I had a healthy pregnancy, with the exception of severe morning sickness, and everything seemed to be on track. Having been previously treated for PCOS and a false-cancer scare for the past three years, with a D&C (not due to a miscarriage/abortion) followed by biopsies every two-three months, my doctors kept a close eye on me. I had my normal OB GYN, a high risk OB GYN, a gynecologic oncologist, an allergist, an endocrinologist, and a cardiologist. All of the tests came back normal. We learned our baby’s gender (a boy!) around 21 weeks, and as I was sitting on the couch working on our registry at 22 weeks, the contractions started.
At first, I thought they were just Braxton Hicks contractions, which several of my friends had spoken of, but as the afternoon progressed into evening, they kept getting stronger and stronger. We called my OB GYN’s after hours number, and left a message. She called us back within a couple of minutes. Thinking that I was dehydrated, she told me to drink a quart of water and then see if I felt better. I drank the water, but the contractions grew stronger to where I had trouble breathing, so my husband called in a favor with one of our friends, who drove me to the hospital. I tested positive for a UTI and was about to be sent home when the doctor’s face went pale, “change of plans,” she said, confirming that I was 22 weeks and dilated. I was in labor.
Over the course of the next 18 hours or so, I was hooked to IV’s, monitors, and leg massagers (to help prevent clots); and given fluids, medications, shots, a catheter, and several exams. My doctor, the high risk doctor, nurses, technicians, and the NICU staff came in and out, discussing this and that. For what seemed like an eternity, all I could think of was my high school friend who went into labor at 23 weeks and six days. Her hospital refused to treat preemies before 24 weeks, and I knew my hospital’s policy was 23 (officially, I was 22 weeks and six days, though I knew he was younger than that). She gave birth to her daughter, who was breathing and crying on her own, but not strong enough to make it without intervention. The doctors refused to help, and she died in my friend’s arms while they begged for her life. I tried to focus on the heart beat monitor, it told me he was still alive, if for a bit longer.
Hubby and I contacted friends and family. His mother and step-father had just landed in Japan, half a globe away. His father had passed away the year prior, and even in the hospital, we were trying to help settle the estate. As the hours progressed, and the results came in, the doctors said our son was big enough, if just barely, for them to try. It was all a matter of whether or not their smallest breathing tube could fit down his airway. I was injected with additional medications to help his lungs as we stalled for as long as we could.
I had been considering a natural birth, not an emergency c-section, which I knew hardly anything about. You see, the pregnancy was still so early that we hadn’t even signed up for the delivery classes yet. I felt nervous, but also calm as I went into the operating room. Around 32 hours after my labor had begun, my arms were strapped to the operating table, like I was flying, or being crucified. I soon discovered why – the epidural made them flap uncontrollably. After scrubbing in and donning a new surgical wardrobe, hubby soon joined me. The procedure was painless, though I couldn’t see anything through the curtain, and my son was whisked away to the side of the room by his own team of doctors. He was unresponsive, an Apgar Score of 0.
I lay there listening, praying, and watching the backs of my son’s medical team. I didn’t care what was going on with my own body, I just wanted him to be OK. And then, I heard it – his heart beat monitor – they were able to resuscitate, get a breathing tube in, and he was alive! I took a deep breath of relief.
After a couple more minutes, they led hubby over and he was able to hold his hand, which was about the size of the tip of his finger. They took his very first photo in the outside world, and rolled his incubator over to me for a minute. I couldn’t really see him well, just a little bit of his side, from my position, but I could breathe again. They whisked him off to the NICU, closed me up, and I went into recovery before being taken to my room.
Hubby was able to visit with him some that night, but I wasn’t yet strong enough. My nurse went down and helped him take photos and a couple of videos, which I cherish. I could see him kicking! They checked on me through the night, taking my blood pressure and other vitals often, and showed me how to use the breast pump. The next morning, my doctor was concerned that I only wanted ibuprofen, but the pain was manageable, and I didn’t want to feel foggy. I wanted to be fully alert for any life or death decisions I had to make. After my exam, and getting unhooked from some of the equipment, I was able to take a few steps, get cleaned up, and use a wheelchair to see him, and what would become our second home, for the first time.