A Pregnant Woman's Battle with Fentanyl Addiction: How Keeping Her Baby Saved Them Both.
Eight months pregnant and in severe pain, Stephanie Rosell went to the medical facility after an infection began spreading up her legs. Without a job or home, separated from loved ones, she stayed in a makeshift shelter she had assembled in a companion's property. She was also addicted to fentanyl.
As doctors treated her infection, she grew increasingly fearful. The onset of withdrawal began. She slumped forward and vomited.
Stephanie eventually collapsed. “Listen, I gotta go. I have to go home and take a hit.”
She had consumed opioids before seeking medical help and had only a brief window to get treated before she had to return to relapse. She thought she still had several weeks to figure out how to get clean and give birth.
The medical professional intervened. She told Stephanie she was staying put.
“I will go,” Stephanie said.
But the doctors would not let her go: the leg infection was critical, but medical staff detected she also had an leakage of amniotic fluid. The nurse, her nurse, warned her: if she walked out, she and her baby would be at risk of death.
She encouraged the doctor to give Stephanie regulated amounts of fentanyl periodically, knowing that withdrawal could endanger her and the baby. After delivery Stephanie would be switched to methadone, a medication that eases withdrawal and is commonly used in substance abuse treatment.
A short time later, on the 12th of November, Stephanie delivered a daughter weighing a small weight – premature, tiny yet healthy.
When the nurse asked if she wanted to cuddle her newborn, Stephanie said “I cannot.” She was numb. Her pain relief did not work, her previous intake of fentanyl had been given a few hours prior to birth.
She felt sick. Unprepared to be a mother. Not fit.
Stephanie had sought recovery repeatedly before birth, and felt horrible each time she failed. She felt hopeless, criticizing herself for not being able to do the impossible. An doctor told her to “simply” stop using. Even her dealer declined to supply 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 quit only led to greater shame and negative self-talk, a trigger for her to relapse. Yet she could not just wish her addiction away, any more than she could overcome a long-term illness.
The infant was moved to the special care nursery. When Stephanie at last met her, she was attached to medical equipment, so tiny she thought she would break her. Holding her for the first time, she felt nothing. “I gazed upon her and was like, ‘What is our future?’” She remained uncertain she wanted to be her mother.
Two days later she decided to name her baby the same as her nurse, after the professional who provided support to her.
Nurses and doctors told her about a specialized facility, a unique recovery environment where mothers and their drug-exposed newborns are supported as a unit, not apart.
In much of the US, where a baby is found to have infant withdrawal condition frequently, infants are still whisked to NICUs and given drugs while their mothers face child-protection investigations. But a small, growing network of centers like the care home is proving a simple point: when parents and infants remain united, outcomes improve, foster placements fall and overall savings increase.
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 collect her.
She left the medical center still in recovery, scared and uncertain about what would happen next.
At Maddie’s Place, Stephanie still worried that child services would come seize her child – even though she was not sure she wanted to keep her. The concern persisted: that at any moment, someone could enter and take her baby away.
For the first two weeks, 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 one close friend, but even that connection was tenuous. The individuals she cared for always found ways to cause pain. She was unable to value herself, let alone anyone else.
Daily, staff from the center took her to a treatment center, given as medication. Gradually, she was beginning recovery.
She devoted all her time outside treatment with Izzie, and could see that her baby was obtaining necessary support she needed. Her girl had some trouble feeding at first, with adverse reactions to milk and obvious stomach troubles. She needed feeding therapy. She also had increased sensitivity and required an occupational therapist – all frequent conditions for babies exposed to substances.
When a child recognizes these infants need affection, then I was capable. I would become a mother.
On a day prior to the holiday, Stephanie sat in the visitation area, where those still using can come for supervised visits with their babies. An advocate, a mentor, came over with her own children 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 wonder of the tiny infant in Stephanie’s arms. “They were innocent,” Stephanie said. “They overlooked my addiction. None of those things mattered to them.”
She keeps a photo of the moment. She is dressed in black pants and a hoodie, a gray knit hat with a bobble on her head, resting on the floor with the door behind her. She is thin. Her posture is humble so you do not see her expression. She is presenting her daughter on her lap for the young ones to see and they are gathered around, showing interest to the baby.
One child, 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 they could.
“When I have kids,” Jacob said, “I will excel as a father. I’m gonna show them that they deserve to be loved.”
Stephanie and the specialist made eye contact. “I became emotional,” Stephanie said. “When a child recognized that these babies deserve to be loved, then I could do this. I would become a mother.”
Approaches for managing babies with exposure have been available for years.
The Finnegan NAS scale was created in 1975|
