Page 19 of Absolution

Dr. Lin nods, slowly. “Levi’s condition is more complicated. He’s made progress, but it’s been slow. He’s not ready to go home yet.”

Jackie stiffens, but doesn’t speak.

“Your son’s condition, PPHN,” the doctor explains again. “It happens when a baby’s circulation system doesn’t adapt to breathing outside the womb. In Levi’s case, the blood vessels in his lungs are still too constricted. Instead of delivering oxygenated blood to the rest of his body, his blood is shunting away from the lungs, the way it did in the womb.”

I nod like I haven't already googled the crap out of it.

“He’s on a combination of oxygen therapy, nitric oxide, sildenafil, and diuretics,” Dr. Lin continues. “The hope is that over the next few weeks, we’ll see continued improvement. If he maintains this trajectory, we’re looking at another three to four weeks in the NICU.”

Jackie finally speaks, her voice hoarse. “And then he comes home?”

“With oxygen,” Dr. Lin says gently. “A monitor to track his sats. Medications. You’ll have to be trained in emergency response, CPR, and how to handle desaturation events. There will be a home nurse for the first few weeks. It won’t be easy.”

I squeeze her hand. “We’ll do it.”

Dr. Lin hesitates, flipping a page in his folder. “I need to prepare you. Most infants with PPHN do improve with time. But there are cases… where the condition doesn’t resolve. If Levi’s pulmonary pressures don’t improve, we’ll need to reevaluate in the coming months.”

“Reevaluate what?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.

He looks between us. “There’s a small subset of infants whose PPHN progresses into chronic pulmonary hypertension. In that case, we may need to start talking about lung or heart-lung transplant down the road. It’s not where we are now. But it’s something you should be aware of, just in case.”

Jackie goes very still.

“But,” Dr. Lin adds quickly, “right now, we’re optimistic. He’s responding to treatment. He’s stable. That’s what matters.”

It should comfort me. It doesn’t.

I glance at Jackie. Her eyes stay fixed on the floor, shoulders drawn tight, like she’s bracing for a blow that hasn’t come yet.

“Can we see him?” she asks quietly.

Dr. Lin nods, but before we can move, Jackie’s voice breaks again.

“I don’t want to leave him here,” she says. It comes out in a rush, quiet, but gutted. “It doesn’t feel right… taking the girls home and just… leaving him.”

Dr. Lin softens. “I understand. But Jackie, you’ve been through a major abdominal surgery. A hysterectomy, on top of a preterm C-section. Your body hasn’t had a chance to recover.”

Jackie swallows, like she wants to argue.

“This is a marathon, not a sprint,” he continues. “You’ll still be here every day. But you need rest. You need sleep and real meals. And your daughters, they need you strong and steady. So does Levi.”

He pauses, looking right at her. “He’s in good hands. You’ve done everything you possibly could. Now let us do our part. Let your body heal.”

Jackie nods slowly, eyes wet.

I glance at the man sitting across from us, this calm, compassionate doctor who’s guided us through hell, and I’m hit by a sharp memory of the last doctor. The one I found after Jackie dared to question the risks, Dr. Stevens. The one who told her nausea was in her head and yoga could fix it. The one who made her doubt herself because I didn’t want to face the truth.

The difference is staggering.

And in that moment, I hate myself a little more. Not for what I did, but for what I let happen. For not protecting her when she needed me to most.

“Let’s go see our boy,” I say gently.

She nods again, but this time, she lets me help her out of the chair.

We head down the hallway together, two people still reeling, still raw, ready to do it all over again for the one child we can’t bring home yet.

Dr. Lin nods. “Of course.”

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