months felt like little time to prepare. I scrambled to read reviews of diaper pails and test-drive strollers. My fiancé teased me for my newfound obsession with baby gear, but I imagined the right equipment would transform me into a good mother.
A few months later, only minutes after confirming my order of a crib, I felt a horrifying trickle down my thigh: My water had broken three months before my due date. I was rushed to the hospital and told that if my son were born at 27 weeks, he risked blindness, brain hemorrhage, even death.
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I’d believed that buying little overalls after discovering I was expecting was making peace with the baby I wasn’t ready for, but my future mother-in-law worried I was tempting fate. My best friend warned that in her Jewish family bringing anything for an unborn child into the house was considered bad luck. I put little stock in higher powers and dismissed these superstitions out of hand, but now I wondered if the embarrassing hours spent researching highchairs had attracted the Evil Eye. Rationally, I knew this was neurotic thinking. Still, if I’d threatened my son’s life by purchasing things, perhaps I could save it by returning them. I emailed the furniture store to say I didn’t know if I’d need the crib after all.
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I stayed on bed rest until my son was born by emergency cesarean 17 days later. Eleven weeks premature, he weighed only 3 pounds. He went to the NICU; I went home to an apartment cluttered with sweaters and undershirts for the newborn who wasn’t in my arms. I considered sending everything back. Instead, I shoved the clothes into a closet, out of sight, and begged the doctors for signs that my baby would be OK. They told me that preemies’ trajectories were unpredictable. Even a stable infant could contract a deadly gut infection or end up going home with an oxygen tank. All I could do was wait.
Powerless to make him stronger, I knocked wood every time I told my parents he was doing well. I tacked the phrase “God willing” onto any statement about the future, afraid the certainty inherent in the phrase “When my baby comes home” could cause a tragedy.
Every day, I spent hours gazing at my son’s minuscule, kitten-like body in his incubator. The neonatal nurses asked if I’d set up the nursery. “You need to get ready!” they said. “He’ll be home before you know it, and you’ll never have a minute to spare.” I didn’t mention my concern that ordering a changing pad might endanger his chances of survival.
One afternoon, I overheard the pediatrician telling the roommate I’d had my last night in the hospital that her son wasn’t going to make it. “Too sick,” the doctor said. My roommate asked what “too sick” meant. I never saw her again. I sobbed on the phone to Liz, an older friend with two kids. “I keep picturing her going home to her lost child’s crib and car seat and diapers. I’m terrified.”
Liz reminded me that my tiny boy was doing well: He had been moved from the most critical unit into a lower-risk area and was slowly but surely gaining weight. “Do you really think her son’s death would be less awful without baby stuff in her apartment?” Liz asked. “Act as if everything is going to be OK because right now, it is.”
The next morning, I went to Bloomingdale’s to buy a diaper bag, debating whether I was committing an act of faith or asking for trouble. I could keep the receipt. Just in case.
Amid rows of handbags, I spied a diaper bag that looked like a purse. I hesitated to hang it from my shoulder and peer in the mirror. “Is it for you?” asked a saleswoman. I nodded. “When are you due?”
In two months, I thought to myself, but told her the truth. “He was already born.”
“Awww, how old?”
“Twelve days,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes, scanning my body. “You don’t look like you just had a baby,” she said, as if giving me a compliment. “Hey, ladies,” she called to her colleagues. “Can you believe she just gave birth?” Two more sales associates gathered around the register to scrutinize my inadequately distended stomach. I wanted to put down the bag and run. Instead, I blurted: “He was born three months early, so I didn’t get that big.”
The women glanced at one another, searching for words. I regretted sharing too much with these strangers, fearful of bad karma, but one of them, middle-aged with a thicket of dark curls, smiled a gap-toothed grin. “I was born three months early! Twenty-eight weeks, I weighed less than 2 pounds. And that was 40 years ago.”
“Really?” I asked, amazed to see the vibrant woman in front of me.
“Yeah, it was Poland, too. Terrible medical care, but look at me now. I’m fine,” she said. “Your son will be OK. Congratulations.”
This was definitely a good sign. I handed her my credit card.
Remarkably, my son is now an ebullient and healthy 2-year-old who keeps outgrowing his clothes. I’ve abandoned superstition, but not one day passes without my gratitude for our good luck.
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