It Was the Worst of Times, Part 2

I had such a great pregnancy. Completely healthy, no issues at all. I had no thought that the delivery and birth could be any different. I had read every pregnancy and childbirth ever written, I'd taken my classes, hired a doula, written a birth plan. I had told my doctor of my intentions for a natural drug-free delivery.

Pretty much none of that went according to plan, but really, that part doesn't matter to me. I wasn't there to have a particular experience myself. I was there to do whatever I could do to deliver a healthy baby and all the decisions we made throughout my labor were done with that in mind. So, when Soren came out there was a lot of rejoicing because we'd accomplished just that. We had our bouncing baby boy!

I'm not sure exactly when I was aware that something was wrong. His Apgar numbers were good. But then they noticed that he was not breathing very well and so they rushed him off to the NICU to see what they could do for him. I told Peter to go with him, to stay with him and to keep his hands on Soren so that he could feel Peter with him.

I was wheeled to the recovery room where I pretty much just spaced out, still pretty drugged up after the c-section. I wasn't really worried, I knew he was getting great care, and was still totally oblivious that anything could be seriously wrong. My mom came in and sat with me for awhile. And after I had recovered a bit they wheeled my bed down to the NICU so that I could see him. I remember reaching over and stroking him under the chin. My first words were "he's so soft." I'm not sure what kinds of tubes and hoses he had on at that point. I just saw my little boy.

After that they wheeled me to my room. I'm not sure what happened next, but it feels like I pretty much just layed there for a few hours. Still totally oblivious. Looking back, that is one of the harder things for me to understand. How is it that I took so long to comprehend what was happening? Even when Peter came back and told me about the worrisome reports from the doctors, I still didn't get it. I heard bad things but somehow they didn't really settle in my mind the way things normally settle in. I suppose it simply could be the drugs. But I'm actually tempted to just label it "grace" because it seems that I really was able to only take in as much as I could handle just then.

Peter was so incredible during the whole experience. So calm, logical, rational and loving. Truly perfect. He'd go in to the NICU and consult with the doctors and nurses about Soren's care, and then he'd come and report back to me, and our families who were anxious for news. I learned during this experience that I'd better be the one of us who dies first. I really want him there watching over me when it comes time to die. Me, I'm afraid I won't be nearly as much use to him as Peter is to others.



Soren's life was in danger for the first three or four days. There was a significant chance that he might not survive. I can remember my first meeting with his intensive care doctor. She laid out all the details, the complete situation, what they were trying. And again, the message just didn't quite get through to me. I asked her "So, do babies sometimes die from this?" She looked me straight in the eye and answered "Yes."

Ah, I finally heard that.

Soren's Michigan grandparents were in town to welcome their new grandson into the world. They ran errands for us and stayed at our house while we were in the hospital. Every day they'd come in for the update and we'd rejoice that Soren had made it through another night. We weren't very good about visiting with them though, and so my dad went to our house just feeling the need to be useful and totally cleaned the garage and detailed both our cars. They haven't been that clean ever again. Jan did all our laundry, made sure our house was in order and that the food and things we'd abandoned didn't get old. They bought me a robe and slippers so that I could look cute in my long time at the hospital.



My mom came every day too. I remember one time when I told her that I just couldn't talk to her. I didn't have the energy anymore, not for anyone. I couldn't even sit and talk with my own mother. I just needed to lay on my bed in a daze.

For the first several days Peter spent most of his time at Soren's bed. I was still recovering from the surgery. They told me that when people are experiencing an emotional trauma at the same time as recovering from a surgery, that the pain can sometimes be worse. Whatever the reason, I was in a lot of pain. Whenever I wanted to see Soren, a nurse would put me in a wheelchair and roll me down to see him. I'd sit there next to him and then call them to roll me back to my room. Then I'd lay in my bed and cry. From the disappointment and fear. That image of myself being wheeled into my critically ill son's room really epitomizes for me the starkness of that scary time.



He had so many contraptions attached to him. He was on so many drugs. So much for my healthy-living pregnancy and drug-free plans for delivery. Now our son was being pumped full of the big gun drugs. Morphine. Doesn't just the name of that drug sound serious? Like an end-of-life paliative. He was even on a drug for awhile to paralyze him. They did a spinal tap to rule out meningitis. A spinal tap! He had a lot of chest xrays. One of his lungs had collapsed and they needed to monitor how it was progressing.

Wow, looks like I really do have a lot to say on this subject, eh? I guess I'll break it into another installment tomorrow.