Case in point: the final trimester of my pregnancy. I was just over 32 weeks pregnant when I started having contractions and abnormal bleeding. Some might blame the game of frisbee I played at the beach, or the fact that I spent half of December puking/barfing/pooping/gorging/shopping for ten straight hours, or the pissed off fibroid that decided it HAD HAD ENOUGH. Either way, I hurried off to the hospital in Panama City where I was put under observation. My contractions and the babies heartbeat were monitored. I was indeed having contractions, these were no Braxton Hicks, but I wasn't dilated so I was given medication to stop the contractions and two injections of steroids as well as SIX WEEKS OF BED REST. Old-school bed rest, i.e., no getting up and wandering about, no exercise, no sex, and absolutely no ten hour shopping sprees. Laying in bed like an 18th century consumptive waif.
I spent a week in bed before I started getting contractions again. Strong contractions, intense contractions that refused to desist. I took the medication that the doctor prescribed, I took a nice warm, relaxing bath, I laid still, nothing worked and the contractions only increased in frequency and intensity. After eleven hours of contractions off to the hospital, again.
Strapped into the monitors once again, fetal and contractions. This time I was dilated 2 cm and was the deciding factor in having an emergency c-section, which came as an absolute shock and surprise to me. It was very cut and dry, decided without much of my input (and really, what COULD I say? Can you maybe just stitch me up down there and be done with it? I promise I will lay in bed like an invalid, pinky swear).
I was prepped for surgery and within an hour was wheeled into the OR. Gave me just enough time to text some family and friends, barely holding myself together. My little tough mama was by my side the entire time and was the one to check me into the hospital as my husband had gone back to Penonome earlier that week. Once hubs got the message that I was in the hospital, he left in a hurry back to the city, but was caught my heavy Sunday traffic, so was unable to be in the OR with me (and even if he had been in the city, he would not have been allowed in the OR given that it was a premature delivery and hospital rules dictates that no one can be in there other than the doctors and nurses).
I was to go through the process alone.
At that point I disconnected from the scene. It was like a movie, nurses and doctors in green scrubs, anesthesiologist placing the epidural, strapped into the cross so I wouldn't flail about, the sheet separating me from the grizzly view enfolding beyond. I was terrified, too scared to cry, just had to bite my lip and deal with it (how do women DO it? Do it all?).
After some pushing and shoving, Madeline Anne was brought forth into this world on January 13, 2013. She wailed the moment they pulled her out, all 4lbs 7oz of her. She was not shown to me until after the neonate doctor checked her vitals, but I could see her out of the corner of my eye. My baby, my child. A single tear escaped the confines of my eyes and were the only tears I shed until after I was discharged from the hospital.
Madeline was born six weeks early, at 33 and a half weeks of age. She was born healthy and didn't require oxygen or anything drastic, just a bit of phototherapy as she was jaundiced. She suffered some bruising on her face from the force of pulling her out of my abdomen. She looked like a mini-Rocky. The doctor told us not to get our hopes up; that she'd be in the NICU for at least two weeks minimum. This filled our hearts with dread and dashed our hopes of leaving the drama of the hospital behind. Hospital life is no fun.
As the days progressed we saw how strong our little champ was, despite being in an incubator with cables and tubes criss-crossing her little body. She had a healthy appetite, was quite aware and active, and was not suffering from any infections. We were allowed to visit her from 8am-12pm and from 5-8pm. I was not allowed to hold my baby until the third day and I think this was probably the hardest thing for me. Caressing and speaking to her through the incubator was not enough. I needed to know what she felt like, what her hair smelled of, the warmth of her skin...
Nothing compared to the moment when the doctor finally allowed me to hold my little baby: she was tiny! Tiny but perfect, a miniature version of her father. The NICU nurses taught me how to feed, hold, bathe my baby. Lots of care was needed, lots of love and patience. We were completely nervous but also desperate to take our baby home and after six days we were allowed to do so.
It was akin to a miracle. From a two week minimum stay in the NICU, she was discharged after only six days. What a little champion! What a tenacious fighter!
Madeline Anne came home with us on January 19th, 2013 and ever since then we have been on the amazing, exhausting, incredible journey called parenthood.
