Six months ago today, at around this time, Alex and I were being escorted to the maternity floor by an elderly gentleman, a volunteer at the hospital. About 30 minutes earlier I had called Dr. C’s office with my blood pressure (We had been monitoring it hourly for the past 24 hours.). Moments later she called me back. “Go to the hospital. I’ll call them and meet you there. Have Alex drop you off in front and get in a wheelchair. Do not walk upstairs.”
I started packing a bag as Alex panicked. Clean panties, my <gasp> security blanket, a change of comfortable clothes. I think I brought magazines. I know I brought my camera. I pack for disaster. I pack for everything.
The three-and-a-half hours between that phone call and Linus’s shocking entrance into the world were as vividly horrifying as anything I’ve ever experienced. It was everything you feared in high speed. There was no time to process. And nothing to talk about. There were no options. People told us what was going to happen very plainly. They were kind, but above all, they were efficient. An IV (magnesium sulfate to slow down the central nervous system), a catheter (So, so painful.). We had come to the hospital bearing a plastic grocery bag filled with ice and an orange jug filled with my urine.
The cause of pre-eclampsia is still unknown, but it’s diagnosed by high blood pressure and protein in the urine. From the Wikis: “Pre-eclampsia is diagnosed when a pregnant woman develops high blood pressure (two separate readings taken at least 6 hours apart of 140/90 or more) and 300 mg of protein in a 24-hour urine sample. My urine sample had 900 mg of protein. That’s pretty close to kidney failure. It’s also a the ticket to stardom among nurses on the floor. I heard, “Oh, that was you.” On numerous occasions. The urine test they’d given me upon admittance had been high enough to diagnose the pre-eclampsia, but the results of the 24-hour text sent everything into hyper-drive. Suddenly the room was full. The door was open and I saw Dr. C on the phone. She was talking to the maternal internal medicine specialist. She came back in. “You are very, very sick. So we’re gonna have to go in and get this baby. Right now.” She began explaining what would happen. I was going to the OR. Alex would have to wait here while they prepped me for surgery. I would speak with anesthesiology then. “Once we take the baby,” she said, this is how she kept referring to it. It could not have felt more right.
“Once we take the baby the NICU transport team will take him to the NICU. Alex can go with them, or he can stay with you.” I wanted Alex to go with the baby. He wasn’t so sure. She warned us that there might be some damage to me. A stroke was a possibility. “There could be bleeding.” It was terrifying. She asked us if we had any questions. I was already feeling fuzzy from the medication. I think I asked something she had already answered.
When a nurse came in with scrubs for Alex only moments after Dr. C left the room, saying just that thing would occur, I broke. As nurse put one of the horrible blue caps on my dirty hair Alex fumbled with the scrubs. He couldn’t figure out how to put them on. It broke my heart. I wailed, loudly. I don’t want to do this, over and over. I sobbed, inconsolable. The nurse put her hand on my arm. “I know this is scary,” she said. More people came into the room. Alex kissed me and they wheeled me out.
Being prepped for major emergency surgery is a very busy affair. I was moved and rolled, poked, shaved, draped, and told many, many things. People in blue hats and masks swarmed over my head My anesthesiologist’s name was Dr. Pillow - I did not make that up - and he had the most beautiful light blue eyes. He and another man, a resident I think, stood at my head through the entire surgery. They talked me through the epidural. It was a group effort. And almost immediately the pain of the catheter was gone. I was completely and totally numb. The NICU transport team was over my left shoulder. I turned as best I could to see them as they came in. I caught the eye of a woman, also with pale blue eyes. I held her gaze and tried to send her some kind of message.
Soon Alex was by my side, armed with and emesis basin and put to work by Dr. Pillow. Anesthetic has always made me sick. But the moment I would begin to moan, Dr. Pillow would lean over. “Are you feeling sick? Ok. Here’s an alcohol swab. That sometimes helps. The nausea should be going away any minute now” And it would.
We were not aware of the moment he came out. Maybe Dr. C said something. But there was a drape and I felt nothing. Nothing. Dr. C finally said, “Alex do you want to take a picture of your son?”
“He’s out?” Alex said. He was gone for a moment and then back. “He’s perfect.” He was crying. We were a family.
I caught a brief glimpse of you on your way to the NICU. And then not again for about 30 hours. You were tiny, and frankly, you were a little creepy looking.
I wish I could go back and tell that girl about you now. Tell her that you are well, and happy. That you are here. That you are breastfeeding, and farting, like a champ. That you have your dad’s crooked smile. That, at six months of age, you no longer need even an apnea monitor. That you are a pistol, a charmer, a fighter, a tough little dude, and my Sugar Bear Jackson.
Happy Birthday, Linus Jack. I’m really, really glad that you were born.
