A Pregnant Woman's Battle with Fentanyl Addiction: Choosing Motherhood Saved Them Both.
Eight months pregnant and in severe pain, Stephanie Rosell visited the medical facility after her infection worsened up her legs. Without a job or home, separated from loved ones, she lived in a shed she had built in a acquaintance's garden. She was also addicted to fentanyl.
As doctors treated her infection, she grew increasingly fearful. The onset of withdrawal began. She slumped forward and became sick.
Stephanie ultimately gave in. “I need to leave. I have to go home and take a hit.”
She had taken the drug before coming to the ER and had sufficient opportunity to get treated before she had to return to use once more. She thought she still had four weeks left to figure out how to get clean and have this baby.
The medical professional intervened. She told Stephanie she was not going anywhere.
“I am leaving,” Stephanie said.
But the medical facility declined to release her: the infection in her legs was severe, but medical staff detected she also had an ruptured membrane. The nurse, a caregiver named Izzie, warned her: if she left, she and her baby would be at risk of death.
The nurse convinced the doctor to give Stephanie controlled doses of fentanyl every few hours, knowing that withdrawal could endanger her and the baby. Post-birth Stephanie would be switched to methadone, a medication that eases withdrawal and is often prescribed in rehabilitation.
Five days later, on the 12th of November, Stephanie gave birth to a infant weighing just over four pounds – early, small but alive.
When the attendant inquired if she wanted to hold her baby, Stephanie said “no.” She was emotionless. Her anesthesia was ineffective, her final administration of fentanyl had been given shortly before she gave birth.
She felt ill. Unprepared to be a mother. Not fit.
Stephanie had attempted sobriety repeatedly before birth, and felt terrible each time she was unsuccessful. She felt without value, berating herself for not being able to achieve the unattainable. An doctor told her to “only” stop using. Even her dealer refused to sell to her when she became visibly pregnant.
“However, I failed,” she said. “I had to seek support.”
The pervasive expectation that her bond with her newborn would make her recover only led to greater shame and negative self-talk, a impetus for her to use again. Yet she could not just wish her addiction away, any more than she could eliminate a long-term illness.
The infant was moved to the special care nursery. When Stephanie finally saw her her, she was hooked up to monitors, so small she thought she would hurt her. Embracing her at last, she felt nothing. “I looked at her and was like, ‘What am I going to do with you?’” She continued to doubt she wanted to be her mother.
After two days she decided to give her child the name after her caregiver, after the nurse who had been so kind to her.
Medical personnel told her about a specialized facility, a new kind of care center where women and their babies are treated together, not apart.
In numerous states, where a baby is diagnosed with infant withdrawal condition frequently, infants are still rushed to special care and medicated while their mothers face child-protection investigations. But a small, growing network of centers like Maddie’s Place is proving a simple point: when parents and infants remain united, results get better, fewer children enter care and future expenses reduce.
It took Stephanie a period to find strength to call, but she ultimately reached out. After verifying her eligibility for the program, a couple of employees came to collect her.
She stepped out of the hospital still in withdrawal, anxious and doubtful about what would follow.
At Maddie’s Place, Stephanie still worried that authorities would come remove her daughter – even though she was not sure she wanted to keep her. The concern persisted: that at any time, someone could walk in and remove her child.
For the initial fortnight, Stephanie kept to herself. “I preferred to be alone,” she said. “I was suspicious at that point.”
Life on the streets, she said, was about getting by. Addiction came first; reliance came last.
Stephanie had a single companion, but even that relationship was delicate. The those close to her always found ways to let her down. She did not know how to care for herself, let alone anyone else.
Each day, staff from the center drove her to a treatment center, provided orally. Over time, she was embracing sobriety.
She utilized each moment beyond therapy with Izzie, and could see that her baby was getting the specialized care she needed. Her infant faced feeding challenges at first, with sensitivity to certain foods and severe digestive problems. She needed dietary support. She also had heightened sensory issues and required an occupational therapist – all frequent conditions for babies affected by withdrawal.
Seeing that even a young person understands the need for care, then I was capable. I could parent.
On a day prior to the holiday, Stephanie remained in the shared space, where those still using can come for guided meetings with their babies. Katie Bunch-Smith, a recovery coach, stopped by with her own children in tow to drop off cookies. They all gathered around 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 showed no judgment,” Stephanie said. “My past did not matter to them. Such issues were irrelevant.”
She keeps a photo of the moment. She is dressed in casual attire, a gray knit hat with a bobble on her head, resting on the floor with the exit nearby. She is lean. Her face is downcast so you do not see her expression. She is presenting her daughter on her knee for the children to see and they are gathered around, admiring and touching to the baby.
A young boy, eight, asked the parents: “Why are there no men?” The parents responded that the fathers had obligations, called away to other tasks, that they would be there if possible.
“Once I become a parent,” Jacob said, “I will excel as a father. They will know they are valued.”
Stephanie and her companion made eye contact. “I broke down,” Stephanie said. “When a child recognized that infants need affection, then I found the courage. I would become a mother.”
Tools for treating babies with exposure have been available for years.
The Finnegan NAS scale was established in 1975|
