A Pregnant Woman's Battle with Fentanyl Addiction: How Keeping Her Baby Rescued Both Lives.
Eight months pregnant and in severe pain, the expectant mother went to the hospital emergency room after an infection began spreading up her legs. Jobless and without shelter, cut off from her relatives, she resided in a small structure she had constructed in a companion's property. She was also dependent on fentanyl.
As medical staff managed her infection, she began to panic. Withdrawal was setting in. She leaned over the bed and became sick.
Stephanie finally broke down. “I need to leave. I have to go home and get high.”
She had taken the drug before coming to the ER and had sufficient opportunity to get treated before she was compelled to leave to relapse. She thought she still had several weeks to find a way to become sober and deliver her child.
The attending nurse disagreed. She told Stephanie she was staying put.
“I will go,” Stephanie said.
But the doctors would not let her go: the leg infection was severe, but doctors had discovered she also had an ruptured membrane. The nurse, Izzie, warned her: if she left, she and her baby would be at risk of death.
The nurse convinced the doctor to give Stephanie regulated amounts of fentanyl at regular intervals, knowing that withdrawal could endanger her and the baby. Post-birth Stephanie would be placed on methadone, a medication that eases withdrawal and is frequently utilized in substance abuse treatment.
After five days, on the 12th of November, Stephanie delivered a baby girl weighing just over four pounds – early, tiny yet healthy.
When the caregiver questioned if she wanted to cuddle her newborn, Stephanie said “I cannot.” She was numb. Her anesthesia was ineffective, her last dose of fentanyl had been given shortly before she gave birth.
She felt unwell. Not ready for motherhood. Not fit.
Stephanie had tried to get clean repeatedly before birth, and felt awful each time she failed. She felt hopeless, criticizing herself for not being able to overcome the challenge. An obstetrician told her to “only” stop using. Even her supplier would not provide to her when she became visibly pregnant.
“Yet I was unable,” she said. “I had to seek support.”
The pervasive expectation that her affection for her child would make her stop using only led to increased guilt and self-abuse, a cause for her to use again. Yet she could not simply will her addiction away, any more than she could overcome a persistent condition.
The baby was taken to the special care nursery. When Stephanie eventually visited her, she was hooked up to medical equipment, so small she thought she would hurt her. Cradling her initially, she felt detached. “I gazed upon her and was like, ‘What is our future?’” She continued to doubt she wanted to be her mother.
Two days later she decided to give her child the name after her caregiver, after the professional who provided support to her.
Nurses and doctors told her about a care center, a innovative treatment home where mothers and their drug-exposed newborns are cared for jointly, not apart.
In much of the US, where a baby is identified with infant withdrawal condition frequently, infants are still rushed to special care and medicated while their mothers face custody evaluations. But a limited but expanding group of centers like the care home is showing an important truth: when parents and infants remain united, results get better, custody cases decrease and overall savings increase.
It took Stephanie a while to gather the courage to call, but she finally did. After ensuring she qualified for the program, care providers came to bring her to the facility.
She stepped out of the hospital still in recovery, fearful and unsure about what would follow.
At Maddie’s Place, Stephanie still worried that child services would come remove her daughter – even though she was hesitant about parenting. The anxiety remained: that at any point, someone could arrive and separate them.
For the initial fortnight, Stephanie kept to herself. “I didn’t really want anything to do with any of them,” she said. “I was suspicious at that point.”
Survival outdoors, she said, was about survival. Drugs came first; trust came last.
Stephanie had a trusted ally, but even that connection was tenuous. The individuals she cared for always found ways to let her down. She did not know how to care for herself, let alone anyone else.
Every day, staff from the facility drove her to a clinic for methadone, given as medication. Gradually, she was beginning recovery.
She devoted all her time when not in sessions with Izzie, and could see that her baby was receiving appropriate attention she needed. Her infant faced feeding challenges at first, with adverse reactions to milk and obvious stomach troubles. She needed feeding therapy. She also had heightened sensory issues and required an professional – all frequent conditions for babies affected by withdrawal.
If this little kid could see that these babies deserve to be loved, then I was capable. I could parent.
One afternoon before Thanksgiving, Stephanie was in the common room, where individuals struggling with substance use can come for monitored interactions with their babies. An advocate, a recovery coach, stopped by with her own five kids in tow to deliver baked goods. They all crowded near Stephanie, who was resting on the carpet holding Izzie.
The children were wide-eyed in awe of the small baby in Stephanie’s arms. “They were innocent,” Stephanie said. “They didn’t care that I had used drugs with her. Such issues were irrelevant.”
She has an image of the moment. She is clad in casual attire, a cap with a decoration on her head, seated on the ground with the entryway at her back. She is slender. Her posture is humble so you miss her features. She is holding Izzie up on her leg for the children to see and they are standing close, fawning and reaching out to the baby.
A young boy, eight, asked the parents: “Why are there no men?” The moms tried to explain that the men were occupied, handling responsibilities, that they would be there if possible.
“When I have kids,” Jacob said, “I plan to be a great parent. They will know they are valued.”
Stephanie and the specialist exchanged glances. “I broke down,” Stephanie said. “If this little kid could see that infants need affection, then I was able. I would become a mother.”
Approaches for managing drug-exposed newborns have existed for decades.
The assessment tool was established in 1975|
