The Story

On a Monday morning in July, I awoke to minimal bleeding when I used the toilet. I panicked. I wiped again, more bleeding. I knew it wasn't good.

For the next 20 minutes, I went from speaking with the on-call OB to wiping again, each time with more blood and clots and back to the phone. I awoke my parents (they were visiting for the night) and said I thought I was having a miscarriage, that I had to get to the hospital ASAP. I was 26 weeks.

At the hospital, they found that I was having premature labor contractions, that my water had broken, and that I was 1 cm dilated. Since the NICU at the hospital was unable to handle the needs of a 26 week gestational age baby, they had to transfer me to another hospital with a Level III NICU. I was pumped full of magnesium sulfate to stop the contractions and sent by ambulance an hour and a half away.

The mag sulfate stopped the contractions, the bleeding stopped, and the new doctor, a perinatologist (since I was now High Risk -- huh, fancy that), looked at the ultrasound results and decided my marginal previa must be acting like a complete previa. Still, he was hopeful it was a one-time only bleed. And since I had lost minimal amniotic fluid, it must have been a small tear in the sac. So I was placed on hospital bedrest for a week. If no new bleeds during that time and no resumption of labor, I could go home and do modified bedrest at home for the remainder of the pregnancy. Thank goodness I was on summer break from school!

Well, that week trial only lasted until Thursday. A small bleed, but it reset the clock. They did tests again, nothing. Still, they thought the previa looked marginal but was acting like a complete. As one doctor said, it was quacking like a duck, so it must be a duck.

It wasn't a duck.

I had a major bleed that Sunday, so major that I scared a tried-and-true labor and delivery nurse by the amount of blood and size of the clot I passed. (I thought it was the baby when it was coming out of me.) I got transfusions and my bleeding stopped. Crisis averted.

Another bleed occured Tuesday. Again, I scared people. (I got so good at that, too.) I had a serious blood pressure dip where the nurse was calling my name and I was unable to respond, just floating there thinking "yeah, what?" But no new blood was needed.

And then Thursday arrived, 11 days after I had first entered the hospital. For the first time, I bled during the daylight hours, at about 7:30 pm. (Always before, it was dark outside, although the bleeds were in the early morning.) And this time, I started bleeding while watching TV laying down. I was doing nothing and just felt the trickling oozing out of me. I stepped to the bedside toilet and had a massive gush. And rang the nurse call bell. When the nurse came in (it was the same one I had terrified prior), I told her I'd been "peeing" for about 2 minutes and I was scared, that surely it wasn't urine. It wasn't. She helped me get horizontal again and the ooze continued. Doctors rushed in, evaluations were made, and I heard the fatal words "no food or drink".

OK, time for an emergency C-section. I was all alone in the hospital and only had 25 minutes notice to let folks know. My labor coach was back home, too far away to help in the time allotted. Besides, I wasn't about to labor: they were pulling my son to save both of our lives. I couldn't reach my folks. In a panic, I called both brothers, told them the news and that I couldn't reach my parents. They took care of matters and right before I was wheeled in for surgery, got the call from my mom saying, "I love you. It will be all right."

And it was. The surgery was performed without a hitch and at 10:29 pm I heard a mewling, like a tiny kitten. It was my 2 lb, 8 oz. son crying. I got a brief glimpse of him before he was rushed to the NICU. Once I was stitched up, I went to the recovery room and was laced with morphine. Good stuff, that. Took the pain away.

Hours later, my brother arrived from a madcap dash from CT to upstate, central NY. He sat with me in the recovery room while we waited for the first trip to see my son. Finally, finally, they were ready for me. Up we went to see him. There he was on the warming table, tiny and dark, with these massive heels upright on the table. While the neonatologist was telling me his status, I marveled at his heels. Just the previous evening, we had played "Catch That Foot" as he kicked me black and blue. And here were the offenders, in person. Well, the little guy was healthy and a fighter, in good shape. Time would tell.

They led me down to the postpartum unit and I slept off the morphine and anesthesia. When I awoke, it was to a visitor (my labor coach and good friend) and a neonatologist ... my son needed breathing help so he was going to be intubated. Was that all right? I said, "Whatever you have to do." I totally did not understand what was going on.

A couple hours later, my brother escorted me up to see my son. And I realized the impact of everything, that this little tiny baby was fighting for his life. But. To foreshadow another day's posting, I have to say that he fought well and God held him in his hands for 115 days. He's now a rather robust (albeit thin) little wonder who won't stop pulling my hair or ears.