When Post Delivery Joy Turns to Heartache

            Something I never expected happened to me post delivery. Heartache. It blindsided me and threatened to snatch away my joy…

           

                                                                             oOo

            I’d survived the nightmare. My baby had arrived.

           

            And it appeared he was going to make it.

           

            I didn’t have to wait long to “see” my newborn. A nurse breezed excitedly into my room to present me with two glorious Polaroid pictures of “Baby Boy Owan.” My immediate and surprised reaction was about his appearance: he appeared to be an exact duplicate of Parker at his birth, if you neglected taking into account the IV lines running from his tiny body, and the apparatus and breathing hood surrounding him. Even with his eyes closed he was spectacular! I wept as I visually absorbed the grainy pictures, trying to absorb every tiny detail. She beamed at me. “Those are for you!”

           

            “How is he doing?” Dr. Landry asked with some urgency.

           

            “He’s dong great! You can come down and see him whenever you’re ready,” she said over her shoulder as she waved at me and exited my room.

           

            A monstrous sigh and smile of relief spread across Dr. Landry’s face as he finished his task of massaging my uterus and removing the remnants of ruptured stitches from my cervix. Completing that task, he instructed a nurse to finish cleaning up and notified her that he was going down to the NICU himself to check on my baby.

           

            My eyes scoured the room, seeking the face of my praying nurse. But she was gone, absent from the throng of medical staff that still filled the room. No goodbye, not a single parting word before she left.

           

            Another jubilant nurse had asked me following his first sounds of life if I wanted to call my husband and tell him the good news. She had, and the phone next to my bed now rang loudly, announcing his call.

           

            “What happened?” he wanted to know with disbelief. “I told the nurse that she must have the wrong father; that I wasn’t expecting a baby until later. Parker’s not even out of bed yet! You said it would be sometime this morning. I thought I had plenty of time to get there!”

           

            “That’s what Dr. Landry told me, but I thought I expressed the urgency of the situation to you.”

           

            “No. I thought I’d be able to get up, and then take Parker to school, then head to the hospital,” he defended himself. He didn’t sound upset, just shocked, and in sleepy disbelief.

           

            “Well, you have a son, and you are very lucky you weren’t here to watch the production. It was horrible! I think you would have been a basket case; they would have had to administer treatment to you! I’ll tell you more about it when you get here, but my sutures ruptured, no one was in the room, we had to wait for Dr. Landry, and the baby looked terrible. You would have been very frightened and most probably in the way. This room was packed with people running around. Controlled hysteria is a good description. Even Dr. Landry seemed nervous, when he finally showed up. But the baby’s dong fine. I’ll wait for you to get here so we can go see him together.”     

           

            “Okay. It may be a little while. I still have to get Parker up and off to school, and then drive down there.”

           

            “I’ll see you when you get here, then!” What must he be thinking? He thought everything was going to be a regular piece of cake, too. And he missed the whole show!

           

            The size of the entourage in my room rapidly diminished as each nurse completed her responsibilities and departed. Except Vera. Yes, Vera. The most wonderful nurse who had watched over me so carefully and lovingly three months earlier, when I had started this rough journey. The nurse who—on a “feeling”—intervened during my post-cerclage recovery to probably save my baby’s life. Vera requested to be my nurse that day, to again watch over me. She changed my pillows, quickly removed my IV and catheter, and returned the room to some semblance of order and normalcy.

           

            Because of the heavy doses of medication I’d received, they didn’t want me up and walking around the room too soon, something I was dying to do. There was concern I might become dizzy or disoriented, and then fall or faint. There had been no time to administer an epidural, so I felt relatively stable and very excited to stand up and take a couple of steps, even wobbly ones. Vera succumbed to my convincing pleas and allowed me to swing my legs to the floor and walk—unassisted—to the restroom.

           

            Oh, how free my body feels! How free I felt—emotionally, physically, spiritually. My tailbone was badly bruised in the rough delivery, making it difficult to put any pressure on my backside, and I still maintained a crouched position when standing, but I felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful—and alive!

           

            When I returned from the restroom, Vera was still changing pillowcases and putting the room in order. I stopped at the bed, looked at her, and asked the question that wouldn’t be ignored.

           

            “Vera, who was that nurse?”

           

            She stopped cleaning and lifted her eyes to meet mine. She knew whom I meant without specifying which nurse. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before, and I’ve worked here a long time. Maybe she came from the emergency room. Would you like me to find out?”

           

            “Yes, please. I’d like to thank her.”

           

            “I’ll go order breakfast for you, get some clean towels for your shower, and ask around.”

           

            “Thank you.”

           

            Vera finished cleaning and instructed me to call her should I need anything or want to take a shower—oh, yes, a shower!—and then left to order breakfast for me. Once again I was alone.

           

            Walking to the large picture window, I gazed across the beautiful morning sky of that February 27, 1995, and attempted to stretch my weakened, bent body to its full height. Yes, I was overwhelmed, overjoyed, awed, ecstatic. Thankful. Nothing could diminish my euphoria. Nothing…except the creeping and sobering realization that a life had been lost for the one gained that morning.

           

            If we had not lost Victoria, Cory—as I began thinking of him—in all likelihood would not have been conceived. My new son was not a replacement for my daughter, but—at that moment—I realized with great sadness that the pain of Victoria’s death would never go away. Victoria’s had a special piece in my heart’s jigsaw puzzle, but it felt damaged and scarred over. As much as I wanted it to be a perfect fit, it wasn’t and could never be.

           

            Cory was a new piece. He’d rightfully occupy a different space, a new space designed especially for him.

           

            Piercing emptiness and the void of loss penetrated my heart as acutely as it had the day I left the hospital almost two years earlier—without my daughter.

           

            The unexpected feeling jarred with me with guilt and melancholy pain. Could I ever look at Cory without thinking of Victoria?

           

            Victoria’s space would never be adequately filled. It was only mended with a makeshift patch that didn’t quite correspond to the correct size and shape for the spot.

           

            Suddenly, I realized I was weeping. Weeping for my new baby I was suddenly afraid to love. Weeping for the baby I ached to have back. And weeping for me.

           

            I cried for Grace to hold me again.

           

            I hadn’t imagined how much I would still need to rest in His arms.

oOo

           

            I don’t know why I felt so scared and profoundly sad at that moment. It could have been post-delivery hormones, or the trauma of delivery causing the Post Traumatic Stress of Victoria’s birth and death to return. Maybe it was because on the only glimpse I had of him, he was blue and lifeless, and he wasn’t quite “real” to me yet.

           

            I just know that at a time when I thought I’d be deliriously happy, I suddenly wasn’t. With one brutally stinging blow, I realized that Victoria was still not coming back, and that I was absolutely terrified Cory might not survive. And if I loved him, I’d get hurt all over again if that happened. I’d most likely hurt even more than the first time.

           

            I wept with new grief over the old grief, fear of the future, and with guilt over my horribly conflicted feelings.

           

            I knew then that the fight wasn’t over. I had been fighting for him for months. Now he was lying in the NICU, fighting for himself. I needed to lay all my fears aside and rejoin him in that fight.

           

            And loving him unconditionally, vulnerably, completely—without any reservation—was what I needed to do. For both of us.

____________________________________

NEXT WEEK: Seeing our baby for the first time, getting sobering news from the doctor, and finding out just who that nurse was…

____________________________________

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/nastydays/1842519943/">nasty days</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>

Delivery Room Chaos: When Delivery Doesn't Go as Planned

    

           My premature delivery wasn't going as planned. It had devolved into chaos. 
           Would my baby survive it?

            Slumping back on the pillow, I tossed one of the wet washcloths over my face, hid under my left arm and mumbled into the damp cotton, “Oh God, I can’t lose another one. I just can’t lose another baby!” Then my heart carried on the conversation with Him in silence: All of these months of fighting and it’s come down to this. God, how could you let this happen to me when I tried so hard? Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to see me happy?

           

            Someone snatched my newborn from my bed and transferred him to the NICU bed stationed in the corner of my room. Their work on him rapidly ensued.

           

            From somewhere in the room, a nurse I’d never seen before arrived at my bedside, grabbed my hand, leaned over me and started praying. No introduction, no hello, no questions. Just grabbed my hand and started praying, with power and fervor I’d rarely seen or felt. I stared at her while she pounded on heaven’s door for me, beseeched the Lord with words I didn’t have the strength to utter. Though I don’t remember the prayer—just responding to it—I do remember how grateful I was for her presence.

           

            “Are you a Christian?” she asked, rather matter-of-factly, while puffing up my pillows and tidying up the disheveled area around my head and arms after she ended her prayer.

           

            “Absolutely,” I affirmed with a nod. I couldn’t help staring at her, my eyes riveted to her movements. This young woman seemed so determined to divert my attention and remain by my side. This woman who seemed so confident and intentional, so overflowing with joy and peace.

           

            I did notice, however, that I wasn’t the only one staring at her. Other nurses in my room looked at her somewhat questioningly, as though unfamiliar with her and displeased with her actions and words. But she pointedly ignored them and their glances and continued to clean, project a radiant smile, and talk to me in a happy, purposefully distracting manner. And she appeared determined to remain by my side.

           

            But I needed to know something. “Is he breathing?” I asked into the eerie quiet, as Dr. Landry continued to work on me.

           

            “They’re working on him,” came the reserved, succinct reply from a voice near my bed. Everyone seemed to be busy in the room—busy doing nothing; all waiting anxiously for something to happen, some noise to escape from the bed corner where the NICU team of nurses and nurse practitioners blocked my view.

           

            A thick hush stretching like eternity filled the room for several minutes. Why is it taking so long? “Is he breathing, yet?” Feeling as though I might crack from the choking volume of silence, I couldn’t help asking my question again.

           

            “They’re still working on him,” another nurse politely responded without directly making visual contact with my questioning eyes.

           

            Then, suddenly, a small squeak of a cry emitted from the table over which the group huddled, and a cheer of relief erupted in unison from the staff milling about my room. With that, the NICU whisked my newborn son to the unit dedicated to the care of preemies. And in that instant, I knew he was going to be all right. That Baby Boy Owan was going to be just fine!

           

            The fear—the terror—the sequestered emotions, the doubts and the anguish all dissolved with the realization that the worst part of the ordeal was over. My baby had arrived! He was real, and even though he wasn’t well, he was breathing.

           

            And he was going to make it. With that thought, a silly grin broke out across my face. The new mother hormone-driven euphoria had already kicked in.

           

            God had brought me as far as I needed to go to ensure my baby’s survival. He had mercifully answered my prayers, and I had received a miraculous blessing. He had showered His grace upon me, once again demonstrating His power and faithfulness. I was overwhelmed and overjoyed. Awed. Ecstatic. Thankful. Nothing could diminish the euphoria pulsing through my spent body, instantly bringing it back to life. Not even Dr. Landry, who was apologizing profusely for what he was about to do—reach high into my uterus and manually scrape out the blood clots that had accumulated from the magnesium sulfate—could dispirit the thrill of victory rushing through me. Even this terribly painful procedure couldn’t dampen the insane, giddy happiness I felt; the staggering relief that those seven-and-a-half long, frightening, tedious months—indeed, nearly three years of grieving, hoping and praying—were finally coming to a completion. The precious consummation of a tiny seed of faith, nurtured by God’s supernatural love and protection, lay minutes away in another room.

           

            I wasn’t always certain there’d be such a happy ending. And, if you’ve read my blog from the beginning, you know my husband and I suffered a tragic, unhappy ending when we lost our daughter Victoria in an undiagnosed complication of pregnancy almost two years before this deliriously happy day.

           

            Throughout much of my three-month confinement, I often questioned the purpose: Would all of the pain and fear be worth it, particularly if we didn’t realize our dream this time around? Where would my faith be then? Would I be so willing to praise God in any circumstance, in pain or sorrow, in loss and emptiness?

           

            In that instant, I realized how utterly faithless I was and how truly good and faithful God is. Always is. Even in what I perceived as loss, pain and tragedy. Graciously, He had not put me to the test again.

           

            In that instant, I was painfully aware on what end of the spectrum my faith registered.

           

            And it was nothing to set off award bells or confetti parades over.

oOo

           

            If I had lost, been subjected to another defeat and been sent home to grieve the death of yet another child, how would I have reacted then?

           

            If you’re reading this and have lost a newborn child, what are you thinking? Maybe it’s something like: “That’s great for you, Andrea. You got your baby. It was easy for you to be thrilled and thankful and joyful and thinking God’s just good and great all the time. What about me? How can I think God’s great and good when my dreams were crushed?”

           

            Honestly, I don’t know how to answer that, so I’m not going to offer any pious platitudes.

           

            There are some basic things I do know, though, that keep me going—keep me from going insane, I should say—when bad things happen and the grief is so raw and horrible that I feel like the life has been kicked or sucked out of me and I would prefer dying in order to avoid it.

           

            1. I do believe that God is good, all of the time. He is love and goodness, so that can never be taken away from Him. I know I need to concentrate on that, even if I have to remind myself of it every second of every anguished second.

           

            2.  His ways are not my ways, and His thoughts are higher than my thoughts, so I can’t possibly figure out every detail about what His will and purposes are for every tragedy that befalls mankind—including me. I could make myself insane with forever asking “Why/”

           

            3. I’m not an advocate of saying, “I’m a good person, so I don’t deserve that kind of pain.” Because the truth is: I’m not a good person. I might register higher on the “goodness” scale than others and probably lower than a lot, but let’s be honest: There was only one good—blameless—person who ever walked this Earth, and His name is Jesus. And we know how mankind treated Him.

           

            Should I expect any different treatment from the world—and life?

           

            4. I can’t blame God for all of the tragedy that happens in this world. It is likely that Victoria would have made it if my doctors had been on the ball and properly diagnosed my pregnancy problem. And sent me home to bed where I should have been. And Dr. Landry took risks with this pregnancy that he shouldn’t have taken, and he knew it. He said so himself later. So, from my current, limited perspective, God intervened on this last pregnancy and didn’t on Victoria’s. And I probably learned more about life, love sacrifice and God from Victoria’s death than I have from anything else I’ve ever faced in my life. That event changed my life in so many unexpected ways for the better.

           

            5. God does not see “death” the way we do. Psalm 116:15 reads: “Precious in the sight of the Lord Is the death of His saints.” (_NKJV) I believe babies and children are automatic saints. And I am one of God’s saints because I believe in Him and His Son. So I know where Victoria is, and I rejoice over the life that she’s now living in God’s presence. And I am confident of the eternal hope that I have: that I will be reunited with her someday and we will rejoice together. Do I miss her? Do I still ache with the memory her death and the death of the dreams Chris and I had for her? Do I wish things were different? The answer to all of those questions is a resounding “Yes!” But deep down inside, I can’t help but think that answer is driven more by my selfish desires and my flesh. After all, how could I possibly deny Victoria her eternal life? How could I want her to live here on Earth, with all of its heartaches and sickness and problems, instead of where she is now? She received her reward earlier than most. Maybe even earlier than what’s “normal.” While it seems unfair to me, was it really unfair to her?

           

            6. There is evil in this world, and there is an ongoing battle between good and evil. Sometimes I feel as though the evil one has asked God and been granted permission to sift me and that I’m sometimes the direct target of that battle (as I’m sure you do, too); and sometimes I feel as though I’m the victim of “friendly fire.” Either way, I know God will eventually work it out for good. No, the Bible doesn’t say that everything that happens to us is good. What it does say is: “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28 _NKJV). (My emphasis) Bottom line: God can turn agony into joy and hopelessness into hope. He is the One who makes all things new. And some things we perceive to be evil, God means for good. Which implies that our perspective is often skewed.

           

            7. Lastly, and most importantly: God knows exactly how I feel. He gave His only Son over to humiliation, an unjust condemnation and an excruciating, humiliating death—so that the world and whoever believes in Jesus might have life! A more fulfilling, joyful and peaceful life here on Earth, and an exquisite, eternal life with Him in heaven.

           

           

            So, that’s what keeps me going: Because my Redeemer lives, I can face tomorrow; because He lives, all of my fear can be driven away. Because He holds the future, my life—and yours—is worth the living.

           

            All because He lives.

______________________________________

NEXT WEEK: Who was that nurse? And the unexpected: Reliving Victoria’s death…

______________________________________

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/wistechcolleges/5466001427/">wistechcolleges</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

Premature Labor: When Cerclage Stitches Rupture…

           

            Premature labor is scary. Premature labor when you have cerclage stitches is even scarier. Rupturing cerclage stitches raises pain and terror to a whole different level.

           

           

            As I ended in my last blog post: Dr. Landry’s plan sounded so easy. Cut the stiches. Wait a couple of hours. Have a baby.

           

            The only problem is: when babies are coming—when “nature” has embarked on its course—babies don’t wait. And so it was with my baby.

            I don’t know if I just expected the pain to get better once Dr. Landry had called me and pronounced that he was “hanging this one up,” or if I just thought my soon-to-be-a-new-mom-and-no-longer-pregnant-and-miserable euphoria would take over and make the birth a heavenly, dream-like experience.

           

            All I know is that what I expected to get is not what I got. And what I got was a nightmare.

           

            A half-hour after Dr. Landry’s exuberant phone call, my labor pain bordered on unbearable, (no one had arrived to administer an epidural), and I frantically tried to keep from screaming. “Oh, God, why must I continue to suffer in this dark valley? Why couldn’t this one be easy?” I mumbled to myself. It was actually more like a gasp than a mumble. My mental stamina was eroding along with my physical state.

           

            I was alone in that dark hospital room—and terrified.

           

            So I closed my eyes and returned to my prayer:

           

                        The light of God surrounds me.

                        The love of God enfolds me.

                        The power of God protects me.

                        The presence of God watches over me.

                        Wherever I am, God is. ¹

            Over and over I repeated it, with additional conviction during the worst waves of breath-stopping contractions. It helped me to focus on one thing—Jesus, and His powerful, loving presence. If I didn’t focus and count on that, I was going to go nuts. Literally.

           

            But each contraction came faster and harder. Rapidly repeating my prayer, I added, “Jesus, bear my burden. Oh, dear Jesus, please bear my burden like you did when Victoria died. Please!”

           

            Occasionally the pain was severe enough to force a low, audible cry from my lips and tears from my eyes. Oh, Lord, please don’t let the force of these contractions rupture my C-section scar! The baby will die and I might bleed to death. And no one will be in the room if it happens!

           

            At 6:40 AM my body was slammed with an unforgiving contraction, and I unleashed a choking scream. Terror pierced me. The next contraction escalated ferociously.

           

            And the cervical sutures ruptured.

           

            My baby was arriving in a dark, lonesome hospital room.

           

            I screamed wildly for someone to help me. My nurse practically catapulted into the room as I wailed, “It’s here! My baby’s here!”

           

            Laurie sprinted toward the bed as I continued screaming, the words spilling from my lips, “It’s here! My baby’s here. I felt my sutures rupture. I have to push I have to push! Where is Dr. Landry!?” My eyes frantically searched hers for some answer, some resolve to the horror unfolding before me—before us.  

           

            Prying my clamped-together knees apart, Laurie performed an internal examination, only to have her hand meet my baby’s crowning head. “Oh my god! Don’t push; you can’t push yet!” she ordered at a near-screaming level as she maintained one hand on the baby’s head while using the other hand to push the intercom button on the wall behind my bed. She screamed a code to the nurses at their station. Immediately, a barrage of them streamed into the room, while a call was sent to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit to come to my room—stat. Panic had instantly ensued.

           

            “Where is Dr. Landry?” I kept asking, while continuing to search her eyes for some answer. Other nurses who had streamed into the room echoed the same question while running around preparing the necessities for his appearance.

           

            “He just called, and he’s on his way!” someone yelled out. Then, “He’s in the parking lot!” That announcement was shortly followed by, “He’s in the elevator!” All while Laurie continued to keep my baby from being born.

           

            It all sounded like a scripted comedy scene. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been so tragically real.

           

            Somewhere between Dr. Landry’s highway and parking lot locations, a nurse—or someone from the NICU team, who were already standing by with their baby bed and resuscitation supplies in the corner of the room—made the decision that they couldn’t wait for him any longer, and an emergency room physician was called. Meanwhile, the condescending nurse who’d practically wrestled me back into bed earlier that morning hung over my face, telling me not to hyperventilate, and giving me breathing instructions. Her advice was effective. I stared at her, followed her breathing instructions and calmed down. Suddenly, she seemed more empathetic and attentive.

           

            Ten minutes later, Laurie continued to hold my baby in the birth canal, and we all awaited the arrival of a physician. Any physician. “He’s on his way!” a nurse called out about the emergency room doctor. Almost simultaneously, someone else yelled that Dr. Landry was in the hall outside the room. We all—about ten nurses and me—turned to look at the door as he made his rushed entrance through the curtain that had been pulled across the entrance to block anyone’s view from the hallway.

           

            “Finally,” I muttered with relief as I let my head collapse back onto the pillow. Ridiculously, though, when I first saw him enter the room, all I could think of was, Nice shirt! Such a beautiful shade of lilac. He seemed so dressed up for the occasion, complete with coordinating tie. Then I chastised myself for being an idiot. Was the plethora of drugs in my body affecting my mind?

           

            One nurse helped him don a white lab coat, while another whisked him into surgical gloves. He couldn’t disengage his widened eyes from the scene at my bed, appearing aghast and unnerved at what was unfolding before him. He clamped his gaping mouth shut then hurried to my side to quickly replace Laurie and work rapidly with the instruments someone had wheeled bedside.

           

            “What’s the baby’s heartbeat?” I asked.

           

            In panic, everyone else in the room realized that in the confusion the monitor had slipped from my distended middle, and they had forgotten about and neglected to monitor that all-important sound. What kind of affect would such a violent birth have on such a tiny, horribly stressed, drugged up baby?

           

            First, he carefully broke the amniotic sac, and was showered with amniotic fluid.  Quickly, calmly, his voice edged with concern, he instructed me to push. Gently. Obediently, I followed his order—first once, then two more times—until my baby slipped quickly and easily from my body.

           

            “Oh, it’s girl!” someone joyfully pronounced. I smiled contentedly. But I was surprised. I felt certain I’d been carrying a boy.

           

            “No, it’s not!” another nurse quickly shot back, with unveiled ridicule of the obvious error tinting her words. “It’s a boy!” They can’t even agree on the sex, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief.        

           

            Lifting myself onto my elbows to take in the beautiful vision of my newborn baby, I was stunned with the horrible sight of my new son lying morosely still and lifeless on the bed before me, his little form encased in a dreadful hue of blue. It’s too late; he’s already dead, I thought, as any remnant of hope and strength instantly drained from my body. It felt as though someone had thrown a sharp rock at my chest, aimed directly at my heart.

           

            My heart was shattered.

           

            And I wanted to die alongside my new baby boy.

___________________________________

NEXT WEEK: An angelic intervention, and breathing life into my baby…

___________________________________

Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

PS        There’s already a miracle happening in this story. Read the part again about Dr. Landry having to rupture the amniotic sac.

            
            Throughout the cerclage surgery, the week following it, and throughout the three-months I was confined to bed, that was everyone’s biggest concern: the amniotic sac rupturing. If that happened, it would have meant the end of the pregnancy, and most likely the death of my baby. For three months, I was literally hanging on by that thin layer of amniotic sac.

            
            So for Dr. Landry to have to puncture the amniotic sac, after all of those precarious months, and after the shear force of the violent contractions I was experiencing—the fact that the amniotic sac remained intact until the end—was nothing short of a miracle. Even in my precarious mental state, that unable-to-explain fact didn’t escape my notice.

            
           But that morning, I doubted I was going to get another one of those miracles.

           

            I shouldn’t have had such puny faith.

            Because God wasn't done playing His hand...

¹ “Prayer for Protection,” by James Dillet Freeman, in the public domain

photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/kayveeinc/3900795295/">KayVee.INC</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>