One of the hardest things I've ever had to do as a mother is to leave my child. I had spent 18 days down the hall from her. I could see her each day, check on her, talk to her nurses. For 18 days I was an active part in her life.
I had to leave her. I had to go home. There was no reason for me to be at the hospital. Now I had to heal and be the mommy she needed. There were days I knew what that was and there were days I felt completely inadequate to be her mommy. Our emotional rollercoaster was only beginning. On Valentine's day we got word that Zoe was doing so well that they had moved her to the Intermediate Care Nursery. It was the move before she could come home.
We had been warned that babies born as early as Zoe could go between the NICU and the ICN several times before coming home. We couldn't wait to have her home. Even though we had heard the warning, we hadn't believed it would apply to us.
It would be another 59 days until she could come home.
It would be another 236 hours spent in the car driving back and forth to the hospital.
There were many days where she'd forget to breathe and have an episode. She would develop bradycardia (the heart stops beating) due to her apnea (forgetting to breathe). There were times when I'd watch the monitors and see her breathing stop and her skin turn blue. I had to learn to stimulate her.
Her first bath was in the NICU. Her first bottle was in the NICU. She met D & E from her isolet in the NICU. It was as though N and I had 67 days of training under the watchful eye of medical professionals. Many days I was too weak to spend more than 90 minutes with her. The roundrip added another 2 hours. I could barely function for the first couple weeks because I was so weak.
N and I watched as our daughter fought to survive. Each day that she fought, so did we. We became a team, a unit during this trial. While we still had much more work to do before our unit was a real family, the foundation was laid by Him through Zoe. Her birth prompted in us a radical change that should've been done long before N and I said "I do."
As I look back on this time, so many things were orchestrated by Him, long before we ever realized what we would encounter. I picked a hospital close to work because I selfishly wanted my vacation time. Yet the hospital closest to work is the only hospital with a NICU in the area and a trauma unit. If we had gone to any other hospital, Zoe would've ended up at the this NICU and we would've been separated. I probably would've have survived.
The doctor who ended up fixing my liver is one of the top surgeons in the nation. He just happened to be eating in the cafe as he waited for a meeting to start. He wasn't supposed to be at the hospital that day.
Nurse Becky's sister is a NICU nurse at the hospital. She kept a watchful eye on Zoe when we couldn't be there. All of my nurses and doctors were the best you could find.
My mom was able to use FMLA to be with us for most of my recovery. Without her being there, I probably wouldn't have recovered at all.
Our colleagues and friends that we had there made sure our nursery was stocked when we came home. They did my shopping and prepared us materially for Zoe's arrival.
Our church family here prayed for us, encouraged us and welcomed us home.
It was as though He was showing us all that we had to look forward to once our foundation was in Him. Losing our control wasn't easy nor fun, but once we did it, we have reaped the blessings tenfold.
Every time I hear Zoe take a deep breath over the monitor at night I'm reminded of what each of those breaths means. They are a reminder of where we've come from.
Our journey is a string of moments where God is shaping our lives to bring Him glory.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Making of Our Family - Part VIII
The story is far from over. I would go develop a blood clot bigger than Zoe's head in my liver cavity. That meant another drain. Then came a fever with no reason. That brought fear that I had another clot carrying bacteria. That could be fatal. I was put on blood thinners and having blood drawn twice a day. By then end of day three on the thinners, I looked like an IV drug user. They put in a permanent IV, my third procedure. When those things didn't drop the fever, they discovered fluid on my lungs. They ordered a chest tube be inserted.
During all of this, the chest tube was the moment that I felt confident about going home. I felt confident that this was the thing that would make the fever stop, make the IVs stop, make the healing start. I was also unphased by what else they could do to me. My focus was on getting better so I could focus on Zoe. So I could be the mommy I wanted so badly to be. To have those moments that I had envisioned.
When you have a chest tube put in, you are awake. They numb the area, but it's a surface numbing. You can feel everything about it, except the part on your skin. Because you are coherent, you have an active role in the procedure. At least I did. I can remember laying there, feeling the pain of a tube being inserted between my ribs and then I couldn't breathe.
I had lost my ability to breathe. It was like someone was holding my nose and mouth shut and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
All the noise of the room stopped. Everything went calm. I remember praying, "God, just take care of her. She's in your hands now." At that moment it felt like I was kissed. My lips felt touched. My breath returned.
I layed on the table, able to breathe and listening to the hurried sounds of people coming into the room. A woman ran up to me and placed a mask on my face. A man on the other side of me held my hand.
A peace washed over me. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, both Zoe and I would be okay. The Great Physician was on call. He was in the NICU. He was guiding the doctors and nurses. He was getting us through this.
Just as I felt it would, my fever disappeared and I was cleared to go home on February 13th. That afternoon I said a tearful good-bye to Zoe. I held her, rocked her, sang to her and left her in the NICU. I left her with Him.
During all of this, the chest tube was the moment that I felt confident about going home. I felt confident that this was the thing that would make the fever stop, make the IVs stop, make the healing start. I was also unphased by what else they could do to me. My focus was on getting better so I could focus on Zoe. So I could be the mommy I wanted so badly to be. To have those moments that I had envisioned.
When you have a chest tube put in, you are awake. They numb the area, but it's a surface numbing. You can feel everything about it, except the part on your skin. Because you are coherent, you have an active role in the procedure. At least I did. I can remember laying there, feeling the pain of a tube being inserted between my ribs and then I couldn't breathe.
I had lost my ability to breathe. It was like someone was holding my nose and mouth shut and I couldn't do anything to stop it.
All the noise of the room stopped. Everything went calm. I remember praying, "God, just take care of her. She's in your hands now." At that moment it felt like I was kissed. My lips felt touched. My breath returned.
I layed on the table, able to breathe and listening to the hurried sounds of people coming into the room. A woman ran up to me and placed a mask on my face. A man on the other side of me held my hand.
A peace washed over me. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, both Zoe and I would be okay. The Great Physician was on call. He was in the NICU. He was guiding the doctors and nurses. He was getting us through this.
Just as I felt it would, my fever disappeared and I was cleared to go home on February 13th. That afternoon I said a tearful good-bye to Zoe. I held her, rocked her, sang to her and left her in the NICU. I left her with Him.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Making of Our Family - Part VII
The majority of the danger of continued problems with my liver had subsided by the 28th. I seemed to be out of the danger zone. The drains in my abdomen had slowed. A couple of the IV's were taken out. That horrid jugular vein IV was removed.
I had started to feel a little more normal. I didn't seem as tied to bags of fluid around my bed anymore. The shock of the situation had begun to lessen. I was ready to get in a wheelchair and see my daughter. N was more than ready to introduce me.
The day was filled with visitors. Family who were leaving that day wanted to say good-bye. Nurses who were there when I wasn't coherent wanted to introduce themselves. The lactation specialist was ready for me to start pumping. And Nurse Becky wanted to make sure I was okay.
She had been checking on Zoe for me and assured me she was perfect. She also wanted to share with me those moments of her birth that I had missed. Her first cry and the color of her skin. God sent Becky to be my eyes. What neither N nor I knew when she first came into the Labor and Delivery room that Friday afternoon was that Becky is a Christian.
Not only was she my nurse, she was the one that God had chosen to spring to action to save both Zoe and me. As I lay there, unconscious and broken, Becky was praying for me and for Zoe. The second that she heard Zoe's cry, she fell to her knees and praised God. It was His servant that He entrusted Zoe and I to. She was the one who would pray and thank Him when I couldn't.
After hearing how great Zoe looked at birth, I had more confidence in seeing her. I was still scared of the unknown, but beyond ready to meet her.
N wheeled me into the NICU area and taught me how to scrub my hands so I wouldn't transfer any germs to Zoe. He told me to not touch her too much as that uses calories for her and she needs every calorie she can get.
As he wheeled me past all the isolets with small babies in them, I realized she was 2 days old. Would I recognize her? Would she know me at all? How do I make up for the lost 48 hours?
Then I saw her. She was laying on her back, in a "frog" position. Her skin was pink and somewhat translucent. I was afraid to touch her, not wanting her to lose any calories or to bother her thin skin. The nurse assured me that as long as I kept my hand on her still, she would be fine.
I reached my hand through the small window on the isolet and placed my hand on her leg. Then I began talking to her. At the sound of my voice, she opened her eyes to see me.
N and I had our first moment as a family. The moment we dreamt of on her due date, still 10 weeks in the future. We both had to go through the ordeal, both had to surrender ourselves to Him. On January 28th, we were both the parents Zoe deserved. It wasn't just the three of us in that moment, He was there. He was the foundation for the first time in our lives together. All the fears, all the worries vanished. He would carry us. He had carried us. We just finally saw Him clearly.
I had started to feel a little more normal. I didn't seem as tied to bags of fluid around my bed anymore. The shock of the situation had begun to lessen. I was ready to get in a wheelchair and see my daughter. N was more than ready to introduce me.
The day was filled with visitors. Family who were leaving that day wanted to say good-bye. Nurses who were there when I wasn't coherent wanted to introduce themselves. The lactation specialist was ready for me to start pumping. And Nurse Becky wanted to make sure I was okay.
She had been checking on Zoe for me and assured me she was perfect. She also wanted to share with me those moments of her birth that I had missed. Her first cry and the color of her skin. God sent Becky to be my eyes. What neither N nor I knew when she first came into the Labor and Delivery room that Friday afternoon was that Becky is a Christian.
Not only was she my nurse, she was the one that God had chosen to spring to action to save both Zoe and me. As I lay there, unconscious and broken, Becky was praying for me and for Zoe. The second that she heard Zoe's cry, she fell to her knees and praised God. It was His servant that He entrusted Zoe and I to. She was the one who would pray and thank Him when I couldn't.
After hearing how great Zoe looked at birth, I had more confidence in seeing her. I was still scared of the unknown, but beyond ready to meet her.
N wheeled me into the NICU area and taught me how to scrub my hands so I wouldn't transfer any germs to Zoe. He told me to not touch her too much as that uses calories for her and she needs every calorie she can get.
As he wheeled me past all the isolets with small babies in them, I realized she was 2 days old. Would I recognize her? Would she know me at all? How do I make up for the lost 48 hours?
Then I saw her. She was laying on her back, in a "frog" position. Her skin was pink and somewhat translucent. I was afraid to touch her, not wanting her to lose any calories or to bother her thin skin. The nurse assured me that as long as I kept my hand on her still, she would be fine.
I reached my hand through the small window on the isolet and placed my hand on her leg. Then I began talking to her. At the sound of my voice, she opened her eyes to see me.
N and I had our first moment as a family. The moment we dreamt of on her due date, still 10 weeks in the future. We both had to go through the ordeal, both had to surrender ourselves to Him. On January 28th, we were both the parents Zoe deserved. It wasn't just the three of us in that moment, He was there. He was the foundation for the first time in our lives together. All the fears, all the worries vanished. He would carry us. He had carried us. We just finally saw Him clearly.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
The Making of Our Family - Part VI
The bed was moving. It felt like I was on a air mattress at the lake. I felt warm, like the sun was hitting my skin. There was a wave rolling underneath me. First my feet would raise, then the wave would work it's way up my body, then it would slowly lift my head. Unlike a wave, this one would then move my head and work its way back down to my feet. I wasn't sure if this was a dream or real.
When the wave made it back towards my head, I knew it was real. When it moved my head up, something pulled on my neck. My reaction was to raise my shoulder. Something was attached to my neck and it felt wrong to move it. It felt like something was pulling the skin on my neck. If I was dreaming, this would NOT be part of my dream.
I heard someone by my feet. They seemed to be whispering. I opened my eyes to see N and my mom hugging in the doorway of my room. It was bright and not the same room I remember going into. The room was small and seemed to be appropriate for recovery.
I wasn't in recovery. I was in the Intensive Care Unit. I had been on a ventilator. It was Saturday morning around nine o'clock. Was Zoe okay? What happened? They filled me in on everything. N kissed me and told me our daughter was perfect and beautiful. He couldn't wait for me to meet her.
He assured me she only had two eyes. In my medically induced sleep throughout the night, I would wake up and ask, over and over, how many eyes she had. My only real pregnancy dream was that she was born with three eyes all on one side of her head. Apparently IV medication made that the only real thing I could remember.
N's parents were on their way, my mom, N's sisters and brother in law, my honorary mom and my cousin had already arrived. That's what triggered some foggy memories. I couldn't understand why my cousin was there unless I was in bad shape.
Since I was awake and off the ventilator it was time to move me to the Perinatal Special Care Unit (PSCU). They had a corner room for me, only steps from the NICU entrance where Zoe was.
Here's the thing they don't tell you, when you switch beds, ain't no one gonna move you but you. That's the moment when I realized the full extent of my ordeal. My whole pregnancy I prayed for three things: a healthy daughter, a smiley daughter and no stretch marks. Always those things. Always that order. All of my requests were answered. I realize now to pray specific. I came out with 7 scars.
I had two drains coming out my abdomen, 30-some staples down my stomach, three IV's in my arms and a special IV stitched into my neck, attached to my jugular vein. I didn't like it then and I don't like the memory of it now.
I remember very little of this day, except two things: I was put in a room in the PSCU that would be my home for almost the next 18 days.
I had yet to meet my daughter. I had heard she was beautiful. They called her small, but mighty. I tried to picture 2 pounds and 10 ounces and none of the pictures I could think of were reassuring.
When the wave made it back towards my head, I knew it was real. When it moved my head up, something pulled on my neck. My reaction was to raise my shoulder. Something was attached to my neck and it felt wrong to move it. It felt like something was pulling the skin on my neck. If I was dreaming, this would NOT be part of my dream.
I heard someone by my feet. They seemed to be whispering. I opened my eyes to see N and my mom hugging in the doorway of my room. It was bright and not the same room I remember going into. The room was small and seemed to be appropriate for recovery.
I wasn't in recovery. I was in the Intensive Care Unit. I had been on a ventilator. It was Saturday morning around nine o'clock. Was Zoe okay? What happened? They filled me in on everything. N kissed me and told me our daughter was perfect and beautiful. He couldn't wait for me to meet her.
He assured me she only had two eyes. In my medically induced sleep throughout the night, I would wake up and ask, over and over, how many eyes she had. My only real pregnancy dream was that she was born with three eyes all on one side of her head. Apparently IV medication made that the only real thing I could remember.
N's parents were on their way, my mom, N's sisters and brother in law, my honorary mom and my cousin had already arrived. That's what triggered some foggy memories. I couldn't understand why my cousin was there unless I was in bad shape.
Since I was awake and off the ventilator it was time to move me to the Perinatal Special Care Unit (PSCU). They had a corner room for me, only steps from the NICU entrance where Zoe was.
Here's the thing they don't tell you, when you switch beds, ain't no one gonna move you but you. That's the moment when I realized the full extent of my ordeal. My whole pregnancy I prayed for three things: a healthy daughter, a smiley daughter and no stretch marks. Always those things. Always that order. All of my requests were answered. I realize now to pray specific. I came out with 7 scars.
I had two drains coming out my abdomen, 30-some staples down my stomach, three IV's in my arms and a special IV stitched into my neck, attached to my jugular vein. I didn't like it then and I don't like the memory of it now.
I remember very little of this day, except two things: I was put in a room in the PSCU that would be my home for almost the next 18 days.
I had yet to meet my daughter. I had heard she was beautiful. They called her small, but mighty. I tried to picture 2 pounds and 10 ounces and none of the pictures I could think of were reassuring.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Our Miracle
I have no idea how we went from this:
to this:
Actually, I do know. God's grace allowed it. He sat beside her in the NICU when N and I couldn't. He held her in the NICU when N and I couldn't. He helped her remember to breath when she didn't. She was weak, but He is strong.
He is still all those things to her. To me. To N.
She is our miracle. Our daily reminder of God's presence in our lives. She is the beginning moment, in our string of moments.
to this:
Actually, I do know. God's grace allowed it. He sat beside her in the NICU when N and I couldn't. He held her in the NICU when N and I couldn't. He helped her remember to breath when she didn't. She was weak, but He is strong.
He is still all those things to her. To me. To N.
She is our miracle. Our daily reminder of God's presence in our lives. She is the beginning moment, in our string of moments.
The Making of Our Family - Part V and a Half
At 3:43 pm on Friday, January 26, 2007 Zoe entered our lives. It was 7.5 minutes after we discovered her heartbeat had dropped and Nurse Becky sprang to action.
It was 30 seconds after I felt like a mom.
It was 120 minutes after N began to freak out.
He paced the waiting room. He called my mother on her cell phone. She was en route to Puyallup to spend the weekend with me, unaware that her desire to spend the first bed-rest weekend with her daughter would actually be the weekend of her granddaughter's birth. God had placed on her heart the need to visit. He knew she would need to be there. For me. For N. For Zoe.
N learned that Zoe weighed 2 pounds, 10 ounces at birth and was 14.75 inches long. Her APGAR scores were that of a normal, full-term baby. Because of her prematurity, she was rushed to the NICU. All the hopes of holding her when she came into the world and celebrating with me were gone. Survival became the priority. Survival for him to get through the unknown. Survival for Zoe through prematurity. Survival for me through this medical emergency.
It would be 2 hours before he learned the problem: rapid on-set HELLP syndrome. Blood had pooled quickly in my liver, causing it to expand and rupture. While that was happening, my platelet count dropped. My body had no clotting mechanism. They didn't discover this under after my emergency c-section. They spent almost 3 hours trying to get my blood to clot and repair the damage caused by the HELLP. I had no prior warnings. Two days prior, when I was discharged from the hospital, my blood work showed everything to be normal. I had gone from normal to fatal in a mere 15 hours.
Our family came from all over to be with us. N and my mom took turns beside my bed in ICU. N took turns going between me in the ICU and his daughter in the NICU.
Her chance of survival was 25%. My chance of survival was 10%.
For the first time in our marriage, he fell to his knees before God, begging for a chance to be the family we hadn't been.
For the first time, N put God in the center of our marriage. We were broken. Completely broken. Spiritually, emotionally and physically broken. Only He could heal us.
It was 30 seconds after I felt like a mom.
It was 120 minutes after N began to freak out.
He paced the waiting room. He called my mother on her cell phone. She was en route to Puyallup to spend the weekend with me, unaware that her desire to spend the first bed-rest weekend with her daughter would actually be the weekend of her granddaughter's birth. God had placed on her heart the need to visit. He knew she would need to be there. For me. For N. For Zoe.
N learned that Zoe weighed 2 pounds, 10 ounces at birth and was 14.75 inches long. Her APGAR scores were that of a normal, full-term baby. Because of her prematurity, she was rushed to the NICU. All the hopes of holding her when she came into the world and celebrating with me were gone. Survival became the priority. Survival for him to get through the unknown. Survival for Zoe through prematurity. Survival for me through this medical emergency.
It would be 2 hours before he learned the problem: rapid on-set HELLP syndrome. Blood had pooled quickly in my liver, causing it to expand and rupture. While that was happening, my platelet count dropped. My body had no clotting mechanism. They didn't discover this under after my emergency c-section. They spent almost 3 hours trying to get my blood to clot and repair the damage caused by the HELLP. I had no prior warnings. Two days prior, when I was discharged from the hospital, my blood work showed everything to be normal. I had gone from normal to fatal in a mere 15 hours.
Our family came from all over to be with us. N and my mom took turns beside my bed in ICU. N took turns going between me in the ICU and his daughter in the NICU.
Her chance of survival was 25%. My chance of survival was 10%.
For the first time in our marriage, he fell to his knees before God, begging for a chance to be the family we hadn't been.
For the first time, N put God in the center of our marriage. We were broken. Completely broken. Spiritually, emotionally and physically broken. Only He could heal us.
The Making of Our Family - Part V
I woke up not feeling well. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't pin point if it was the medication or my body. I knew the anxiety I was feeling didn't help. N knew something was bothering me and he was visibly worried.
At eight o'clock sharp that morning I called my doctor. It was Friday and I wanted them to see me before the weekend. I discovered that my doctor took Fridays off. I spoke to another nurse who said it sounded like I had the flu. That I just needed some rest.
Around ten o'clock I started to develop a discomfort in my right side, by the bottom of my rib cage. It wasn't terribly painful, but a constant discomfort. The same nurse told me I had the flu and I needed to stick to the BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce and toast) diet. She assured me I would feel better.
I ate some toast and tried to lay down. The discomfort was becoming more prominent. A nap sounded good, but didn't feel good. Around noon I decided to take a shower and see if that helped me relax. By this time N was up and growing more concerned about me.
By one o'clock I was relaxed enough to feel the full pain of my right side. I knew it wasn't the flu. I knew the BRAT diet wasn't going to fix this. N called the nurse and told her we were coming in. He told me to get my shoes. For the first time in our marriage we were a team.
The 45 minute drive to the hospital was horrible. I felt like I could get sick at any moment. N was trying to determine what to do should something terrible happen.
We made it to the hospital, but I had no idea which way Labor and Delivery was. Our hospital tour was supposed to be arranged around week 35 and I hit 30 weeks that morning. A nice volunteer wheeled me to Labor and Delivery while N parked the car.
It was around 2:15 when we arrived at the hospital and the nurse had called the hospital to let them know we were coming. Apparently they also felt I had the flu because they didn't seem concerned. I could barely walk, could barely get myself on the bed and they got the monitors hooked up. They watched. No contractions and a solid heartbeat. Both were answers to prayers. The question still remained about this intense pain. The inclined bed seemed to help dull the pain as long as I didn't move.
Around three o'clock a nurse came in with a cup. She walked me down the hall to the bathroom. With each moment I was out of the bed, the pain intensified. What should've been a 3 minute walk back to the room took 15 minutes. I held onto the wall for support wondering if I'd even make it back.
N helped me get back on the bed and at 3:15 I felt it. I was going to be sick again. Bless his heart, N found a small spitoon for me. I told him that I started the BRAT diet earlier and he needed to get a nurse with something bigger.
That's when we met Becky. She was the nurse that N found. She brought a bin and an IV. She prepped my hand while I was getting sick, but was gracious enough to wait until I felt the vomiting subside. She informed me that I needed an IV so I wouldn't dehydrate. As soon as she stuck the needle in my hand I felt sweaty and foggy. I slumped back and felt light-headed. Nurse Becky quickly grabbed the monitor to find Zoe's heartbeat. Not able to get a good read, she asked me to rollover. When I tried the pain was so intense I told her she was out of her mind. She looked at me, put a hand on my shoulder and a hand on my hip and said, "I don't think you understand, you have to." With that she rolled me over. The pain was so intense I think I blacked out momentarily. The next thought was "she was right, I did just need to lay on my side." The pain was gone.
So was Zoe's heartbeats per minute. She went from 160 beats per minute to 43. Nurse Becky sprang to action. Within 15 seconds I had 6 nurses around me and Nurse Becky telling me and N, very calmly, that our baby was in danger and we had to do an emergency c-section. I had enough time to give N my glasses and get a kiss.
Before I blinked I was in an operating room, having my arms strapped down and another IV being inserted. A very nice doctor came over and introduced herself to me as Dr. Park. She would be delivering my baby. Because we hadn't signed any forms, she asked, "do you know what's happening? Do you understand what we're doing?" The last thing I remember about Zoe's birth was saying, "I understand. You do whatever it takes to save her."
That was the first moment I felt like a mom.
At eight o'clock sharp that morning I called my doctor. It was Friday and I wanted them to see me before the weekend. I discovered that my doctor took Fridays off. I spoke to another nurse who said it sounded like I had the flu. That I just needed some rest.
Around ten o'clock I started to develop a discomfort in my right side, by the bottom of my rib cage. It wasn't terribly painful, but a constant discomfort. The same nurse told me I had the flu and I needed to stick to the BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce and toast) diet. She assured me I would feel better.
I ate some toast and tried to lay down. The discomfort was becoming more prominent. A nap sounded good, but didn't feel good. Around noon I decided to take a shower and see if that helped me relax. By this time N was up and growing more concerned about me.
By one o'clock I was relaxed enough to feel the full pain of my right side. I knew it wasn't the flu. I knew the BRAT diet wasn't going to fix this. N called the nurse and told her we were coming in. He told me to get my shoes. For the first time in our marriage we were a team.
The 45 minute drive to the hospital was horrible. I felt like I could get sick at any moment. N was trying to determine what to do should something terrible happen.
We made it to the hospital, but I had no idea which way Labor and Delivery was. Our hospital tour was supposed to be arranged around week 35 and I hit 30 weeks that morning. A nice volunteer wheeled me to Labor and Delivery while N parked the car.
It was around 2:15 when we arrived at the hospital and the nurse had called the hospital to let them know we were coming. Apparently they also felt I had the flu because they didn't seem concerned. I could barely walk, could barely get myself on the bed and they got the monitors hooked up. They watched. No contractions and a solid heartbeat. Both were answers to prayers. The question still remained about this intense pain. The inclined bed seemed to help dull the pain as long as I didn't move.
Around three o'clock a nurse came in with a cup. She walked me down the hall to the bathroom. With each moment I was out of the bed, the pain intensified. What should've been a 3 minute walk back to the room took 15 minutes. I held onto the wall for support wondering if I'd even make it back.
N helped me get back on the bed and at 3:15 I felt it. I was going to be sick again. Bless his heart, N found a small spitoon for me. I told him that I started the BRAT diet earlier and he needed to get a nurse with something bigger.
That's when we met Becky. She was the nurse that N found. She brought a bin and an IV. She prepped my hand while I was getting sick, but was gracious enough to wait until I felt the vomiting subside. She informed me that I needed an IV so I wouldn't dehydrate. As soon as she stuck the needle in my hand I felt sweaty and foggy. I slumped back and felt light-headed. Nurse Becky quickly grabbed the monitor to find Zoe's heartbeat. Not able to get a good read, she asked me to rollover. When I tried the pain was so intense I told her she was out of her mind. She looked at me, put a hand on my shoulder and a hand on my hip and said, "I don't think you understand, you have to." With that she rolled me over. The pain was so intense I think I blacked out momentarily. The next thought was "she was right, I did just need to lay on my side." The pain was gone.
So was Zoe's heartbeats per minute. She went from 160 beats per minute to 43. Nurse Becky sprang to action. Within 15 seconds I had 6 nurses around me and Nurse Becky telling me and N, very calmly, that our baby was in danger and we had to do an emergency c-section. I had enough time to give N my glasses and get a kiss.
Before I blinked I was in an operating room, having my arms strapped down and another IV being inserted. A very nice doctor came over and introduced herself to me as Dr. Park. She would be delivering my baby. Because we hadn't signed any forms, she asked, "do you know what's happening? Do you understand what we're doing?" The last thing I remember about Zoe's birth was saying, "I understand. You do whatever it takes to save her."
That was the first moment I felt like a mom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)