Helpless
Kobuk Lake, Alaska | 2002

Love is the strongest and most
fragile thing we have in life.

—Vanessa Paradis

It is a morning like many others. The house is cold and quiet after shutting down the woodstove so the fire wouldn’t die overnight. Dave and I lie together on the outer half of the bed, giving the inner half, boxed in by the wall, to Madi. Madi stirs after waking up twice that night. Dave jumps up to put wood in the stove and warm the house before we get out of the covers. I prop up pillows against the back wall and cradle Madi in my arms.

“How did you sleep?” I ask Dave.

“Like a baby,” he says as he leans over to kiss Madi on top of her fuzzy, red-haired head. “Well, not like our baby.”

I nurse Madi while Dave makes coffee. The house feels alive with warmth as the aromas of ground beans and the sounds of crackling firewood fill the air. I am not feeling eager to get out of bed. Dave turns on KOTZ Radio and NPR News tells us about events around the world. As our only source of news, I hang on every word.

Dave comes into the back bedroom. “Are you ladies ready for some toast?”

Deciding that it is worth getting out of bed, I stifle a yawn and respond with a yes that sounds like a mix of yeah, yes, ah, and ugh.

I put on a pair of sealskin slippers that Dave and Alan gave me for Christmas. Changing Madi’s diaper takes only a moment. I dress her in warm pajamas and swaddle her in a blanket. Madi and I assume our rocking chair by the woodstove, where I can prop my feet up near its door while holding Madi in my lap.

Dave looks at us. “I think you have the better part of this deal. Maybe I should hold the baby while you put on some toast.”

Holding his arms out to Madi, it is clear he wants daddy-daughter time. Happy to oblige, I hand her over. My bladder reminds me of my own needs, so I dress for a trip to the outhouse. I put on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a camouflage pullover winter jacket, a wool hat, fleece gloves, and my heavy winter boots. Overall, I look like I am attempting a trip to Mars. Outside now, it looks like I am on Mars. The early morning is still black, and the cold spring air is harsh as it enters my lungs. The moon is absent from the sky allowing me a full view of close to a zillion stars. Packed snow defines the outhouse path. It needs no door because it faces into a thick grove of trees. Pulling down my pants, I cringe as I know that sitting down on the ice-cold pink foam board is going to not feel super good. Taking a moment to appreciate my surroundings, I allow my body to relax into the natural beauty around me even in this wintry Arctic March morning.

From outside, I hear Dave talking to Madi in a bunch of nonsensical gobbledygook: “Baby googi gagga dadda. Yai ma nee cho to be baby baby baby.”

I enter the house smiling, seeing just how much this little baby adores her daddy. Madi laughs as Dave makes funny faces at her. The happy sounds wake up the household. Neither of them is a morning person, but Cindy and Alan’s eyes are sparkling as if laughing at some secret joke only they know about.

“Good morning!” I run over to my little sister and give her a big hug. My sister gives the best hugs in the universe, full of unconditional love and strength even at thirteen years old.

Alan, not being in the mood for a hug, assumes a makeshift karate stance. “Try it, I dare ya.” I don’t dare and cut up slices of bread to heat on a piece of aluminum foil by the woodstove.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask the crowd.

“I’d like to stay right here all day, oh yes I would,” Dave says, more to Madi than me. “But … I suppose I need to go to the woodlot. Every day we miss puts us at risk for not getting our house built.” Dave senses my worry. “I mean, I should stay focused while we have a good trail to haul logs on and while Dean is here to help. What are you gals going to do?”

“I think we will swing a little, then change a few diapers, feed the baby, hold the baby, and play with the baby,” I say, somewhat stuck in the routine of new motherhood.

I am struck with a joyful thought. “What if we grab a load of logs? Cindy, Alan, and I could drive out and bring lunch. We can share a fire and go home,” I say, rejuvenated at the thought of being helpful.

Still holding Madi, Dave says, “You do not need to do that. You have a lot on your plate right now.”

I insist it is good for us. “Madi hasn’t been napping much during the day and has been colicky. Snow machine rides always calm her down.”

Cindy wants her turn with Madi and leans down to kiss her cheek. Dave, sensing the need of Auntie Cindy, gives up Madi to her. I pull over her swing. She is big enough today to sit in it and proud of it (see fig. 23).

I turn to Cindy. “Want to go?”

“A trip to the woodlot with a fire sounds refreshing,” Cindy replies, and we both agree that it will do Madi good to get out of the house.

“All right,” Dave says, overruled. “But if you change your mind, don’t worry about it. I have a plan either way.”

Dave and Dean gather gear to prepare for the trip out. Alan wants to go. Although he has homework, Dave allows him to come. Hearing this, Alan’s mood changes. He would much rather be at the woodlot with his Dad than home with three bossy girls doing schoolwork.

Madi fusses as if knowing her Dad is getting ready to leave. Cindy puts her in the swing, and Madi is somewhat appeased.

“You think she will be okay going to the woodlot?” Cindy asks.

I consider how we will do it. I have a set of oversized insulated coveralls that have perfect suspenders built in with a belt around the waist. I can nestle Madi in the front of me with her swaddling secured between the suspenders and the belt. This keeps her in place and prevents the cold air from getting to her tiny toes and arms.

“I’m sure,” I say. “On previous trips into town she relaxes with the motion of the snow machine and falls asleep. She wakes up in a much better mood.”

Cindy nods but her eyebrows are knit in consternation. She looks at Madi swinging. “But the trip to town ends in a warm house.”

She has a good point. The trip to the woodlot takes about forty-five minutes, and we are about eight miles from any shelter. The ride back will be slower with a loaded sled.

“Can you drive with a load of logs?” I ask. “If Madi is fussy, then I’ll need to ride and can’t help drive the load of logs back.” I am not worried about her ability, because my little sister has driven a snow machine with a sled more than enough times, but I don’t want to take anything for granted. I want to feel out her confidence level.

“Yeah, of course,” Cindy says without doubt.

We need to help. We can do this.

After a filling breakfast, Dave goes outside to fill the snow machines with gas, oil, and tools and get the sleds connected. Madi cries, and I pick her up from the swing to comfort her. As soon as Dave comes into the house, Madi stops crying.

“How do you do that?” I ask with an exasperated voice tighter than I wanted.

Dave is ready to leave. He does a round of teasing goodbyes. “Baby, be nice to your mama. Cindy, be nice to the baby. Kat, don’t worry about coming out if it’s too much. I love you.”

After Dave shuts the door behind Dean and Alan, Madi cries. She continues crying for the next four hours. Cindy and I try to do everything possible to see to her needs.

“She needs to take a nap but won’t sleep,” I say. “Let’s head to the woodlot. She will calm down.”

I try to nurse Madi before we pack up, but she refuses to eat. We begin the long process of assembling our gear, assembling Madi, and assembling food, all while Madi cries at the top of her lungs. I am tense from all the details needing attention.

We leave the yard. I drive knowing my arms, going out to the handles of the snow machine, form a perfect car seat to keep her secure in. The windshield blocks more of the wind for the driver, so Madi is warm. Madi still screams. Her loud yells compete with the roar of the machine. I stop after five minutes to unzip my oversized snowsuit to see if I can make any adjustments, but she is cozy and warm.

“Maybe she’ll eat now,” I say.

Cindy just shrugs, doing her best to stay positive with the whole situation.

I have my clothing fixed so I can open it and give Madi access to nurse. She does. She goes back and forth between nursing and screaming.

“Maybe if we keep driving, she will settle down,” I say. I resume driving, knowing Madi is secure and settling down.

I stop a few minutes later to check on her, and she is now more relaxed and nursing. “We are good!”

Cindy and I high-five each other. We continue. I unzip every few minutes to see if Madi has fallen asleep and make sure her face, hands, and feet are warm. Things look better, and I settle into the enthusiasm of making it to the woodlot.

I need to be useful. After the long months of pregnancy, being in Anchorage for the delivery, and being housebound for the past month, I have felt a massive urge to contribute to all we are working for at home. Being a mother is all I hoped it could be, but I need to be a mother and a good team member doing her part. Lost in a moment of reverie, I notice a lack of movement inside my parka.

“Yay! She’s napping!” I yell to Cindy. Now she will get caught up on her rest and feel better. I stop the snow machine to check on her positioning again and look down to see her quiet resting face. Relieved that she is resting, I put my hand inside to touch her cheek with love. Then I see it: blood dripping out of her nose.

“Cindy, something is wrong,” I say while unzipping my one-piece suit. “Madi, what happened?” I ask as if our baby could talk.

The blood has dripped down her nose and chin to my chest. I try to wake her up. I tap her on her shoulders. “Baby girl, wake up. Madi. Madi. Madi?” She is not responding.

“Cindy, I need to get her out of this coat.”

The two us work to extract Madi from her carrier as fast as we can, then lay her on the seat of the snow machine. I don’t see or hear her breathing. She is just lying there, still. I search for a pulse but also can’t feel anything. It must just be hard to feel in a baby.

Having CPR training, I know this is what I need to do: I lower my head and breathe into her mouth, thinking this will startle her enough to trigger a response. Still nothing. I place my mouth over her tiny nose and mouth and continue in a regular sequence of breaths. We feel again for breathing and a pulse. I look at Cindy, face taut with fear and white with cold and shock. Nothing. I know I need to do compressions with my fingers. Is it my index finger? middle finger? on her sternum or above? I am frantic, crazed. Panic wells up inside, causing my vision to blur. I act: compressions, two breaths, repeat. Still no response. Repeat.

We need help but how? I look around. We are at least four miles from our camp and four from where Dave is in the woodlot. I need him. He will know how to fix her. I have to keep doing CPR. I wonder if Cindy can find him.

“Cindy, do you think you can follow the trail to the woodlot and find Dave? I don’t know how far up the hill he is. Look to see what trail looks fresh. Listen for a chain saw. Yell loud—sound carries, and he will hear you.” I go back to doing another round of CPR. “Can you unhitch the trailer?”

Cindy nods, relieved to act and look away from the horrific scene in front of her: Madi’s blood smeared on my face from the CPR and her lifeless form on the snow machine.

After she separates the trailer, I move Madi onto it. “Cindy, be careful. It’s easy to get stuck. Drive as fast as you can, but don’t go faster than you can handle. Don’t get hurt. Find Dave.”

“OK. I got this,” Cindy says.

My last words to her send panic rising to top of my throat. As Cindy takes off, nausea forces me to bend down and vomit. No time. I have to keep doing CPR, so I rush back to Madi and continue another series.

“Madi, come on! Madi, come back! Madi, where are you? What happened?” I am screaming now at the top of my lungs. “Madi! Come back!”

Between spurts of CPR I look for signs of help. Nothing but desolate, lonely, useless frozen tundra. The nearest doctor, in Kotzebue, is a twenty-five-mile snow machine ride away. The fear inside me transforms to desperation as my breathing becomes fast and shallow.

Crying now and hysterical, still doing CPR, I say, “Madi, I need you. Come on. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. Madi, come back. Please! Please!” I plead to God, Buddha, the Great Spirit, everyone, “Don’t do this! She is just a baby! Punish me. I don’t care. Just don’t hurt her. Don’t take her away. Don’t take my baby! Please. I will do anything. I am sorry for whatever I did. Just don’t take her. Don’t take her. Please.” CPR continues, but no answer comes from the God I beg to. I shake Madi for a response. Nothing.

I continue CPR in a shocked blur, losing all sense of time. Then, I feel arms coming around me. Dave has arrived. Cindy made it. She found him. He is magic and can fix anything.

Dave asks, “What happened?” I continue doing CPR while I explain.

He leans over Madi and feels for a pulse then examines her. “We need to get her home and call for a medic.”

He hooks up the trailer to the snow machine so I can keep doing CPR. Cindy stays behind with Dean and Alan to load up the tools and hurry back to the house.

As we drive back home, I worry about the temperature for Madi. I try to estimate the elapsed time in my head. Five minutes before Cindy went to the wood lot. Thirty minutes to get there and back. Five minutes getting sorted out to head home. Madi hasn’t breathed for forty minutes. The cold permeates her exposed tiny body. Her fingers feel frozen despite the blankets and coverings. I do my best to keep her covered while doing CPR in the bumpy back of the snow machine trailer. Once we get there, Dave jumps off to help me get up. My body is numb, but we make it with Madi inside the house. Dave picks up the phone to call 911.

He answers their questions. “It has been over an hour. What do we do? It will take us another hour and a half to make it to town doing CPR.” He listens then responds, “OK, we will be ready.”

Turning he says, “They are bringing out a helicopter. They should be here in twenty minutes. Want me to take over?”

I continue CPR. Maybe I don’t know where to find her pulse. If I keep her blood flowing and air moving the medics can revive her. “No, it’s okay. I’ve got it.” I need to be doing everything possible to help her.

Dave sits there in a mortified stupor staring at the sky for the first sign of the helicopter. He sees it and rushes out to get the snow machine started. He watches where the helicopter lands. It maneuvers down to the sea ice at the bottom of the hill in front of our house. Dave picks up two medics with their gear. They drive up and run into the house. Relief floods through me. I stop CPR because the medics will save her.

They check her airway, breathing, and pulse. Looking at each other, they evaluate the situation. They ask me to describe what happened while they assemble a breathing device with a mask to put over her face. They resume aspirations and tell me they can do nothing more.

One paramedic says, “Madam, we need to get her to town.”

Dave helps me switch into different clothes and drives us down to the helicopter. He loads us into the helicopter and tells me he will be right behind on the snow machine. He first needs to ensure the safety of Dean, Cindy, and Alan. The helicopter ride takes an eternity. Mental math continues. One hour and ten minutes to get back to the house, twenty minutes for the medics—a total of one and a half hours. I stare at Madi’s face being pumped with air by the medic. Flying back to Kotzebue, we are at two hours—two hours since Madi’s pulse kept her alive. Two hours ago, she was screaming, and I wished her to be asleep. It’s two and a half hours until we make it to the hospital and the doctors declare the time of death to be 4:13 p.m., March 29, 2002.

A friend, Lena Ferguson, comes to the hospital to sit with me. The doctors let me sit in the emergency room holding Madi while they examine her and ask questions. I don’t hear what they are saying but stare at the hospital wall. Lena holds my hand and grips it, asking me if I heard the doctors.

“What?” I ask.

“She will need to stay here with us,” one of them says. “We will bring her to Anchorage for an autopsy. You will want to know what happened.”

This didn’t sink in. I will not leave my baby. She needs me. I grip her in my arms.

“What happened?” I asked them, begging for answers. “What happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor says. “These things just happen sometimes. Babies die, and we don’t know why. This seems like SIDS which affects babies under six months.”

“Was it her lung?”

He looks at me, confused.

“She had a hole in her lung at birth. The hospital said they fixed it. Was it her lung?”

“It’s possible. We won’t know until they can do that autopsy.”

Numbness permeates my head, my chest, my belly.

“Kat, we need to leave Madi with the doctors,” Lena says with compassion. “The doctors will care for her.” She walks over to get a pair of scissors and finds an envelope. She leans over and cuts off a piece of her red downy hair and puts it in the envelope. “You will want this later,” she says, putting it into my coat pocket.

I cling onto Madi unwilling to let go.

Dave walks into the room. “Hey, baby,” he says, bending down by me to take a long, heartbreaking look at his baby girl. His eyes are only for his daughter.

Realizing the permanent conclusion of daddy-and-daughter time, I lose control. Understanding of what this means washes over me, burning me like acid. Inside my head, a loud cry of anguish rips open my heart. Horrified and desperate, deep down I know the truth my mind still can’t grasp.

Dave looks me in the eyes. “It’s time to say goodbye now.”

He wants me to give her to the nurse. I look at her wondering who she thinks she is that she can have our baby when we can’t. I am physically unable to let her go. Looking down at our Madi, I rub my fingers against her soft cheeks, along the line of her nose, and her lips, I twirl my fingers through her hair and lean down to smell her newborn baby smell. I hug her close, as if I can will her to scream again.

“Scream as loud as you want, Madi. Just wake up,” I whisper.

I hand her to Dave so he can say goodbye. He holds her for a moment, leans down, and kisses her. His frozen frame tells me his anguish is threatening to take control. Looking at me, as if lending strength he doesn’t have, he hands our baby over to the doctor.

“We will call you when we know something.” The doctor takes her and walks out the door.

I stand then crumple to the floor, all of my will to continue now gone.

“Let’s go home,” Dave says. “Alan and Cindy need us.”

Those words remind me we are not alone in this devastation. The kids need us. Another wave of horror, a deep chasm of pain, rips me open knowing what this news will do to them. I cannot talk to friends in the waiting room gathered there for us. The chief of police is there and needs to ask questions. I sit down in a corner chair, unmoving, while Dave talks to the chief and others.

“There wasn’t anything we could do. She’s gone,” I overhear him say. “Thank you for coming. We need to get home.”

Dave excuses us, and I follow his lead as we get on our winter gear and head out to where Dave parked the snow machine in front of the emergency room doors.

It is evening now, and the spring sun hides behind a thick grayness of clouds that mirrors our emptiness and despair. My parka is oversized and ill-fitting without Madi in it. How can we leave her there? Who will take care of her? It doesn’t seem to make any sense why she isn’t with us. The numb hollowness wars with the desperate madness urging me to go back and get her. My breasts harden with milk, painful with every jarring bump of the snow machine. Madi needs to nurse now. She must be hungry. After a long hour we make it home.

Dave walks in first and I follow.

Dave speaks soft and with love, “I am so sorry. She didn’t make it.”

Cindy breaks down at these words, and I reach over to hold her while she cries. Cindy held hope that the hospital could pull off a miracle. Alan goes quiet and then, stone-faced, hugs his Dad. Alan wants to comfort him. Alan looks at me with a heavy concern no nine-year-old should know. Dean, who was trying to hold it together for the kids, lets a single tear slide down his face. Hours go by, and the five of us sit by the woodstove staring at the empty swing in the middle of the room where just that morning Madi was contentedly swinging. On the tabletop sits the loon whose little beak comforted her before going to sleep. Everywhere I look there are signs of our little girl. It is impossible to overstate the impact she had on our lives. Agony runs through my soul and sets fire to my painful breasts. I do nothing about it though. This pain is tangible, and if I focus on it, perhaps the death of my soul will be less noticeable.