Part 4:: Some babies just need to be lifted into this world

I had been riddled with anxiousness, worry and stress over what was happening to my son for two days straight. Not being able to hold him, touch him… knowing he was an hour and a half away and there was no way for me to get to him. It was eating me up. All I wanted to do was scream, to tear up the hospital room. To throw things and break glass; to hit someone, anyone. I really didn’t care who. But the physical pain ripping through my abdomen every time I moved kept me from finding a release from the misery.

I was angry. Everything ALWAYS worked out in my life, but I was having a hard time seeing past this feeling.

Surprisingly, as soon as I left the hospital, there was a feeling of calm, patience. While I was very aware of what was ahead… the hospital, the tubes, the diagnosis, the treatment… it was almost as if my husband and I were headed out of town on one of our random “hey, lets take a road trip anywhere” weekends. We went home and packed a bag for what we couldn’t imagine would have been more than a week, got in the car, grabbed some lunch and my pain killers, and talked about anything except the fact that our son was in the hospital, clinging to life. The only things that reminded me, was that pain every time I moved… so I did my best to stay still and pretend it wasn’t there.

Hospitals scare me; they intimidate me. All the twisty-turny hallways and levels and people, happy and sad, full of life and on the brink of death… I’ve never felt comfortable in a hospital. Standing in front of the one that Chase was fighting for life in, I wasn’t sure how to feel. I knew what I was about to experience was something no one could ever prepare you for; this tiny 6lb baby, knocked out by drugs, tubes running in and out of him, puncture wounds on almost every surface from where they had to take blood or spinal fluid. The fear of not knowing anything about my son overrode my fear of hospitals. I knew from the beginning, every time we had a doctor tell us his vitals plummeted, every time we got a phone call telling us he’d had a seizure, every time we were asked to give permission for another test, I KNEW that all he needed was human contact… to know his momma, the energy he’d been grown surrounded by, was there with him. I just knew that me being there would help.

I was glad that my husband had already been to the hospital and knew where to go. It meant I didn’t have to think about anything other than getting to my baby boy. I painfully followed him in to the hospital (knowing my doctor had told me to take it easy and rest as much as possible), around the corner to the elevator, up to god knows which floor, and down the hall where we had to be given permission to enter the NICU. I mindlessly followed as my husband opened the door, led me to the sinks were we washed our hands, dried them, and then followed it up with a dose of hand sanitizer. We then went to “suite D” where my son and 3 other babies were being cared for by around the clock nurses.

The first “bed” we passed held the tiniest little baby I had ever seen, and was a fighter by nature. His parents had two teenagers, and the pregnancy wasn’t planned… the mother, already in her 40’s, went in to labor at work at 21 weeks. He’d been in the NICU for weeks and weeks, his parents coming to visit every few days. I remember thinking, “how can they just leave him here, so tiny and alone.” My husband reminded me that they had to work, they had two other children, and it was difficult to see your baby so tiny and helpless (although you would never know how helpless he was by the vocal chords he had on him.) My sons bed was next to the tiny little boy, so I didn’t notice the other babies until later.

Instead, all I saw was my little wiggle… who although he seemed to dwarf the other babies, still seemed so small. I stood over his bed, unsure if I was allowed to even touch his tiny toes or fingers. I sanitized my hands again. He laid there so quietly, the machines breathing for him, wearing nothing but a diaper and covered in tubes and band aids to stop the bleeding from where they’d poked his little heels and arms. The bed heater radiated warmth so they could monitor him visually. The machines beeped, keeping track of his oxygen levels and heart rate. Beep. Beep. Beep. He looked so calm, so peaceful.

The nurse came over and introduced herself. She was the one who was there when he’d been admitted. She informed us that they try to keep the same nurses with the same babies so that they could stay up to date with their progress. My first question was if they knew yet what was wrong with him and if she knew when he’d be released.

Her response indicated that she’d been trained well and had been doing her job for a long time. “The doctors will be by in a little while to update you on his condition. I do know that we’ve been keeping him sedated because he’d been fighting his breathing tube.” I think she could tell her answer didn’t satiate me. “He’s got a huge fighting chance,” she said, “He’s a full term baby.” I looked around at the other babies… preemies… tiny, tiny babies. Each one laying in the bed, alone, no one at their bedside on a Sunday afternoon. My heart ached for them.

“Can I touch him?”

“Of course! We encourage it! These babies always know when their parents are nearby, and the ones who have the physical contact, tend to get out of here faster. And the faster we can get him out of here, the better. ” She said with a smile.

I sanitized my hands one more time and then very gently placed my hand on the top of his head. That act alone calmed me like nothing ever has. I was touching my baby and although he didn’t physically nuzzle in to my hand, I almost felt as if he did. I’d held him inside of me for nine months, and then he’d been ripped away from me for almost 3 days; I finally felt whole again.

The nurse pulled my husband aside, asking him if he thought I needed a chair. I think she could tell by the way I was hunched over his bed, supporting myself, that I was in pain. They brought a chair over and I struggled to hoist myself on to it while remaining in contact with my little boy. I’ve never felt so very helpless in my whole life. I had failed my son and couldn’t fix him; I needed my husbands help getting on to a chair, and I didn’t know where to go to find these doctors to give me answers. For a woman who prides herself on her strength, independence and ability to get through any obstacle, this was torture.

I sat there, caressing Chases head, whispering to him that I loved him and that he just needed to get better so that we could take him home. Suddenly, another baby’s monitor started signaling that she was in trouble. The sound tore through the quiet. My heart began racing as a team of nurses rushed to her bedside, checking her vitals and watching to see if she would stabilize herself…. She did. All I could think was, “Thank god my baby is full term.”

The doctors finally came by to introduce themselves and talk to us about Chase. The medical jargon flowed from their mouths as I tried to grasp the meaning of anything they said. Chases nurse was standing nearby, making notes, giving her input and updating the doctors on Chases stats and vitals. My head was swimming. The doctors shook our hands and left, and I looked helplessly at my husband. This is one time in my life I am grateful that my emotions are easy to read. The nurse smiled kindly and explained to us in plain kindergarten style English that the doctors still didn’t know why Chase was so sick, but they were treating him with broad spectrum antibiotics and running tests. The spinal tap revealed nothing, he was scheduled for a brain scan of some sort to see if the seizures had done any damage, and they were still waiting for him to mess his diaper. If things went well, we might get to take him home the next Sunday. I asked what they’d been feeding him since I hadn’t been there to provide the colostrum that I was collecting. “Oh, don’t worry honey, he doesn’t need any food yet. Since he’s not regulating his blood sugar on his own we’ve been supplementing with a sugar mixture through one of these IV’s.”

Antibiotics. Chemicals.  Brain Scans. Poking and Prodding. This is not the way anyone should experience their first few days on earth. What had I done? How had I failed this miserably?

****************

Soon after the doctors left, my husband went down the street to the Ronald McDonald House to see if they had any room for us. We still didn’t know where we were going to stay for the night, but in reality, that was the furthest thing from my mind. I could sleep on the floor at his bedside and be just fine… and since parents could visit at any and all hours, I doubt the nurses would say anything. While he was gone, a grief councilor came by. She told me about all of my options as a parent with a child in the NICU: There was, of course, counseling, the Ronald McDonald House, activities, coupons and discounts… there were even church groups that took requests for hand made quilts and blankets. That’s when I noticed the crocheted crosses hanging on my sons’ bed, along with a note from a minister who had visited and prayed over him. She handed me a card and invited me to contact her at any time. I nodded, promising to attend an activity for parents the next day, knowing that I wouldn’t show up.

Once she left, the lactation consultant came by to see if anyone had shown me the “pumping room.”  I shook my head no and told her that I had a pump of my own. She smiled and told me that the ones that they provided to moms here were far better than anything you’d buy at Walmart. She led me to the room, handed me a kit and showed me how to work the equipment. The rhythmic sound of the machines was calming. The private area became a quiet place for me while I was there.

My husband returned, encouraging me to leave my sons side to get some food. The Ronald McDonald House had a room for us; they only asked that we chip in on the household chores and not have food or drinks in the room. I told Chase, still sedated, eyes closed, that we would be back later. We slowly made it back to the car and over to the Ronald McDonald House where we unpacked our things, signed some paperwork, and were given a tour. We ate and returned to our sons bedside until my husband reminded me that my doctor told me to rest as much as possible. We left his bedside around 11:30pm, and I fell in to a deep, dreamless sleep. 

The next day was the same as most of the other days in the hospital. One day rarely stood out from another, and there is little I can tell you other than we woke early, had breakfast at the Ronald McDonald House, went to the hospital where we were updated on Chases condition, told that they still didn’t have any answers but were hopeful. I pumped and stored breast milk, still hopeful that I’d get to have that connection to my son, my husband reminded me to drink water and eat, we’d have lunch and dinner in the hospitals cafeteria, and then spend the whole afternoon at Chases bedside, talking to him and touching him.

On day #5, they told us that chase had progressed well enough that they were going to take him off the ventilator, and if all went well, we would get to hold him that afternoon. He had opened his eyes a time or two, we'd been able to change his diaper and assist in any way a parent was allowed, but I was still yearning to hold my son. We went to lunch and when we had gotten back, Chase was off the ventilator and breathing on his own. We were so very proud. The nurse came over and asked if we'd like to hold him. I sat in a chair close to his bed, and the nurse gently placed him in my arms. 

Oh my gosh he was tiny! But he was awake and looking at me and my heart just melted. I was painfully aware of the incision from the c-section, but I did everything I could to support and hold my son, despite the pain I felt. After a few minutes, I asked my husband if he would like to hold our son. The nurse came and took Chase so that I could get up and leave the chair to my husband. Once he sat, the nurse placed the squirming baby in his arms. Thats when Chase smiled. He looked at his daddy and smiled the biggest smile you could imagine. Now I know that they say babies that young don't actually smile, but there is no denying that Chase felt complete and utter joy when he was placed in his fathers arms. 

The rest of the afternoon was filled with elation. I just KNEW that we'd be home with our son by the end of the weekend. 

The next morning was so very different from the previous few. My milk had come in and i'd awoken in the middle of the night laying in a puddle. This was it. My son was off the ventilators, and my milk was finally in. That meant that soon, we'd be able to try this thing called breastfeeding.  Our morning felt much lighter, we took our time with breakfast and made it to the hospital around 10am. Smiles plastered across our faces, we entered the NICU, washed our hands, doused them in hand sanitizer and made our way to Suite D. Thats when the calm, happy morning was shattered to pieces.

Chases nurse was by this bed, working on him. She looked at us with such concern that my heart immediately dropped. She said he'd been having to work really hard to get a breath. She'd already paged the doctors. As she said that, suddenly every alarms attached to our little boy began screaming. We immediately stepped away as a team rushed in. Within seconds, there were at least 7 professionals around his bed, alarms still screaming just looking at him. His vitals had dropped and he'd stopped breathing. No one was touching him. Why wasn't anyone doing anything?! They were all just staring at him... apparently waiting to see if he'd recover on his own. 

We stood there helpless. I wanted to scream at the medical team to DO SOMETHING! They just stood there. My son wasn't breathing, every machine was pushing out numbers and stats. If I didn't remember what feeling utterly helpless was like, then I was quickly reminded...

Part 3 :: "Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world

I watched as the team from Brenners Children's Hospital wheeled my 6 hour old son out of my room, hooked to more monitors, IV's and tubes than I could count. In my mind I was calling out to him to hang on, just hang on until I was dismissed from the hospital and could travel to be with him. My father in law followed the team out of the room down to the ambulance. I desperately wanted to jump out of the bed and follow them, despite the fact that I had just had my abdomen cut in to to get him out. Despite the fact that I still really couldn't feel my legs from the drugs they had given me. I would have dragged myself down the hall with my arms if I thought I had been physically strong enough to do it. But instead, I laid there and kept my mind from racing. I focused on somehow connecting to my son, I wanted more than anything to tell him that I was sorry I didn't know something was wrong earlier. I just didn't know. "Please hold on till I can touch you... I know thats all you need to want to stay here. You need to feel your mommas touch. Just hold on till then. Don't decide to give up yet."

Soon after, my visitors left so that my husband and I could get some rest. The Brenners team said they'd call as soon as they got him admitted to let us know how he did and what the doctors thought. Somehow, between the stress of what had happened and the nurses coming in to check on me and give me pain meds, I fell asleep. Dreamless. Dark. Sleep.

About 2am, much later than it should have taken for the ambulance to get to Winston-Salem, the phone rang. The most shrill, jump out of your skin ring that I had ever heard. I answered, still groggy from the deep sleep I had been in. "Hello?"

"Tara? This is one of the Paramedics that was with Chase in the ambulance. Is your husband there? Can you put me on speaker phone?" She asked. Hearing, but not comprehending in the least what she had just said to me, I handed the phone to my husband so that he could talk to her. It seemed that my brain had stopped processing, I felt as if I were in a tub of gel with no desire to break free. The world was muffled. My husband had the phone held partially to his ear, partially to mine so that we could both be updated on our sons condition... but all I heard was seizure.

Once the paramedic had hung up, I laid there quietly for a minute before I asked, "Did she say he had a seizure?" My husband nodded, explaining that he had what seemed like 2 seizures on the trip down and they needed our approval to do a spinal tap on him. Silent tears began streaming down my face. Two seizures. Two. What had I done to my son? How had I been so bad at growing him? I was made to grow babies... my body, my hips... they were built for this. So how had I done such a bad job?

I was thankful that the room was dark and we were both exhausted so that my husband couldn't see my tears. I didn't need him worrying any more about me when we both had our son to worry about. The same dark, dreamless sleep overtook me quickly.

The next morning, we had both agreed that he would go to Winston-Salem to be with our little boy. As he left, he stopped at the door, slowly turned around and said, "But I dont want to leave you here." I managed a smile, and told him that our son needed us, and since I couldn't leave, he had to. "He needs at least one of us, you have to go. I'll be ok, and when I get discharged, we'll both go be with him." He came back to give me one more kiss and turned to leave just as I was unable to hold the tears back. I was having a hard time finding that strength I'd held on to so easily less than 24 hours before.

My phone rang and beeped at me multiple times that day. People wanting to check on me, make sure I was ok. I hardly answered any of the well wishes, wanting nothing more than the day to be over so that  I could wake up the next morning to have them discharge me. My in-laws visited by my husbands request, bringing me lunch... although I did not want visitors, I knew this made them and my husband feel better to be able to check on me. A good friend brought me a Starbucks coffee, knowing my love for the chain, and knowing coffee would calm me. My mom came by, encouraging me to get out of bed and take a shower. Everyone was cheery, obviously trying to distract me from the situation. I was cheery, obviously trying to distract me from the situation. More people requested to visit, but I couldn't handle the company. I politely declined, thanking them for the offer.

Nurses and family kept asking if I heard anything from my husband, or from the doctors, curious why I wasn't pushing for more information from both sources. All I could think of was, "They'll tell me when they know something. Bothering them just gets in the way." I couldn't understand why more people didn't get that... from people wondering why I was so calm prior to his birth, to people wanting more information of his condition. My interrupting those who had a job to do wouldn't help them do their job. I needed everyone to do their job, and do it well.

Dusk finally arrived, along with my husband, obviously emotionally exhausted from seeing our son in the condition he was in. He showed me a photo he'd taked with his cell phone, knowing that I desperately wanted to see our son. We sat and talked for a while, him updating me on what he had been told. They were keeping him alive and running as many tests as they could think of to figure out why he wasn't thriving on his own. There were plenty of babies that had merconium in utero that once the lungs were cleared were fine, and never once dealt with not being able to regulate their blood sugars and blood pressure on their own. They weren't really sure what they were looking for.

It started to get late, and my husband turned to me and asked if I would be ok if he went home to sleep that night. I wanted to scream, "No, I need you here with me! I need you." but my logical self took over, knowing that, of the two of us, he was the one who was going to have to be physically prepared to take care of a sick baby, in addition to a wife who was physically weak and emotionally wrecked. He was going to have to be strong enough for all of us, and he wouldn't have a chance at that if he didn't have quality sleep.

After bouts of restlessness, mixed with dreamless sleep, I woke the next morning with mixed feelings; I wanted nothing more than to just fall back into that dark, dead sleep, never leaving the bed, never waking up... ever again. But being all too familiar with the feeling of depression creeping in, I made myself crawl out of bed, trying to ignore the pain at my incision, the ache in my chest, and the rush of sadness. I knew if I didn't make myself get up right then, it would be that much harder to do later. After a few slow laps around the room, I sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for my husband to arrive, waiting for my doctor to discharge me, waiting for this nightmare to be over.

Within the hour, I was being wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair so that we could go home, pack a bag for what I couldn't have imagined would have been more than a weeks visit, and hit the road so that I could FINALLY see my son. I knew he just needed my touch. "Just hang on Bud..." I thought, "just hang on long enough for mommy to get to you and everything will be ok. I promise."

(continued here)

Part 2 :: "Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world"

 "We cant push a baby out of a closed cervix, and he needs to come out now. Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world." my midwife reassured me after telling me that I needed to have an emergency c-section... now.  "Call your husband and have him meet you at the hospital. He doesn't need to run red lights, but he needs to get there right away because we are going to take you in whether he is there or not."

I nodded, still calm, mind wasn't racing, heart wasn't pounding. Calm. "Okay," I said, "I'll see you at the hospital."

I left the practice, pulling my cell phone out of my purse, pressing and holding the "R" button, the speed dial for my husband, not noticing that only a few minutes before, he'd sent me a text jokingly asking if our baby was on the way yet. "Hey! Did you get my text?" he answered,  a smile dancing around his words. 

"Don't freak out." I stated, the situation suddenly becoming a reality. My hands and voice began shaking as I told him what had happened and that he needed to leave work and come to the hospital. I was going in for an emergency C-section. Emergency. C-Section. 

I hung up, got into my car, knowing that although I had a handle on the situation, there was no way I could drive AND do anything else. I had to call my mom, but that would have to wait. I had to get to the hospital. 

I parked in the hospital parking lot, got out of my car, grabbed my purse, left the frozen items I had purchased at the grocery store only an hour before, and calmly walked to the front entrance of the Watauga Medical Center as I dialed my mom. "Mom, don't freak out." I dont know why I was telling people not to freak out... I have always been great in emergency situations, keeping calm, managing the car accident, the motorcycle accident, broken bones and bleeding wounds,  making sure those involved were safe as I dialed emergency crews or stopped bleeding. I always kept calm, knowing that someone needed to manage the situation... to take charge in times of chaos and fear. This was my emergency, and I was the only one around to manage it. I had to organize those involved and allow people to do their jobs. "I'll leave now and be there in 2 hours doodlebug." Doodlebug, my nickname from childhood, seemed to come from afar.  I was no longer a part of the situation, I was watching it all happen. Somehow, I became an observer, watching the next 2 hours happen, while somehow maintaining my level head.

I hung up the phone and walked in to the hospital. "Hi, i'm here for an emergency c-section. I just came from my doctors office." The receptionist stared at me, seemingly confused by my statement. She directed me to check in, and the guy at the computer tried to make light of the situation, telling me that I was to be in room #1, where his child was born. Next thing I knew, there was a nurse guiding me up to the 3rd floor (I didn't find out what floor the birthing suite was on till much later. Somehow I missed the elevator ride and the walk down the hallway to room #1.) I was handed a gown and after changing,  guided to my bed. Suddenly, there were 5 or 6 different nurses coming and going from my room, hooking me up to IV's, asking questions and taking statements. At some point, my Husband walked in to the room... and although the rest of the details remain slightly fuzzy, I do remember the worry on my husbands face. I remember trying to smile at him reassuringly, letting him know that everything was going to be ok. Everything had to be ok. Yes this was an emergency, but everything ALWAYS worked out for me. This had to be one of those things too. 

After I was hooked up to IV's and had every fact they needed on paper, I was wheeled into the operating room, my husband following. I know at some point, someone made a comment about how calm I was. This comment was made again later by my doctors, and my response was this: "I need you to do your job well, and if I am freaking out, then it interferes with you doing your job." 

Once in the O.R., I listened as surgical techs counted the number of towels and rags they had prior to the surgery. I listened as they counted them multiple times. The counting was calming; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

The anesthesiologist arrived and introduced himself, but I couldn't tell you today what his name was. What I can tell you is that he was kind, concerned and had reassuring hands. He inserted needles into my spine to give me the drugs, as I hugged a pillow, or pretended to hug a pillow (I honestly dont know which) to get the curvature on my spine where he needed it. They laid me back down, and I watched as my doctors eyes peered over her blue mask, explaining that all I should feel is tugging, pulling and pressure during the procedure... but no pain. "Don't worry, I'll make sure its a cute little bikini scar." she said. The blue cloth divider was raised and my husband grabbed my hand. 

They tugged and the pulled, and tugged, and pulled a little more. It was such a strange feeling... my brain knowing that there should be pain, but instead it was what only can be described as blurry... tugging. There was nothing clear or definite about it... it was blurry. Then I caught a glimpse of the pediatrician taking a tiny limp body over to another table, I heard my doctor say something about there hardly being any amniotic fluid, and I heard silence where the cries of a baby should have been. Flashes of scenes from TV shows and movies played in my head, where the scared mom on the table starts crying, frantically asking if everything was ok with her baby because she hadn't heard him cry. I kept quiet, watching the little that I could see, the top of my babies head as a team of doctors worked on him. "I need them to do their job well, they'll tell me if he's ok." I kept thinking. I need them to do what they are here to do. 

Then I heard the very weak first sounds of our son. Strained and uncomfortable. I took a deep breath, he was alive. I was waiting for them to bring him over to show him to me, I mean, thats what normally happens in a C-Section right? Instead they whisked him out of the room, telling my husband that he could go with them if he wanted. He looked at me, the worry from earlier still on his brow, and I reassured him that I was ok, and he needed to go with our son. And then they were gone... and for an instant, I felt alone. And for an instant, I was scared. There I was, lying on a table, cut in to, being stitched up, blood leaking from me, feeling as if my baby had just been ripped out of me and taken away, and my husband was suddenly gone. 

And I was hot. I felt like I had sweat beaded on my forehead. 

Then the anesthesiologist asked how I was doing. He placed his hand on the top of my head and asked if I was ok. I felt less alone. My calm returned. I told him I was hot, that I had sweat on my forehead and needed something done about it. He touched my forehead, and I could tell that it was dry, but he grabbed a paper towel soaked in cool water and placed it on my head, and then on my neck. Somehow, being who I am, I still felt comforted by this man I didn't know, who was only there to make sure I felt no pain. Then I listened as nurses commented that my doctor was the best stitcher that they had ever seen. I listened as my doctor and midwife discussed their kids, and their experiences. Then I remembered the comment about my low Amniotic fluid levels, so I asked. My doctor told me that I hardly had any amniotic fluid and there had been meconium in the fluid.

My mind raced over everything I had read about and learned about pregnancy and birth. Low amniotic fluid means there was something wrong... maybe a leak in my fluid sack. Meconium, the passage of stool by the baby while in utero, meant that he was either post term, which he was not, or that he was in distress in utero. I again listened to the surgical team counting towels and rags, making sure none were left somewhere they shouldn't be... 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6...

I was soon returned to my room where my husband joined me, and my mother and brother showed up soon after. The air in the room seemed lite, everyone assumed everything was ok. I was just waiting for them to bring him to my room, place him on my chest, and then the bonding could begin... and then the pediatrician came in and introduced himself. 

I immediately could tell something was wrong. He explained that since there had been meconuim in utero, it had gotten in to his lungs, coating them so that he was having a hard time breathing on his own - the walls of his lungs were essentially sticking to one another. Not only that, his blood pressure and blood sugars were not regulating on their own. He was sick, his stats were far too low, and while the team was doing what they could do here, there was a chance that he would have to be transferred to Brenner Childrens Hospital in Winston-Salem, an hour and forty minutes away. If that were the case, I would have to stay in Boone to recover, and would be unable to go with my son. The pediatrician left the room, and my "everythings going to be ok" attitude took over. Everything always works out for me. Hes not going to have to go down the mountain, he'll be fine here, they are just giving me the worst possible senario so that we'll be prepared. He's going to be fine.

He wasn't fine. Somewhere I heard that had we waited another 1/2 hour to get him out, the story would be grimly different. The only time I got to see my son after he was born, was when the team from Brenners arrived, put him in a clear plastic container, hooked up to monitors and oxygen, and tubes and wires, and brought him into my room for 2 minutes to allow me to touch his tiny hand through the box, his face blocked from view, before they took him. 

And then he was gone.

(continued here)

Part 1 :: "Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world"

Chase Alexander was born on Friday, August 3rd at 4:57pm. He was 6lbs 1oz and 19 inches.

His birth, the way it happened, and his life, is a blessing... he almost didn't make it.

While it had been my plan to wait to go in to labor to start maternity leave from work, I had decided earlier in the week he was born that I needed to take a few days to prepare for his birth. While his bedroom was ready, and we as his parents were eagerly waiting his arrival, I still felt the need to take some time. I didn't know until 2 days later why I needed this, why Chases life depended on it.

I arrived at my weekly appointment with my midwife around lunchtime on Wednesday August 1st. Everything was fairly normal. Since I was 39 weeks, we discussed what would happen within the next few weeks if labor did not start on its own... stress tests, monitoring, and eventually induction. I left the office 75% effaced, not at all dilated, but convinced that I would have a natural birth within the next few days. My birth plan was all laid out and printed. I had been telling myself all along that there was nothing to worry about, I was MADE for this. My body, as a woman, was made to birth babies. Everything would happen the way it was supposed to.

Friday morning arrived, the day before his due date (based on his measurements, not on my last menstrual period.) After breakfast, and after my husband had left for work, I realized that I had not yet felt Chase move that morning. I didn't think too much of it, since his movements had gotten fewer and far between since he dropped 2 weeks earlier. But then by 11am I became concerned that I had still not felt him move that day. I drank something sweet (I cant even remember what it was at this point) and laid on the couch, poking at my belly, shifting him from side to side, waiting to feel him move. I did this for a 1/2 hour, and there was still nothing. My immediate thought was that I was just being overly concerned, he was fine. Sometimes babies shift in a way that moms cant feel them move... I'd read story after story about it. So I continued with my day. Until around 1:45pm, when my blood sugar bottomed out...

What does that mean? I have had multiple doctors ask me that. I have had people with blood sugar issues ask me, and people who have never had an issue ask me. What does that mean? Before getting pregnant, that meant that I suddenly felt jittery and hot and nauseous all at the same time. But I hadn't had an experience with my hypoglycemia since becoming pregnant. In fact, any issues - physical, digestive, etc - i'd ever had completely stopped during my whole pregnancy. I immediately got online, googling "Low Blood Sugar at 39 weeks pregnant." The results had nothing to do with what I was feeling, and there were no suggestions to call my doctor. Blood sugar, pregnancy and doctors didnt seem to relate unless someone was diagnosed with gestational diabetes (for which I was negative.) So I ate and drank... again something sweet... as I had always done to correct my blood sugar. I had always dealt with this on my own, and always fixed it. "I should be fine in a few minutes," I thought. But my mind was racing, my brain kept flashing over all the horrible outcomes that could come from this situation. I had to distract myself, so I went to the grocery store. I was thinking too much in to this.

By 2:30 I was still shaky, still nauseous. Standing in the freezer aisle trying to fight the hot flashes, I called my midwife, and got a receptionist in training. I explained my situation and asked if I should come in. She put me through to the nurse, which was actually a voicemail where I left a message. As I hit end on my cell, I headed for the check out, for my car, and then for my doctors office. Something was wrong and I needed to find out what.

I arrived, and was in with one of my midwives by 3pm. After testing my blood sugar levels, which tested normal, I relayed my experience and she listened for my babys heartbeat. His heart beat was loud and clear, everything seemed fine. She asked if I had felt him move yet, I shook my head no. She pointed to my rounded belly and said she had just seen him move, so it was strange that I had not felt it. "I am probably just being overly cautious, but hearing his heartbeat makes me feel better. He's fine."  I got off the table, both of us convinced that it was safe for me to head home. Then my Midwife decided, just for the heck of it, to hook my belly up to a system to monitor his heart rate and movements. I laid there alone, listening to his heart rate, and watching the numbers... fall. And keep falling, and falling until alarms went off, screeching that something was in fact, wrong.

My midwife came in, convinced that he had moved away from the monitors. She repositioned and reset the system and took the reading that had previously been recorded. Little did I know, she was taking them to one of the doctors, voicing concern for the readings. Within a few minutes, my midwife re-entered the room, "We need to go ahead and do a c-section, we need to get him out, his readings are too flat," she said.

Having read multiple studies where doctors were constantly performing c-sections to fit their personal time table, and not having wanted a c-section, my next question was this: "You're going to do a c-section, rather than just inducing me?" I wanted to make sure I was protecting my body and the development of my baby. I surely didn't want the scar.

"Yes," her kind eyes reassured me, "We cant push a baby out of a closed cervix, and he needs to come out now. Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world."

Some babies just need to be lifted in to this world. Mine was one of them. 

(continued here)