A New Life, And New Hope

By NANCY GIBBS

Christina Crosby is twice blessed. She just may get to save one life in the course of giving birth to another. Her cousin Bobby Cooper, 33, learned last spring that he has a rare form of leukemia and might be a candidate for a stem-cell transplant. Duke is one of about a dozen hospitals and blood centers in the country that is collecting blood from umbilical cords and using the cells to treat cancer patients. So Christina has agreed to donate her cord blood, in hopes of raising the odds that her cousin will find a match when he is ready for his transplant.

Christina is a cool, sturdy lady who says she has a pretty high tolerance for pain, but by 1:15, after hours of labor and 15 minutes of pushing, she is exhausted. Husband Kevin and nurse Mickie Cothren are each holding one of her legs, helping her push. Dr. Ira Smith pokes his head in the room; this will be his third birth in as many hours. "Pitiful pushin'!" he hollers, urging her on. By 2:04 she is groaning hugely. She has her hands clasped behind her knees, working hard, straining like a Russian Olympic weight lifter. She's getting closer, so Smith sets up his equipment and slathers on the antiseptic. "Pretty, pretty," he says. "Good work." At 2:14, Cothren announces, "It's half out." Christina bellows, "Pull it out!" "We don't pull this one out, honey," Cothren replies calmly. The umbilical-cord collection team has entered, gowned and masked like aliens. One more push, one more, one more and suddenly Smith is unslinging the head of Kyle Wayne Crosby from his valuable umbilical cord. The baby is hanging upside down, crying. "That's how I feel too," Christina says.

Now the collection team, with exquisite delicacy, inserts a catheter into a vein in the cut cord, draining the precious blood while the placenta is still in place. Kyle is on the warming table, all 9 lbs. 7 oz. "That's no infant," the merry nurse says, "that's a toddler." Father Kevin scoops up his swaddled son and greets him, then lays him tenderly on his mother's chest. "Well, hidey-ho," she says.

--By Nancy Gibbs