the ringing telephone.  Instinctively, I knew.  Olivia’s name escaped my mouth in a scream as I ran down the hallway for the phone, bouncing off each wall as I went.  I don’t remember answering the phone or talking, just listening and dying inside.

Problem.  Olivia had stopped breathing in the night and we needed to get to the Infant Critical Care Unit immediately.  I dropped the phone and fell to the floor.

 My husband must have picked me up because next  thing I remember we were being buzzed into the ICCU at the hospital.  We were greeted at the door by doctors and nurses that led us into a private glass-walled room.  I peeked in to the incubator and turned to leave.  They had led us into the wrong room.  One of the doctors blocked the door and nodded towards the baby.  Only then did I realize that this child was mine.  I didn’t understand, I had left an almost 5lb baby girl with thick dark curls and pink cheeks  less than six hours before.  Here lay a whiphit of a newborn, barely 3 and a half pounds, head shaved roughly with an IV sticking out of it..  She had tubes and monitors EVERYWHERE, I could see through her skin she was so tiny.  As I sat beside her loving touching her cheek and hands, I thanked God that she was still here and begged him to keep her safe from here on in.

They didn’t know how long Olivia had stopped breathing for or why.  They did a plethora of test including a spinal tap and pumped her full of antibiotics to get her back on the right track.  Each day she got stronger and gained her weight back slowly but surely.  She was in the hospital for 33 days.