They poked, she screamed, they poked some more. Nothing.
They weren't being rough on purpose, and they weren't making her scream on purpose, but they didn't stop, and they didn't get more gentle. They had a job to do, and ultimately they were trying to help.
I stood in the back of the room, my eyes squeezed tight praying that this would be the last poke.
I wasn't squeamish, how many thousands of times have I been the one poking, but I was hurting. I wasn't there as a medical professional, I was there as a Mom, and as a Mom I couldn't handle it.
I had only known her for a few hours.
I met her that morning when I picked her out of her crib and unbundled her so I could see all 6 pounds of her. I had been expecting a sick baby, but I had been expecting one that was several months old, and she was quite obviously only a few days.
In a moment of clarity, something which seems so rare these days, I opened my eyes and walked forward and told them to stop. They would not be poking or prodding any more. She was done. Whatever they needed would have to wait.
I don't know what happened in her first few days of life, but I know that they had included many tests like this one, and right now she didn't need more, she needed to be held close.
I took the gauze and syringes and laid them aside, I gently moved the nurse aside, grabbed the pacifier and swaddled her up and put her close to my chest.
Every ounce of me told me this was what she needed. The tests could wait, comforting her and loving her could not.
Her face scrunched up and she opened her mouth to scream, but instead she took a deep breath and cuddled in and fell fast asleep. Her liver would have to wait, for a few minutes she wasn't a sick baby, for a few minutes she was a baby who needed the warmth and love of a mother.
