A Pregnant Woman's Battle with Fentanyl Addiction: How Keeping Her Baby Saved Them Both.
Eight months pregnant and in severe pain, the expectant mother arrived at the medical facility after an infection began spreading up her legs. Jobless and without shelter, separated from loved ones, she stayed in a makeshift shelter she had constructed in a companion's property. She was also dependent on fentanyl.
As physicians addressed her infection, she grew increasingly fearful. The onset of withdrawal began. She leaned over the bed and became sick.
Stephanie ultimately gave in. “I have to get out of here. I have to go home and use drugs.”
She had used fentanyl before coming to the ER and had only a brief window to get treated before she needed to go home to use once more. She thought she still had four weeks left to find a way to become sober and give birth.
The medical professional intervened. She told Stephanie she was staying put.
“I am leaving,” Stephanie said.
But the doctors would not let her go: the infection in her legs was severe, but physicians found she also had an amniotic fluid leak. The nurse, a caregiver named Izzie, warned her: if she walked out, she and her baby would be at risk of death.
Izzie persuaded the doctor to give Stephanie measured quantities of fentanyl at regular intervals, knowing that symptoms could threaten her and the baby. Once the baby was born Stephanie would be placed on methadone, a drug that alleviates cravings and is frequently utilized in addiction recovery.
After five days, on the 12th of November, Stephanie delivered a daughter weighing just over four pounds – premature, tiny yet healthy.
When the attendant inquired if she wanted to hold her baby, Stephanie said “not now.” She was numb. Her epidural had failed, her final administration of fentanyl had been administered four hours before delivery.
She felt ill. Ill-equipped for parenting. Undeserving.
Stephanie had attempted sobriety several times during pregnancy, and felt terrible each time she relapsed. She felt hopeless, berating herself for not being able to achieve the unattainable. An obstetrician told her to “simply” stop using. Even her source refused to sell to her when she became visibly pregnant.
“But I couldn’t,” she said. “I required assistance.”
The widespread belief that her bond with her newborn would make her stop using only led to greater shame and negative self-talk, a trigger for her to return to drugs. Yet she could not just wish her addiction away, any more than she could will away a long-term illness.
The baby was taken to the NICU. When Stephanie eventually visited her, she was hooked up to tubes and leads, so tiny she thought she would hurt her. Embracing her at last, she felt detached. “I gazed upon her and was like, ‘What am I going to do with you?’” She remained uncertain she wanted to be her mother.
Two days later she decided to call her daughter the same as her nurse, after the nurse who had been so kind to her.
Medical personnel told her about a care center, a new kind of care center where women and their babies are cared for jointly, not apart.
In many parts of America, where a baby is diagnosed with neonatal abstinence syndrome (NAS) every 18 minutes, infants are still whisked to NICUs and medicated while their mothers face custody evaluations. But a limited but expanding group of centers like this facility is demonstrating a key fact: when parents and infants remain united, outcomes improve, custody cases decrease and future expenses reduce.
It took Stephanie a period to find strength to call, but she ultimately reached out. After confirming she would be a good fit for the program, two staff members came to bring her to the facility.
She stepped out of the hospital still in detox, fearful and unsure about what would happen next.
At the facility, Stephanie still worried that child services would come remove her daughter – even though she was hesitant about parenting. The concern persisted: that at any point, someone could walk in and separate them.
For the beginning period, Stephanie kept to herself. “I avoided interaction,” she said. “I lacked confidence at that point.”
Homelessness, she said, was about getting by. Addiction came first; faith came last.
Stephanie had a single companion, but even that connection was tenuous. The people she loved always found ways to let her down. She did not know how to value herself, much less anyone else.
Daily, staff from the facility transported her to a recovery program, administered in pill form. Gradually, she was embracing sobriety.
She spent every minute when not in sessions with Izzie, and could see that her baby was getting the specialized care she needed. Her daughter struggled with eating at first, with intolerance to some formulas and severe digestive problems. She needed nutritional guidance. She also had heightened sensory issues and required an specialist – all frequent conditions for babies born with NAS.
If this little kid could see that these babies deserve to be loved, then I was capable. I would become a mother.
During a pre-holiday visit, Stephanie sat in the visitation area, where individuals struggling with substance use can come for monitored interactions with their babies. Katie Bunch-Smith, a peer support specialist, stopped by with her own five kids in tow to deliver baked goods. They all gathered around Stephanie, who was sitting on the floor holding Izzie.
The children were wide-eyed in admiration of the little newborn in Stephanie’s arms. “They showed no judgment,” Stephanie said. “My past did not matter to them. None of those things mattered to them.”
She keeps a photo of the moment. She is dressed in casual attire, a beanie with a bobble on her head, sitting on the wooden floor with the exit nearby. She is thin. Her head is tilted forward so you do not see her expression. She is lifting the baby on her lap for the children to see and they are crowding near, fawning and reaching out to the baby.
Jacob, eight, asked the parents: “Where are all the dads?” The parents responded that the dads were busy, handling responsibilities, that they would be there given the chance.
“Once I become a parent,” Jacob said, “I’m going to be the best dad ever. I will teach them about love.”
Stephanie and the specialist looked at each other. “I became emotional,” Stephanie said. “When a child recognized that these babies deserve to be loved, then I could do this. I could parent.”
Tools for treating infants affected by substances have been available for years.
The Finnegan NAS scale was established in 1975|
