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.

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

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

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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.

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

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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

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Premature Labor: When the Magnesium Sulfate Fails

            Magnesium sulfate. It seemed to be the drug of choice in premature labor. It’s either a blessing or a curse.

           

            In my case, it ended up being the latter…

            

            Around 3:00 AM, I had a sudden urge to use the restroom, so Laurie unhooked my monitor, unplugged my IV and helped me into the restroom.

           

            I was bleeding.

           

            Dr. Landry had specifically—repeatedly—instructed me to call him if this should happen.

           

            “I’m bleeding, Laurie. I think we better call Dr. Landry.” Maybe now he’ll come, I thought.

           

            But Laurie observed the liquid somewhat indifferently, shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh, that’s not much.”

            
            "Dr. Landry told me to call him if I started bleeding. He was adamant about that!”

           

            “I’ll call him and let him know, but I don’t think he’s going to do anything about that!”

           

            I had to stuff down a scream. I wanted to tear out the IV and pace around the room to hasten labor. I’d had enough. I wanted it over! But by the time those thoughts rolled through my brain, I’d been abruptly deposited back into bed and was lying there alone, arguing with myself and an absent Dr. Landry, awaiting Laurie’s return with the verdict.

           

            “No problem,” she pronounced striding triumphantly into the room, a slight I-told-you-so tone in her voice. “I didn’t think he’d be concerned.” Another strike out for me.

           

            Every hour after that, Laurie arrived to check the monitor output, leave to call Dr. Landry, and then return to elevate the magnesium sulfate levels being pumped through my IV. How much more of that stuff can they pump into me without killing my baby, or me? I wondered.

           

            Around 5:15 AM, the contractions worsened, and concern finally registered on Laurie’s face. “Can you feel those contractions?” she asked in a tone of disbelief.

           

            “Y-e-sss.” I responded, along with a sarcastic tone and snicker. She shook her head and quickly padded out of the room. Boy, this prayer is working great! Nobody can tell how much pain I’m really experiencing. Now, if the contractions would just stop, or Dr. Landry would appear, I’d be thrilled!

           

            Instead of thrilled, the urge to head to the restroom alerted me again, so I punched my nurse call button again. Once again Laurie went through the ritual of unplugging my appliances and escorting me to the restroom.

           

            This time the bright red liquid streamed down my legs and over my hands. “Do you think this is a problem, now?” I asked with unbridled disgust, fluttering my dribbly fingers in her direction.

           

            Leaning around the restroom door to take a closer look, she knitted her eyebrows together and admitted that the blood loss was beginning to be significant. She promised to call Dr. Landry right away—after I was cleaned up and ushered back to bed.

           

            “He doesn’t want you to get up again!” Laurie commanded as she charged into the room after making contact with Dr. Landry. “He wants you catheterized and confined to bed.” Right behind her strode the poker-faced young nurse who’d been sent in to deal with me earlier. Without saying a word, her lips pinched tightly together, she gave me a threatening “If-you-try-to-get-out-of-that-bed-again-I’m-going-to-strap-you-into-it” look and quickly threaded the appropriate tube into my body and taped the line to my leg. Back to my mantra I went as the magnesium sulfate levels were again cranked up on the IV.

           

            A half-hour later, at 6:00, the contractions still crushed my pelvis, and I continued to lie in the dark, gripping my pillow and repeating my prayer more fervently. Even Laurie appeared to be getting nervous as she evaluated the monitor yet another time and left, without comment, presumably to call Dr. Landry. Again.

           

            Within minutes, Dr. Landry himself called me directly on my bedside phone. “I think it’s time to hang this one up,” he said with a sigh of resignation. “I’m going to have the mag sulfate stopped. Then, when I get there, I’ll go ahead and cut the stiches and let whatever happens, happen. I think we’ll be having a baby here within the next several hours…sometime this morning. When you were admitted last night, I had pretty much made up my mind that I was going to keep you in the hospital for the next two weeks. But it’s obvious that we’re not going to stop this now. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes. See you soon!”

           

            Finally! Despite the horrendous pain cranking through my pelvis, all I could do was express my gratitude and glee that he was finally going to come to the hospital; that this was all going to be over very soon. Excited and jittery, I called Chris. He groggily answered the phone and tried to absorb Dr. Landry’s words I reiterated to him. “I think you should get ready and come to the hospital as soon as you can,” I said.

           

            Having to get Parker up and to school was going to take some time, but he assured me that he’d be there as soon as possible.

           

            I put the phone down, looked up at the wall clock…and smiled at it. That clock was starting to look good to me now. Time was finally divulging some of its secrets.

           

            Laurie returned with a myriad of mandatory forms to sign for an epidural, so I could be relatively pain-free during the birth and have a tubal ligation performed immediately following the delivery. I wanted to dance around the room when she shut of the mag sulfate. Then she notified the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that a preemie was to be delivered in just a few hours. The nurses actually seemed excited, like something thrilling—and unusual—was about to happen.

           

            I was still awash in pain, but relief grabbed my soul.

o0o

           

            It all sounded so easy, the way Dr. Landry described it: Stop the mag sulfate. Cut the cerclage stitches keeping my cervix closed. Administer the pain-killing epidural. Wait a few hours. Deliver the baby. Have the NICU staff watch over my newborn for several weeks, to make sure everything was peachy. Return to normal life with a new baby.

           

            But that’s not how it turned out. Nothing about it was easy. Those high doses of mag sulfate mixed with those relaxants were a problem. Especially for the baby.

           

            Within minutes, I was staring into the face of death. Again.

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NEXT WEEK: Rupturing stitches, chaos, God sends me an angel, and breathing life into a lifeless baby…

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Until next week,

Thanks for joining me!

Blessings,

Andrea

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