As a the mom of a preemie, there are a lot of things that you "lose." The first of which is getting to tell your birth story because not only do you most likely not want to relive it over and over, people generally don't ask either. I'm not sure what is worse, the feeling of guilt because you don't want to talk about your own baby's birth or the fact that no one wants to hear it. Well, I'm ready to tell mine:
For some reason, the second I found out that I was pregnant, I feared that I was going to have to take the twenty-eight week glucose test and that I was going to develop gestational diabetes. Why? I honestly don't know. In my head, however, this was the worst thing that could happen and it was going to happen to me. For about twenty-two weeks, I lived with this fear and expressed it to many people who probably thought that I was insane.
My glucose test was scheduled months in advance for the day after Valentine's Day. Yes, the girl whose biggest fear was gestational diabetes made an appointment for her blood to be drawn the day after after eating tons of chocolate. Makes sense. Regardless, I sat in the waiting room and drank the sugary liquid that they force you to drink (I survived) and then I had my exam with the doctor before my blood work and everything looked great! My blood pressure was 130/90, which is elevated, but I chalked it up to be my nerves and getting worked up about the glucose test. Her one concern was that I was almost twenty-eight weeks along and had lost five pounds since becoming pregnant. I was overweight to start with, so the baby wasn't starving. I told her that I was taking care of myself better, which I was - eating right and less junk food, drinking water, walking every day, and doing prenatal yoga once a week. I was set to visit again in two weeks, so she said we would do an ultrasound to take a better look at him and make sure he was growing on track then, but that I was measuring as I should from the outside. Plus, you start to gain the most weight during the third trimester, and I wasn't quite there yet. The blood work was a quick draw (nothing I wasn't used to after almost three years of trying to get pregnant) and I left happy and healthy.
Two days later, Friday, February 17th, I was at work and the doctor's office called. Because I was covering the front desk that day, I couldn't promptly answer, so I called back when I got someone to come up and handle the phones. It was around 3:30pm and I'll never forget because the voice on the other end told me to head to Vassar straight away. They wanted to repeat some labs because while I didn't have gestational diabetes, the protein levels in my urine were extremely high and they thought it was an error. I called my husband and my parents and filled them in. I asked my dad if I could meet him and my mom at their house so they could drive me to the hospital because they are on the way there and at this point, I wasn't feeling well at all. My husband said that he would head straight there to meet me once I got close. I told my totally awesome (and now scared) coworker that I had to go right away. None of my bosses were in the office that day, so I just left and sped to my parents' house.
Once I got in my dad's car, I started to get a headache. My vision started to blur. I got really nervous. This baby that I had wanted so badly, I was hurting him. There was something wrong. I had just really started feeling him kick and be active, but he had been flipping constantly for a couple of weeks. Now, I felt nothing. When we got to the hospital, I went to the maternity floor, headed to triage and went to the desk. They were expecting me and knew my name right away. The nurse came around the corner and asked, "Are you here for blood work or delivery?" I, at first, didn't realize she was talking to me, but then I laughed in her face and said, "I'm only twenty-seven weeks! I can still see my toes! They just sent me to just some blood drawn." She handed me a gown, sent me to change, brought me to a bed, and I was not prepared for what came next.
They drew my blood, hooked me up to an IV, and that's when I found out that I wasn't going home - at least that night. I had my husband get in touch with my close circle and let them know that I was fine, but that I was in the hospital being monitored. What I didn't have him say was that we were discussing options for emergency delivery and signing paperwork for blood transfusions and resuscitation, if needed. My blood pressure at this point was 170/120. I was on a monitor and they found the baby's heartbeat. He was doing just fine. I, on the other hand, was not. I got my first of two steroid injections because if we needed to deliver, he was so early that his lungs were not fully developed. If we could get both in my system, he would be more likely to survive if I had to deliver him. I was a mess. In a period of just a few short hours, I had gone from pure bliss to being terrified that I was going to lose my baby; but, I tried to stay calm. They would get everything under control, my body would do what it was supposed to, and he would be born in twelve weeks...just like we had planned.
They kept me overnight strapped to a monitor that kept me awake all night, as if I would have been able to sleep, but it was comforting to hear Flynn's little heart flutter all night long. The poor nurse kept having to come in and adjust the monitor because he was moving around so much and she kept apologizing that she was waking me. I didn't care. My baby was alive and happy. I was also hooked up to a blood pressure cuff that went off every 15 minutes and an IV drip of saline because they wanted to monitor my urine to test the protein levels again and see if they dropped over 24 hours. This meant that I had to pee every 30 minutes or so and that I had to wake up my husband to help me unhook myself and reattach everything to a pole to transport it with me to the bathroom. I did eventually learn how to do it myself - which will happen after your tenth time - and was able to stop bothering him.
After a very active night, we were visited by many people from the hospital. The first was a coordinator from the NICU, the second was the head of the NICU, followed by my OBGYN, a hospitalist, and then the anesthesiologist. We were having a baby this weekend. We had originally discussed a vaginal delivery, which really freaked me out. After talking about how fragile his skull was, I was scared. I didn't want to do it. Luckily, they determined that because my blood pressure could not be kept under control, it was better to schedule a c-section. I was more likely to survive an operation than labor and they would do what they could to keep the baby attached to the placenta as long as they could like I wanted. We were prepared by them as best as we could be, but I was scared. Always a planner though, I said, "You may want to call work and let them know that we won't be in on Monday and that I will be starting my maternity leave now." Followed by, "If his nursery wasn't finished, I would really be freaking out right now." Because, in a crisis, I really focus on what's important. Our jobs offered their utmost support and I was overwhelmed by their kindness, especially because my husband had just started a new job just a little over a week prior to all of this. What a whirlwind, but they were able to hold me until twenty-eight weeks.
My c-section was scheduled and I was set to deliver the next morning. They were able to get in the other steroid injection and I was able to not get in any sleep. Instead, I once again listened to my son's heartbeat all night and cried. My nurse was the nicest and sat on the end of my bed holding my hand and told me to try to enjoy the experience for what it was; I was meeting my baby in the morning. The baby that I had hoped for, wished for, begged for. The one that I had put my body through hell for. This was the moment that I had dreamed of...but instead I was crying of fear. Crying because this wasn't fair and my son didn't deserve this. I wasn't scared for surgery, even though it was my first one. I was prepared and I was ready. I was terrified that my baby wouldn't make it. That I loved him so much and he was going to be taken from me before I got to tell him. I wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared to be a mom, but I wasn't prepared to say goodbye.
Morning eventually came after a long night. More doctors and nurses came in to talk to us and prepare us for what no one can prepare for. We were told that he may not come out crying, that he was going to be very small and that we may not get to see him, but to be ready for what he is going to look like, and that they will do what they can for him but that he might not come out breathing. We were thinking the worst, but hoping for the best. I said goodbye to my parents, was wheeled off to be prepped for surgery, and kissed my husband who had to wait in the hallway. They brought me into the cold room, propped me up, give me my spinal tap, helped me lay down, strapped down my shaking arms, hung the curtain, and we were ready to go. My husband came in and held my hand and they made the first cut. There is nothing more strange than being numb from the neck down and knowing people are touching you, but they talked me through everything. Still, nothing prepared me for feeling empty. I knew he was being ripped out of me, even while numb. It felt extra cold. Then something amazing happened...I heard him cry. It was small and it was weak, but it was him. He was here and he was ours and I loved him. They were able to leave him attached to the placenta for about a minute before bringing him to me to get a quick glimpse and whisking him away. As they stitched me back up, we held each other and cried. For me, it was of both joy and sadness: our baby boy was here, but I was afraid for what would happen next and what this would mean for him. He arrived on February 19, 2017 at 10:34am. He weighed 2lbs, 3oz and was 14.25 inches long. We defied the odds and recovered for the next two days before finally getting to meet, but he did get to see his daddy and auntie who told him that I was waiting for him and that he wasn't alone.
For some reason, the second I found out that I was pregnant, I feared that I was going to have to take the twenty-eight week glucose test and that I was going to develop gestational diabetes. Why? I honestly don't know. In my head, however, this was the worst thing that could happen and it was going to happen to me. For about twenty-two weeks, I lived with this fear and expressed it to many people who probably thought that I was insane.
My glucose test was scheduled months in advance for the day after Valentine's Day. Yes, the girl whose biggest fear was gestational diabetes made an appointment for her blood to be drawn the day after after eating tons of chocolate. Makes sense. Regardless, I sat in the waiting room and drank the sugary liquid that they force you to drink (I survived) and then I had my exam with the doctor before my blood work and everything looked great! My blood pressure was 130/90, which is elevated, but I chalked it up to be my nerves and getting worked up about the glucose test. Her one concern was that I was almost twenty-eight weeks along and had lost five pounds since becoming pregnant. I was overweight to start with, so the baby wasn't starving. I told her that I was taking care of myself better, which I was - eating right and less junk food, drinking water, walking every day, and doing prenatal yoga once a week. I was set to visit again in two weeks, so she said we would do an ultrasound to take a better look at him and make sure he was growing on track then, but that I was measuring as I should from the outside. Plus, you start to gain the most weight during the third trimester, and I wasn't quite there yet. The blood work was a quick draw (nothing I wasn't used to after almost three years of trying to get pregnant) and I left happy and healthy.
Two days later, Friday, February 17th, I was at work and the doctor's office called. Because I was covering the front desk that day, I couldn't promptly answer, so I called back when I got someone to come up and handle the phones. It was around 3:30pm and I'll never forget because the voice on the other end told me to head to Vassar straight away. They wanted to repeat some labs because while I didn't have gestational diabetes, the protein levels in my urine were extremely high and they thought it was an error. I called my husband and my parents and filled them in. I asked my dad if I could meet him and my mom at their house so they could drive me to the hospital because they are on the way there and at this point, I wasn't feeling well at all. My husband said that he would head straight there to meet me once I got close. I told my totally awesome (and now scared) coworker that I had to go right away. None of my bosses were in the office that day, so I just left and sped to my parents' house.
Once I got in my dad's car, I started to get a headache. My vision started to blur. I got really nervous. This baby that I had wanted so badly, I was hurting him. There was something wrong. I had just really started feeling him kick and be active, but he had been flipping constantly for a couple of weeks. Now, I felt nothing. When we got to the hospital, I went to the maternity floor, headed to triage and went to the desk. They were expecting me and knew my name right away. The nurse came around the corner and asked, "Are you here for blood work or delivery?" I, at first, didn't realize she was talking to me, but then I laughed in her face and said, "I'm only twenty-seven weeks! I can still see my toes! They just sent me to just some blood drawn." She handed me a gown, sent me to change, brought me to a bed, and I was not prepared for what came next.
They drew my blood, hooked me up to an IV, and that's when I found out that I wasn't going home - at least that night. I had my husband get in touch with my close circle and let them know that I was fine, but that I was in the hospital being monitored. What I didn't have him say was that we were discussing options for emergency delivery and signing paperwork for blood transfusions and resuscitation, if needed. My blood pressure at this point was 170/120. I was on a monitor and they found the baby's heartbeat. He was doing just fine. I, on the other hand, was not. I got my first of two steroid injections because if we needed to deliver, he was so early that his lungs were not fully developed. If we could get both in my system, he would be more likely to survive if I had to deliver him. I was a mess. In a period of just a few short hours, I had gone from pure bliss to being terrified that I was going to lose my baby; but, I tried to stay calm. They would get everything under control, my body would do what it was supposed to, and he would be born in twelve weeks...just like we had planned.
They kept me overnight strapped to a monitor that kept me awake all night, as if I would have been able to sleep, but it was comforting to hear Flynn's little heart flutter all night long. The poor nurse kept having to come in and adjust the monitor because he was moving around so much and she kept apologizing that she was waking me. I didn't care. My baby was alive and happy. I was also hooked up to a blood pressure cuff that went off every 15 minutes and an IV drip of saline because they wanted to monitor my urine to test the protein levels again and see if they dropped over 24 hours. This meant that I had to pee every 30 minutes or so and that I had to wake up my husband to help me unhook myself and reattach everything to a pole to transport it with me to the bathroom. I did eventually learn how to do it myself - which will happen after your tenth time - and was able to stop bothering him.
After a very active night, we were visited by many people from the hospital. The first was a coordinator from the NICU, the second was the head of the NICU, followed by my OBGYN, a hospitalist, and then the anesthesiologist. We were having a baby this weekend. We had originally discussed a vaginal delivery, which really freaked me out. After talking about how fragile his skull was, I was scared. I didn't want to do it. Luckily, they determined that because my blood pressure could not be kept under control, it was better to schedule a c-section. I was more likely to survive an operation than labor and they would do what they could to keep the baby attached to the placenta as long as they could like I wanted. We were prepared by them as best as we could be, but I was scared. Always a planner though, I said, "You may want to call work and let them know that we won't be in on Monday and that I will be starting my maternity leave now." Followed by, "If his nursery wasn't finished, I would really be freaking out right now." Because, in a crisis, I really focus on what's important. Our jobs offered their utmost support and I was overwhelmed by their kindness, especially because my husband had just started a new job just a little over a week prior to all of this. What a whirlwind, but they were able to hold me until twenty-eight weeks.
Morning eventually came after a long night. More doctors and nurses came in to talk to us and prepare us for what no one can prepare for. We were told that he may not come out crying, that he was going to be very small and that we may not get to see him, but to be ready for what he is going to look like, and that they will do what they can for him but that he might not come out breathing. We were thinking the worst, but hoping for the best. I said goodbye to my parents, was wheeled off to be prepped for surgery, and kissed my husband who had to wait in the hallway. They brought me into the cold room, propped me up, give me my spinal tap, helped me lay down, strapped down my shaking arms, hung the curtain, and we were ready to go. My husband came in and held my hand and they made the first cut. There is nothing more strange than being numb from the neck down and knowing people are touching you, but they talked me through everything. Still, nothing prepared me for feeling empty. I knew he was being ripped out of me, even while numb. It felt extra cold. Then something amazing happened...I heard him cry. It was small and it was weak, but it was him. He was here and he was ours and I loved him. They were able to leave him attached to the placenta for about a minute before bringing him to me to get a quick glimpse and whisking him away. As they stitched me back up, we held each other and cried. For me, it was of both joy and sadness: our baby boy was here, but I was afraid for what would happen next and what this would mean for him. He arrived on February 19, 2017 at 10:34am. He weighed 2lbs, 3oz and was 14.25 inches long. We defied the odds and recovered for the next two days before finally getting to meet, but he did get to see his daddy and auntie who told him that I was waiting for him and that he wasn't alone.
First Momma Picture, First Baby Picture (taken by Aunt Alexis)
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