Pregnancy Update: A change of plans.
February 5, 2014 started out a normal, lovely day. Ben was home and we spent the morning snuggling, talking, and playing with the boys. As Ben headed off to a wrestling tournament, I looked at my to-do list and made my way to the store for some groceries.
I parked the car and walked inside. As I grabbed a cart and took another look at my list, I felt a sudden gush of fluid in my pants. I halted the cart in the middle of the entry as my eyes widened and I looked to the floor. Horrified that my 24-year-old self had wet my pants, I rushed to the bathroom to investigate. Since I was able to pee a little bit, I figured everything was fine and I was just another pregnant girl who lost bladder control in the grocery store.
But as I continued to shop, the fluid continued to slowly trickle out of me. Tears stung my eyes as I considered the possibility that my water had just broke. Four freaking months early. My breathing started to be rapid, and like I have so many times during this pregnancy, I told myself to calm down. "Everything will be ok," I tried to assure myself, but not believing it. I called my doctor, stating that I was probably paranoid, but I thought my water may have broken.
I was told to head to labor and delivery to be evaluated. I prayed to be sent on my way, hoping I had, in fact, peed my pants. I changed into a billowing hospital gown that hid the belly I had come to love and work so hard for. Unconsciously, I tightened the straps so that at least I could see the small mound which signaled my son's existence.
A nurse came in to do an assessment and gave me a sympathetic head tilt when I told her I was 22 weeks, 6 days along. As we talked, a puddle of fluid began to build beneath me. The nurse grabbed some litmus paper and we both sighed as it turned dark blue. Amniotic fluid. On the bed. No longer inside me cushioning and protecting my sweet baby.
I closed my eyes briefly and tried to focus on making air go in and out of my lungs. Being a NICU nurse, ignorance to the horrific indications of premature rupture of membranes, especially this early, was not on my side. My mind replayed all the experiences I had had with babies born at 23 weeks--many of them tragic. I wished I could stop seeing those little babies I had taken care of, fighting for life with all the vigor of their mere one pound bodies.
I couldn't. I rubbed my belly, hoping to some how speed up the growth of my little boy.
I felt a waterfall of tears trying to escape behind my eyes as the whirlwind of admission to the hospital took place. I would be a hostage in the antepartum unit until I gave birth.
Suddenly, I was aware that my naive visions of a chubby, full term, healthy baby were vanishing all too quickly. My son would be in the NICU--probably for the first few months of his life. He would probably need help breathing and be on medications to make the simple things like maintaining his heart rate easier. All of this assuming that he would live at all.
I knew this little boy would come early, I just didn't know when. I prayed for strength. For courage to face the next few hours.
My sister and a very flustered, worried Ben rallied to my side as an IV was started and multiple specialists came to my bedside to discuss what was happening. I was carted in a wheelchair to maternal fetal medicine for a baseline ultrasound.
Our little one was unrecognizable on ultrasound--with no amniotic fluid left to make imaging clear, I could no longer clearly see his beautiful face, graceful legs, and sweet little hands. I teared up thinking about the scan we had a few days earlier and how quickly our lives had been pulled into this nightmare.
The perinatologist spoke with us about the scan. Baby boy looked structurally normal and seemed healthy at a whopping 1.3 pounds. My cervix was still thick and closed, signaling the rupture was probably due to weak membrane structure. Tears continued from both of us as she printed off a picture of our son's face and told us how handsome she thought he was.
We went back to the room and were greeted by a neonatologist--one of my respected and brilliant colleagues. He shook his head and reached for my hand saying, "I know our census in the unit is low, but I really don't want to admit your baby right now."
He openly and honestly discussed what life would look like if I delivered the baby in the next few days. I appreciated his ability to treat me like a patient instead of a nurse and his avoidance of unrealistic expectations. We were told if I gave birth that night, the baby had a survival rate of about five percent. The first 48-72 hours were the most critical and the most likely time for labor to start.
Every hour I could stay pregnant meant three days less in the NICU and increased the chances of survival greatly for our son.
The doctor asked us about our feelings and thoughts to which a million emotions came bubbling like hot lava to the surface. I felt conflicted. So torn between the two women who seemed to encompass the person I am. The woman who yearned for a child for so many years and put her body though hell to get pregnant wanted her son to live and have every medical intervention possible--no matter the emotional, physical, or financial cost. The other woman, the knowledgeable NICU nurse, didn't want her boy to suffer or live with the long term effects that medical interventions can have. She didn't want to keep him from returning to heaven if life on earth wasn't one of quality or meant to be.
We tearfully made a choice that no parent should never have to make. We decided that if I had our baby in the next three days, the NICU team would try to help our little son's small, rock-like lungs breath. If they were successful and he responded with stable vital signs, they would take the next step. But only if he responded positively--we would not push him for our own selfish interests. If breathing for him didn't work or was too hard to maintain, they would stop. They would bring our son to us we would cherish holding and meeting our him for whatever time he would have on earth.
The prospect of losing our son became very real at this moment, but I felt a strange, unexpected peace. My mind was given the clear, hopeful thoughts of how incredibly special our son was and how mighty his spirit was. There was a good possibility he wouldn't need a body to do what he was meant to. Let alone a full term one.
I vowed to do my part. I would be a good, obedient patient so that I could be a good mom. If they wanted me on bed rest, I would be the laziest girl around. If they wanted to hang me by my feet and only let me eat jello to keep my boy in, fine.
As the visitors and specialists trickled out and the sun fell, Ben and I found ourselves alone with the sound of our baby's heart beat resonating softly in the background. I looked into his worried eyes and started to sob, giving in completely to the myriad of emotions I had been holding back.
He held my shaking, quivering form as I asked the questioned the reason we were there. Why did this happen? We had worked so hard to even get pregnant, why have that taken away now? Were we bad people? Why did our little boy have to go through this? Why couldn't I have more time to prepare?
I didn't know the answers. I may never know. I did know that the Lord was aware of us and loved us, so I held onto that little ray of light in the pit of darkness that surrounded me.
Ben gave me a blessing of peace, comfort, and the ability to heed the spirit.
During the rest of the evening, the team prepared me and the baby the best they could with multiple medicines and infusions. I received a betamethasone shot to boost the baby's lungs, started on Mag Sulfate which is used mainly for neurological protection in premature babies, and received my first doses of IV antibiotics to prevent infection. The combination of the three made me nauseous and I spent a good part of the night having hot flashes and feeling downright miserable.
Nurses checked on me hourly to monitor the possible side effects of the Mag, so sleep wasn't an option. I spent much of the night trying to stay hooked to monitors that kept falling off my little belly. The only comfort I found came from softly and tearfully humming hymns to myself. Morning could not have come soon enough.
As shift change happened, I felt like we had won a tiny battle in this war. We had made it through the night without contractions or full blown labor. At least it was something.
We sighed with sweet relief when we made it through 24 hours, then 48, then 72. We still have a long way to go, but we are confident. Our son is a fighter.
Over the last few days, I have lived for the tiny battles we would win: a reassuring non-stress test, no longer needing the Mag infusion, and making it through another hour with my son inside me.
Honestly, it all seems very hazy and sometimes I wait for myself to wake up. But given what we have been given, we are doing exceptionally well. I am praised by my husband, nurses, and doctors daily for sitting on my butt and being boring. As of today, things couldn't really be any better. I am still pregnant. The baby is still alive and doing ok. And I haven't gone into labor. Life is good.
I will have been in the hospital a week tomorrow and we are making this place our home. I absolutely live for boring days and wouldn't have it any other way. While the highlights of my day include: trips to the bathroom, a shower every few days, and reading to my son while we have non-stress tests twice a day, it's all worth it.
I am so grateful for this experience. I'm gagging a bit as I write this, but I really am, in many regards, lucky to be here. I am receiving excellent care, getting A LOT of rest, and the food ain't that bad. Probably the biggest blessing is the time I have been given to spend with my son. As a friend related, he is closer to me now than he will ever be and I love our quiet moments together.
I just love him. So, I will continue to lay on this bed and pray for a little more time.
I parked the car and walked inside. As I grabbed a cart and took another look at my list, I felt a sudden gush of fluid in my pants. I halted the cart in the middle of the entry as my eyes widened and I looked to the floor. Horrified that my 24-year-old self had wet my pants, I rushed to the bathroom to investigate. Since I was able to pee a little bit, I figured everything was fine and I was just another pregnant girl who lost bladder control in the grocery store.
But as I continued to shop, the fluid continued to slowly trickle out of me. Tears stung my eyes as I considered the possibility that my water had just broke. Four freaking months early. My breathing started to be rapid, and like I have so many times during this pregnancy, I told myself to calm down. "Everything will be ok," I tried to assure myself, but not believing it. I called my doctor, stating that I was probably paranoid, but I thought my water may have broken.
I was told to head to labor and delivery to be evaluated. I prayed to be sent on my way, hoping I had, in fact, peed my pants. I changed into a billowing hospital gown that hid the belly I had come to love and work so hard for. Unconsciously, I tightened the straps so that at least I could see the small mound which signaled my son's existence.
A nurse came in to do an assessment and gave me a sympathetic head tilt when I told her I was 22 weeks, 6 days along. As we talked, a puddle of fluid began to build beneath me. The nurse grabbed some litmus paper and we both sighed as it turned dark blue. Amniotic fluid. On the bed. No longer inside me cushioning and protecting my sweet baby.
I closed my eyes briefly and tried to focus on making air go in and out of my lungs. Being a NICU nurse, ignorance to the horrific indications of premature rupture of membranes, especially this early, was not on my side. My mind replayed all the experiences I had had with babies born at 23 weeks--many of them tragic. I wished I could stop seeing those little babies I had taken care of, fighting for life with all the vigor of their mere one pound bodies.
I couldn't. I rubbed my belly, hoping to some how speed up the growth of my little boy.
I felt a waterfall of tears trying to escape behind my eyes as the whirlwind of admission to the hospital took place. I would be a hostage in the antepartum unit until I gave birth.
Suddenly, I was aware that my naive visions of a chubby, full term, healthy baby were vanishing all too quickly. My son would be in the NICU--probably for the first few months of his life. He would probably need help breathing and be on medications to make the simple things like maintaining his heart rate easier. All of this assuming that he would live at all.
I knew this little boy would come early, I just didn't know when. I prayed for strength. For courage to face the next few hours.
My sister and a very flustered, worried Ben rallied to my side as an IV was started and multiple specialists came to my bedside to discuss what was happening. I was carted in a wheelchair to maternal fetal medicine for a baseline ultrasound.
Our little one was unrecognizable on ultrasound--with no amniotic fluid left to make imaging clear, I could no longer clearly see his beautiful face, graceful legs, and sweet little hands. I teared up thinking about the scan we had a few days earlier and how quickly our lives had been pulled into this nightmare.
The perinatologist spoke with us about the scan. Baby boy looked structurally normal and seemed healthy at a whopping 1.3 pounds. My cervix was still thick and closed, signaling the rupture was probably due to weak membrane structure. Tears continued from both of us as she printed off a picture of our son's face and told us how handsome she thought he was.
We went back to the room and were greeted by a neonatologist--one of my respected and brilliant colleagues. He shook his head and reached for my hand saying, "I know our census in the unit is low, but I really don't want to admit your baby right now."
He openly and honestly discussed what life would look like if I delivered the baby in the next few days. I appreciated his ability to treat me like a patient instead of a nurse and his avoidance of unrealistic expectations. We were told if I gave birth that night, the baby had a survival rate of about five percent. The first 48-72 hours were the most critical and the most likely time for labor to start.
Every hour I could stay pregnant meant three days less in the NICU and increased the chances of survival greatly for our son.
The doctor asked us about our feelings and thoughts to which a million emotions came bubbling like hot lava to the surface. I felt conflicted. So torn between the two women who seemed to encompass the person I am. The woman who yearned for a child for so many years and put her body though hell to get pregnant wanted her son to live and have every medical intervention possible--no matter the emotional, physical, or financial cost. The other woman, the knowledgeable NICU nurse, didn't want her boy to suffer or live with the long term effects that medical interventions can have. She didn't want to keep him from returning to heaven if life on earth wasn't one of quality or meant to be.
We tearfully made a choice that no parent should never have to make. We decided that if I had our baby in the next three days, the NICU team would try to help our little son's small, rock-like lungs breath. If they were successful and he responded with stable vital signs, they would take the next step. But only if he responded positively--we would not push him for our own selfish interests. If breathing for him didn't work or was too hard to maintain, they would stop. They would bring our son to us we would cherish holding and meeting our him for whatever time he would have on earth.
The prospect of losing our son became very real at this moment, but I felt a strange, unexpected peace. My mind was given the clear, hopeful thoughts of how incredibly special our son was and how mighty his spirit was. There was a good possibility he wouldn't need a body to do what he was meant to. Let alone a full term one.
I vowed to do my part. I would be a good, obedient patient so that I could be a good mom. If they wanted me on bed rest, I would be the laziest girl around. If they wanted to hang me by my feet and only let me eat jello to keep my boy in, fine.
As the visitors and specialists trickled out and the sun fell, Ben and I found ourselves alone with the sound of our baby's heart beat resonating softly in the background. I looked into his worried eyes and started to sob, giving in completely to the myriad of emotions I had been holding back.
He held my shaking, quivering form as I asked the questioned the reason we were there. Why did this happen? We had worked so hard to even get pregnant, why have that taken away now? Were we bad people? Why did our little boy have to go through this? Why couldn't I have more time to prepare?
I didn't know the answers. I may never know. I did know that the Lord was aware of us and loved us, so I held onto that little ray of light in the pit of darkness that surrounded me.
Ben gave me a blessing of peace, comfort, and the ability to heed the spirit.
During the rest of the evening, the team prepared me and the baby the best they could with multiple medicines and infusions. I received a betamethasone shot to boost the baby's lungs, started on Mag Sulfate which is used mainly for neurological protection in premature babies, and received my first doses of IV antibiotics to prevent infection. The combination of the three made me nauseous and I spent a good part of the night having hot flashes and feeling downright miserable.
Nurses checked on me hourly to monitor the possible side effects of the Mag, so sleep wasn't an option. I spent much of the night trying to stay hooked to monitors that kept falling off my little belly. The only comfort I found came from softly and tearfully humming hymns to myself. Morning could not have come soon enough.
As shift change happened, I felt like we had won a tiny battle in this war. We had made it through the night without contractions or full blown labor. At least it was something.
We sighed with sweet relief when we made it through 24 hours, then 48, then 72. We still have a long way to go, but we are confident. Our son is a fighter.
Over the last few days, I have lived for the tiny battles we would win: a reassuring non-stress test, no longer needing the Mag infusion, and making it through another hour with my son inside me.
Honestly, it all seems very hazy and sometimes I wait for myself to wake up. But given what we have been given, we are doing exceptionally well. I am praised by my husband, nurses, and doctors daily for sitting on my butt and being boring. As of today, things couldn't really be any better. I am still pregnant. The baby is still alive and doing ok. And I haven't gone into labor. Life is good.
I will have been in the hospital a week tomorrow and we are making this place our home. I absolutely live for boring days and wouldn't have it any other way. While the highlights of my day include: trips to the bathroom, a shower every few days, and reading to my son while we have non-stress tests twice a day, it's all worth it.
I am so grateful for this experience. I'm gagging a bit as I write this, but I really am, in many regards, lucky to be here. I am receiving excellent care, getting A LOT of rest, and the food ain't that bad. Probably the biggest blessing is the time I have been given to spend with my son. As a friend related, he is closer to me now than he will ever be and I love our quiet moments together.
I just love him. So, I will continue to lay on this bed and pray for a little more time.
prayers Whit, A whole Lot Of Prayers For You AndBabyBoy, and DaDdy
ReplyDeleteAnnie
Dearest Whit,
ReplyDeleteYou are a beautiful writer. Thank you for sharing your experience. It definitely humbled me today. Zach and I are praying for you three. I admire the faith that you and Ben have in Christ and our Father in Heaven. I admire your willingness to let His will bring peace into your souls. Your names are in the temple and our hearts. I'm so sorry you all are having to endure this. Love you friend.
-Jess