Arrival at the hospital was humiliating. In spite of the
early morning hour, several people stood outside the emergency room, and gaped
at me and whispered to each other as the paramedics wheeled me through the
doors. Shielding my eyes with my arm to block out their curious gazes, I
extinguished a desire to scream at them: How
can you gawk at me like that? Can’t you understand the danger my baby faces?
I was fighting to hang onto two lives, riddled with a sense of hopelessness and
reeling from a sense of powerless threading through my mind and body.
I’d always
taken great pride in my ability to control my emotions. Years of athletic
competition conditioned me to keep my emotions in check and my body in control.
That body had incurred serious skeletal fractures and numerous soft tissue
injuries during my eleven years as a competitive gymnast. My first coach was a
flat-topped former Marine who tolerated little or no emotional displays.
Emotional displays brought swift, physical discipline. I was a hardened
survivor of stressful situations and squashing tears.
In this
environment – under these circumstances – my highly trained self-control
teetered at its breaking point. Problems like this happened to others, not to
me. Barely able to communicate with the medical team, I balanced precipitously
on the edge of my composure limits. Now I was obligated to place my broken body
and unborn baby’s life in someone else’s hands. My spiritual and physical
health and my baby’s life were in the hands of God, and the attending physician
He selected for me. But was I willing to give them over completely to Him?
Unfortunately,
I didn’t abdicate. After so many years of indoctrination in the art of doing
mental and physical battle with my body – without much prayer – I didn’t know
how to surrender.
Soon I was
relocated to a small, private room for evaluation. The emergency physician
repeatedly ran in, peppered me with questions, and then disappeared to discuss
my answers with the on-call obstetrician communicating with her by car phone.
Then she’d return to explain the situation to me. While she shuttled to and
from my room, a nurse kept me alert by threading more tubes into my body and
treating me to graphic details of his motorcycle accident that planted him in
an emergency room bed. I was grateful for the company, distraction, and
sympathetic ear. Here was someone who understood the helpless feeling that
arises from being on the vulnerable end of an examining table.
But the
admitting clerk wasn’t compassionate. She blew into the room, barraged me
with barely audible questions and presented forms I couldn’t sit up or control
the pen or paper to sign. Her smiling insensitivity annoyed me, but I dutifully
read, responded and scratched out a signature.
Suddenly I
heard Chris’s voice outside the room, and with a titanic sigh of relief, I
relaxed. He cautiously entered the small room, a mixed look of shock and fear wrinkling
his face. My sleepy toddler eyed me questionably, then grinned and
enthusiastically belted out a, “Hi, Mommy!”
Oh, how I
ached to hold my son and reassure him that all would be well, but I couldn’t
explain reality to him. I simply locked eyes with him and returned his smile.
He and Chris’s physical presence was more than adequate to calm a frightened,
weak woman.
The staff
secured admitting tags around my wrists and arranged to relocate me to the
obstetrics and gynecology unit for examination by the on-call obstetrician when he arrived. First, my bed’s side rail needed adjusting before I could be
moved, so Chris and a nurse tried wrestling it into position. When the aged
nurse doubled over to do single-handed combat with the stubborn rail, alarmed
grimaces passed between Chris and me. If
they can’t set a bed rail, how can they save my baby? I wondered.
A man
wearing green scrubs and brown penny loafers padded abruptly toward us then
immediately and authoritatively relayed directions to the nurse. Without a hello, hi, or introduction
he started talking to us. That was it. My frustration level spiked, driving me
to prop myself on my elbows and look him squarely in the face. “So, who are you anyway?” I demanded.
“Oh, I’m
Dr. Gordon,” he responded, smiling matter-of-factly.*
“Oh, you’re the one they’ve been talking to
on the phone about me.”
“Yes," he nodded.
I wanted
him to talk to me straight. “I’m a certified athletic trainer, Dr. Gordon. I’ve
worked in orthopedics for years, and I’m going to be honest with you. I have no patience for egotistical doctors.” I
locked mildly squinted eyes with him as I spoke.
A grin
spread across his face as he nodded. “Okay, good. I won’t sugarcoat anything.” With
barely a discernible breath, he launched into his professional assessment of my
condition and his treatment plans. He was honest, blunt, and direct, respectful of
my ability to absorb difficult information and understand the gravity of the
situation, with its potential consequences for me, and for my unborn child.
Instantly, we secured a respectful rapport with one another. I knew
instinctively I could trust him.
He was
convinced I had a hemorrhaging placenta previa and explained that one of my
arteries had ruptured when the cervix started stretching, as it did that night.
My red blood count level was dangerously low, but I had stopped bleeding
profusely – a good sign. The IVs would help bring the red blood cell levels to
normal. He wanted to do all he could to avoid a blood transfusion, even
though my blood count was low enough to warrant one.
He didn’t
want me sitting up or moving a muscle, and he wanted to arrange a transfer to
Palomar Medical Center in Escondido, where I’d stay for the duration of my
pregnancy – only after I stabilized
under his care and was deemed transferrable. He explained the baby’s inability
to survive outside my womb at this gestational age, due to inadequate lung and
organ development. “If you were further along – or if you can make it another
three weeks – we might have a reasonable chance of securing a happy ending,” he
stated bluntly.
“At this
moment my biggest concern is your survival," he said.
That's when I allowed the full force of the situation to hit me: This isn't just about my baby dying; this is about fighting to keep me alive.
For an
hour-and-a-half, my glassy-eyed husband sat slack-jawed and dazed in the corner
of the room, holding Parker, while Dr. Gordon and I discussed the treatment
plan. Dr. Gordon closed the conversation by decreeing that I should get some
rest and be moved to a private room in the obstetrics and gynecology unit. When he
briefly left the room to make these arrangements, Chris scurried to the side of
my bed. “Wow, what do you think of him?” he gushed.
“He’s cocky
and self-assured.” I slumped back on the pillow and sighed.
“Yeah,...I like him!” Chris responded, a smile
illuminating his weary face.
Dr. Gordon
said he’d handled ninety-eight previa cases during his practice, most to
successful delivery. Perhaps this little hospital possessed some qualified
personnel, and God – in His mercy – had dropped me into the hands of one of
them.
Dr. Gordon
returned, escorted me to my new room and helped transfer and position me as
comfortably as possible among the IV lines and tubes. He patted my shoulder and repeated the
relax-and-sleep order, but three IVs, inserted tubes and an inverted body
position of fifteen degrees didn’t afford much comfort or relaxation ability.
The nurses
left the room, and Chris prepared to return home. Dr. Gordon's eyes softened as he gently urged me, again,
to get some sleep, reassuring us that he’d spend the night just down the hall
in the doctor’s lounge. Fearful of being left alone, I talked nervously and
animatedly while they prepared to leave. Being alone meant being left to my thoughts; thoughts overtaxed
with fear, questions and doubts. I wanted to avoid thinking and feeling. I craved the comfort of human
companionship, even silent human companionship.
Thankfully
the burning hot flashes that started immediately upon my arrival from the magnesium
sulfate dripping through the IV began to wane. Gratefully, I no longer needed a
cold, wet towel on my head and chest to abate the sensation of being burned alive
from the inside out, or the plastic kidney-shaped container supplied for the nausea
side effects.
Chris and Parker kissed me goodbye, and Dr. Gordon said
good night. The overhead lights were extinguished as the door closed silently behind them, and I lay
amidst the choking stillness of the room. Maybe I can rest, I thought. I closed my eyes, adjusted my punctured, distended frame and tried to ignore the persistent pain from that poorly placed IV in my elbow.
While the nurses arrived at consistent intervals throughout the night to take my vitals, I questioned how long I could cope. Was I even willing to cope?
Where
is God when I need Him so much? I wondered. He must be here; I haven’t lost the baby and the bleeding has slowed.
Life hasn’t always been perfect, but
things usually work out well for Chris and me. This will work out too; it’s
just an impasse in our lives that we’ll reminisce about as a close call. I’ll
beat the odds and go home soon to complete my pregnancy in comfort.
Didn’t God appreciate and reward
hard-working, determined people? I’d always been taught that He did. Contemplating
that thought, I determined to approach my dilemma as a challenge, a
competition. After all, I was familiar with the discipline of competition.
I had
trained for it most of my life.
________________________________________
Next Week: The
agony of silence and hanging in limbo…
Thanks for joining me. Until next week!
Blessings,
Andrea
*Name change to
protect privacy
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