Baby Ruthie's Story
A mother recounts six days with her daughter, and the nurses who cared for her

The story of baby Ruthie is a story that deserves to be told. It's a story that recounts the life of our daughter, who lived for only six days. It's not a long story and it will never have new chapters; however, "A person is a person, no matter how small," according to Dr. Seuss, and every person has a story. Here is Ruthie's:

On June 3, 2000, my husband and I learned that our dream to be a family with a child to hold, love and cherish for the rest of our lives was finally going to come true.

Unfortunately, that dream was not going to come to fruition. After my amniocentesis, our daughter Ruthie, who was named in honor of my mother, was diagnosed with an unfamiliar chromosomal abnormality and a heart defect.

The perceived effects of her "deformities" were conveyed to us over the phone by faceless genetic counselors. We were informed that, if our baby survived to term, she would be profoundly retarded and have severe physical deformities, and that her heart problem was not compatible with life.

Nevertheless, Ruthie was our daughter, and we were going to love her as best we could for as long as we could. We were going to find joy in every fetal movement she made and in every day I was able to continue to carry her. That being our decision, there were those in the medical profession who either helped or hindered our progression during the remaining five months of the pregnancy.

Five nurses, however, showed Ruthie, my husband and me such compassion and gentleness that they are now forever a part of her story.

A week before Ruthie's birth, we met the first of those nurses: Nurse Theresa. My husband and I went to the hospital to have my blood pressure monitored for several hours. I was placed in Theresa's callused yet gentle hands. I was not her only patient that night, yet she made me feel as if I were. Theresa didn't treat us clinically-she treated us compassionately.

For the hours that we were together, she patiently explained the various test results that came in, and spoke about the physical effects I would experience during and after the delivery.

Before Theresa, no one broached the subject, for all presumed to know that I would not be one of the lucky mothers who would be taking their baby home.

The next day, Theresa phoned us at home and told us that we had been on her mind. She shared that, in times during her life when she had suffered, writing had helped her. She told us that she had a journal for us and she hoped it, too, would help us along our path.

She also volunteered to be at Ruthie's birth for support or care, and she left us her home number.

During the five months before meeting Nurse Theresa, the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train, but with Theresa, it became a beacon.

On Feb. 16, our baby was born a hearty 7 pounds, 8 ounces and 20 inches long. There were many people in the room-one of whom was Nurse Beth.

Beth works in the hospital where I delivered, and has been our friend for several years. At Ruthie's birth, she was my pillar of support.

During the previous five lonely and scary months, Beth was always networking with other nurses, making sure I saw the best doctors. Because of Beth's sensitive choreography behind the scenes, what could have been the scariest hours of our lives, Ruthie's birth, were instead unsurpassed in beauty and peace.

Our daughter's birth was handled with such sensitivity that Nurse Beth was immediately elevated to Auntie Beth.

Several hours after Ruthie was born, she was transferred to a NICU in another hospital. My husband and I were caught off guard by the foreign environment. There were so many alarms, lights, rushing hospital personnel and babies in one giant room. There was no privacy.

Likewise, we were ill prepared for the overwhelming feelings of helplessness at seeing our baby daughter hooked up to so many machines. Our baby was struggling; yet at that time, we, her parents, were the least qualified to comfort and help her. It was in the NICU that nurses Kas, Karen and Francesca became part of Ruthie's story.

Nurse Kas arranged for Ruthie's transport to the new hospital. Unknown to us, Kas kept in touch with the hospital to check on Ruthie's status even though she had never met her.

On our daughter's fourth day in the NICU, Kas was assigned to Ruthie on the night shift. She phoned us at home to keep us updated. She even made a pretty name card for Ruthie's isolette, which is now one of our most prized possessions.

Nurse Kas never rushed us. She re-explained all the confusing information the doctors had hurriedly told us, in language my husband and I could understand. She was always gentle yet honest.

After speaking with Kas, we felt more secure knowing Ruthie was in her care. With Kas, we were not alone.

On Feb. 21, my husband and I made the decision parents should never have to make. After being advised by numerous doctors, we decided to take our Ruthie off life support. Almost immediately, the octopus of tubes was disconnected, and for the first time since her birth, we were going to be able to hold and comfort our daughter.

Nurse Karen was in charge of Ruthie that day. She arranged for us to have a private room with a rocking chair and a couch. Within minutes, Karen came in and placed Ruthie in our arms. She dressed Ruthie in a little white dress with a green lace collar. This sweet nurse was so gentle. She checked on us every hour and made sure that Ruthie remained comfortable.

At the end of her shift, Karen came in with a gift for Ruthie: a green Beanie Baby named Arial. Karen's kindness provided Ruthie with the only dress she ever wore, the only toy she ever touched and a private room where, for 12 hours, we were finally a family.

During this precious time, Kas visited and cried with us. She kept us supplied with beverages and food, took pictures of Ruthie and told us how beautiful our little girl was. Kas gave us the gift of pride-pride for the love we had for our Ruthie and the strength it gave us to persevere; pride for knowing we tried our hardest to be good parents to our baby; and pride for simply having a pretty little girl.

The final nurse in Ruthie's story was Nurse Francesca. Francesca was in charge of Ruthie's care during her final hours with us. She sat silently with us in our sorrow. She didn't offer many words, other than, "I am so sorry!"

Our Ruthie's life was filled with needles, bright lights and constant alarm bells. It was only in her final 12 hours that she felt her parents' soft, safe arms, smelled her father's sweet scent and heard her mother sing the familiar prayers that were sung aloud to her so many times throughout her development.

At 10:35 p.m., while still in our arms, Ruthie finally rested. Her loving father and I cried with such sorrow; we cried for the memories we would never make, for the hugs we would never receive and for the daughter we would never see again. We cried for the tube that had been down her throat and for the dozens of needle pricks she endured on the heels of her tender little feet.

Our beautiful Ruthie tiptoed gently and quietly out of our lives with a slight smile-at least in our eyes. She smiled with the ageless wisdom of her soul, for she knew how much she was wanted and how much she was loved.

When we finally let go of our Ruthie, Francesca gently carried her on a soft pillow out of the room. Francesca told us that she, personally, would take care of our precious baby. She gave us the gift of peace knowing that our baby was being taken care of gently.

Nurses Theresa, Kas, Karen, Francesca and Auntie Beth treated our cherished daughter and us with such kindness and compassion. They gave us comfort, peace, pride and tangible, treasured mementos of our loved little Ruthie.

Our daughter was in our lives for nine months and six days, but she will be missed and remembered forever. The quality of time and the loving care these nurses shared with Ruthie have given them a special place in her story. These five nurses forever will be remembered in the retelling of Ruthie's story. It will be a story that will be retold often.

©NurseWeek Publishing