"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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment