I’ve written this in my head so many times since it happened six months ago, but never before on paper. Luckily, your father has been working on it for a while. Together we’ll try to share the events that surrounded the day that you were born. So this is for you. It’s your story.
(Your father’s recollections are in italics.)
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When I think about telling the story of your birth I never know where to begin.
Maybe I should start by admitting that I never thought that I’d have children. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t see myself as maternal or motherly enough or something.
In my twenties, I was young and ambitious and I was working a lot. I didn’t really think about kids. I had two dogs. I had boyfriends. I felt like my life was really full.
Then I met your father.
We disliked each other initially, but a well-timed kiss quickly led to an unexpected marriage proposal and a pretty cliche happily ever after. He was quite the game changer, your dad.
A few years passed. We were happy. We talked about having children. I was still uncertain. He was clear about wanting to be a father and tried to convince me that I’d be a good mother. I thought he looked good naked.
So that, in a nutshell, is pretty much how everything started.
Within three minutes, I was pregnant.
About three weeks later I discovered that I hated it.
Pregnancy did not agree with me. I was sick constantly. I would black out. I was emotional. I couldn’t stand how my body was morphing. All of these changes made me certain that I’d be a terrible parent. I knew of no one else experiencing such severely negative symptoms. I felt very alone. I would Google to the point of insanity. I would sit on the floor of the shower and cry. It's socially heinous to admit this, but I wondered if I’d made a mistake.
This went on for nine months.
To top it all off, you were in a breech position which, despite every effort known to mankind, we could not tempt you to move from. A caesarean delivery was scheduled.
We arrived at the hospital for our c-section at 6.00am. We were introduced to our new home, Suite 14, which we lived in for the next four days. At 6:27am our birth photographer, Melanie, arrived to help capture the delivery. During the next hour and a half we were introduced to our team and prepped for surgery.
Your mother was wheeled into the operating room before they allowed me to go in. They did this to insert the spinal block that would numb her from the chest down. Meanwhile, I sat outside and waited. Sitting there, I became more and more nervous. Then I suddenly heard your mother scream. Not a little yelp, a blood curdling scream. The doctors reassured me that everything was fine, but it only made me more nervous. A few minutes later I was told they were ready.
The spinal block was inserted. They told me it wouldn’t hurt, but they lied. I figured that, due to current conditions, yelling at the anesthesiologist was probably a better idea than, say, punching him in the face. In retrospect, I was wrong. Afterwards, I tried to crack a few jokes and mentioned that we left wine and fresh homemade peanut butter bars at the nurse’s station. No need to anger the guy who was playing God with my meds, you know? A few moments later they told me to lie down and began strapping me to a table. You’d think that with nudity involved this might be marginally fun. It was not fun. I had no idea that I’d be restrained. I panicked and began to hyperventilate and they (against my vehement and repeated requests) gave me some sort of medication to calm my anxiety. It worked, and I mellowed out almost instantly. Finally, they let your father into the room.
You entered this world butt first, cord wrapped around your neck and tied in a knot, at 8.45am, at seven pounds and two ounces (the exact birth weight I’d predicted!) and nineteen inches.
The nurses and doctors cleaned you and handed you to me. I brought you to your mother. It seemed you two bonded instantly. She didn’t want to let you go. She laughed and said you looked just like me.
We were later told that because of the specific position you were in (occurring in less than one percent of all pregnancies), had we attempted the vaginal birth that your mother so desperately wanted, it would have resulted in an emergency caesarean anyway.
After they opened me up there was a lot of hushed talk. I heard something about the cord, but when I asked what was going on I was reassured that everything was fine. You cried. It was a squeaky but fierce little sound. They told me you scored nearly perfect on your Apgar test. (Then I explained to your father what that meant.) I kept asking for you, but I still hadn’t seen you. Andrew tells me it was only minutes, but it seemed to take eons. I thought I’d feel nervous or anxious at that point, but I was really only excited. I had read a lot of birth stories about the difficulties of bonding with a newborn after a caesarean and, coupled with my pregnancy experience, I had very low expectations for those first few moments. Isn’t that terrible? But it’s true. I didn’t expect to feel connected or motherly with someone I’d never met. I assumed those things would develop later. I was at peace with that.
Finally, you were wrapped up and your father brought you over to me.
He held you so close to my head that I could smell you. I just stared and smiled. And laughed. You looked just like your father. And I was completely and utterly in love again. From that very first glance. Totally head over heels, out of control, crazy in love with you. True story. It was bizarre.
After you were delivered we went back to our suite. You immediately took to breastfeeding. We weren’t sure if we knew what to do since your mother had long ago thrown away all her baby books, but you sure knew what you were doing. Your mother was still numb from the chest down, but began feeling extremely nauseous. They gave her medication for the nausea and she held you all day long.
After you were born they took us back to our room and suggested we try breastfeeding. I was surprised at how easy and natural it was. I was also surprised by how much pain I was in. A former college athlete, I’ve always been told that I have a high pain tolerance. But it was unbearable. I can only describe it as a white light. It was the sort of pain that is so all encompassing that you can see or hear nothing else. You are just enveloped. And it wasn’t coming from the incision site. Instead, it wrapped around my lower back and was underneath my belly button. And I was nauseous. On a level that made my pregnancy look like a picnic. When I told the nurses and doctors, they said that I’d probably underestimated how painful caesareans are.
But I felt like something was wrong.
My initial joy from meeting you had turned into desperation. How could I be feeling worse than when I was pregnant? How would I survive taking care of a newborn in a city where I had no family, little support system, and a husband who constantly travels for work when it was too painful to even exist? Why was this happening to me? Why did everyone keep using words like ‘routine’ and ‘normal’? Why didn’t the doctors believe me?
I cannot even describe how much pain I was in or how scared I was.
That evening, your mother had some feeling back in her abdomen. The pain was intense. She was given morphine. The next couple of hours she was in and out of consciousness and having vivid dreams (about Kenny Loggins asking her for financial donations!), but still feeling a very high level of pain. It was just our luck that there was a shortage of the medication that the hospital normally used to treat post caesarean patients. (Apparently, the pharmaceutical company had contaminated a batch and there was a large recall.) The nurse who came on the night shift felt that maybe this is why your mother was experiencing such intense symptoms. She called in a favor to a pharmacy and was able to get some of the backordered drug. After an hour, your mother felt much, much better. Her pain had gone from a 9 to a 2. She got out of bed, ate some crackers, and even sat in the rocking chair.
Early morning came with a surprise. Your mother was feeling bad again. It began with extreme nausea. We tried Xophren, then Phenalin, then another anti-nausea pill. We discussed what could be happening with both the doctor and the anesthesiologist. The doctor believed that she was feeling ill because she was still coming off of the spinal block. The anesthesiologist argued that the spinal had worn off at least eight hours earlier. Each blamed the other. Between these discussions were more rounds of medication and constant vomiting. The pain was more intense than ever. They cleared her for another round of Torodal, and I crossed my fingers.
During my brief stints of consciousness on the Torodal I began begging anyone who would listen to help me. Nurses, doctors, even cleaning people. I felt strongly that something was wrong, but no one at the hospital (Saint Vincent’s Southside) believed me. I had no idea what to do. I opened my laptop and began Googling. I wanted to switch hospitals. I had to convince Andrew that the doctors were wrong.
The Torodal worked again. Hours later we finally spoke again with our physician, Dr. Craig Cantor, and he suspected that your mother had an ileus, which is a blockage of the bowels. This can happen after a spinal block, because it paralyzes everything from the chest down including the digestive system. It’s common and takes some time to subside. We were told to withhold food and liquids for twenty four hours to allow the ileus to pass. She was also given more Torodal, but this time it helped less. She was in and out of consciousness most of that second day.
It was during one of her brief waking moments that you were given your first hearing test. You failed. We were assured that it happens very often, especially among breech babies, but that did little settle your mother’s nerves.
On top of everything else, you failed your hearing test. I was a total train wreck. I couldn’t stop crying. I was certain I was going to be in debilitating pain for the rest of my life, and on top of it, you wouldn’t even be able to hear me ask for a sandwich. Awesome.
On the third day your mother was allowed to eat. You were retested for your hearing and passed with flying colors. That might have indicated that things were looking up, except your mother continued to be nauseous and have extreme back pain. She suggested that she may be having complications from the spinal, and Dr. Cantor agreed. We asked the nurse to call the anesthesiologist. He wasn’t available, but we met with the one who was on call. We explained what was happening and asked if the spinal could be the cause of the intense back pain. Before we could even describe all of your mother’s symptoms, he curtly explained that it wasn’t possible for a spinal block to cause a back injury. I told him, “Look, I don’t care why or why not you believe you aren’t responsible and I don’t care who is, we just need to make my wife better.” To which the anesthesiologist replied, “Then you need to get an MRI done, which your doctor will need to order.” I replied, “Great. Let’s get it ordered.”
It was never ordered.
I was deteriorating. I was checking the clock every two to three minutes thinking that hours had passed. I began to feel that I was withering away. My body told me I was dying.
Throughout the third day the pain got worse and worse. The nursing staff tried to help by giving your mother Torodal. She was now approved for every six hours and, though it was helping less and less, it did offer her some relief. But patients are only allowed Torodal for forty eight hours, and your mother was quickly approaching that limit. By 6.00pm your mother’s back pain had hit a high. I knew then that something wasn’t right, but I had no idea what it could be. I called Dr. Cantor at home, because he was on call. He was insistent that nothing was wrong. Your mother asked to speak with him and he had the nerve to suggest that she was just experiencing postpartum depression. It was at that point that your mother stopped crying for the first time in days and became frighteningly calm.
She asked to be released from the hospital.
I felt strongly that I was not in the right place to receive the care that I needed. I checked myself out of Saint Vincent’s at 11.00pm on Saturday night. I’ve never told Andrew this, and I know it seems dramatic, but part of me felt deep down that I was taking myself home to die. I could barely move. Every thought revolved around not vomiting. Every morsel of effort was put into rocking and breastfeeding. I didn’t recognize myself in body or spirit. I get chills when I remember the first time you came home. I crawled into our bedroom and put on the Zen music channel. I sunk onto the floor because I didn’t have the strength to get into the bed. And I told Andrew, “I should be a better person. I should volunteer more. I should donate more. I should appreciate you more. I should appreciate him more.” I remember thinking that I wouldn’t see you grow up, which was overwhelmingly sad since I had just fallen for you.
This wasn’t how we imagined bringing you home for the first time. Your mother was in severe pain. It was nearly midnight, and we didn’t know if or when she would feel better. As the night went on, your mother got worse and worse. She was unable to sleep and no position, pillow, or medication was able to help. At 5.00am, against your mother’s wishes, I called Dr. Cantor at home again. I told him that the back pain had gotten even worse and that she needed to get treatment right away. He explained to me that since we left the hospital, he wasn’t able to readmit her into Labor and Delivery. She would need to go to the Emergency Room to be readmitted to Saint Vincent’s, and if we didn’t go to Saint Vincent’s Emergency Room then he would not treat her. I replied, “Well, you haven’t treated her yet anyway.” I took your mother to Baptist Hospital.
It was around 5:30am when we arrived to the Emergency Room at Baptist. I was terrified of having you in a place with so many germs, but equally terrified of having you away from me. We covered you up and I held you as I sat slumped over in a wheelchair. I felt so instinctively protective.
There weren’t many people in the Emergency Room so we were able to get through the check-in process fairly quickly. We were put in a private room the size of a closet. Since your mother was exclusively breastfeeding it was important for us to stay together. The doctor came in and met with us and immediately prescribed pain medication and began blood and urine tests.
The pain medication had little effect on your mother’s back however it did help her sleep. For many hours, your mother was in and out of consciousness only waking long enough to feed you. You and I spent this time trying to nap. After many hours the doctor came back to see how your mother was doing. He explained that the urine and blood test showed no signs of anything being wrong. But he was concerned about the level of her pain. He ordered an MRI of her back, but they weren’t able to schedule it until 1.00pm. During our wait he checked in a few more times to see if the pain was getting any better. It wasn’t.
At 1.00pm your mother was wheeled to the MRI department. Aside from the three technicians there was no one in the department. You and I went to the lobby to wait while they performed the MRI. About ten minutes later one of the techs came into the lobby. The pain in your mother’s back was so intense that she couldn’t even lay flat in the machine for the few minutes it takes them to get images.
I was humiliated. I had exposed our newborn to an infectious Emergency Room only to find that they couldn’t find anything wrong, and now I couldn’t even lie on my back for two seconds while they ran a simple test. I felt horrible and completely demoralized. And, still, I was in so much pain I couldn’t see straight.
The staff at Baptist was much more supportive than the one at Saint Vincent’s, however. The MRI tech told me under her breath, “Honey, this isn’t normal. You just hang in there, Mama. We’ll figure out what’s going on.” At least they believed me, which was a relief.
We went back to the testing area and talked with the techs and your mom. We agreed that the MRI had to be done to tell us what was causing the pain. They let me stand in the room and hold your mother’s hand. It took about ten minutes. It was the longest ten minutes that your mother and I have ever gone through.
After finishing the MRI, your mother was wheeled back to the Emergency Room. Once again, we were asked to wait. The images took a few hours to get to the doctor. During this time your mother was given more anti-nausea and pain medication. Finally, around 5.00pm, a doctor came into our room. He said the MRI results showed a possible ileus but nothing he would be concerned with or that could cause this much pain. He released us, because he didn’t think there was much else he could do, however he told us to come back if your mother had any pain in her abdomen. After twelve hours in the Emergency Room, we all went home with no more information than when we arrived.
Back at home your mother was still in intense pain. I gave her more anti-nausea and pain medicine and she decided to take a hot shower, hoping the heat would help her back feel better. It didn’t. We got ready for bed, as we were all extremely tired, but your mother couldn’t sleep. The back pain was too intense. She got out of bed to use the bathroom and while inside she began vomiting. This wasn’t your everyday throw up. This was green. Your mother began crying and said she was going back to the Emergency Room and not leaving until they figured out what was wrong. As I packed you up and got your diaper bag together, she literally crawled out of the house and down the street toward the hospital. She was in so much pain she couldn’t bear it. I ran outside and found her, loaded you both in the car and headed back to the Emergency Room.
It was somewhere around 1.00am on Monday morning when we checked back into the Emergency Room. There was a new set of doctors and nurses, and we had to explain everything all over again to them. The main doctor began to tell us the pain medicine that he would prescribe to make your mother feel better, but it was all the same stuff that we had been taking for the past seventy two hours. I told him bluntly that I needed answers, not Band-Aids. He said we would start with the medicine while they monitored and observed her, then he left to treat other patients and the nurse came in to check on us. About five minutes after she left it happened.
Your mother began projectile vomiting all over the room. The only time I have ever seen anything like it is in the movies. There was vomit on the floors, walls, bed, everywhere. I ran to the nursing station to get help. Four nurses ran to the room and paused in complete shock. There was about an inch of vomit covering the floor and vomit on the wall. It was the same green color as the vomit at the house, just twenty times the amount. The nurses ran to get the doctor. When the doctor arrived back in our room he was no longer passive. He immediately ordered an x-ray of your mother’s stomach. While he didn’t know exactly what was wrong, he knew something was wrong.
We walked to the x-ray area with your mom and sat outside to prevent any radiation from getting near you. Thankfully, she was able to make it through the x-ray session. We headed back to the Emergency Room. During our short time away, they had completely cleaned our room of all vomit. We waited in that room for what seemed like forever. Realistically, it was probably about three hours. Then a new doctor walked into the room, Dr. Polly. He was the on call surgeon. He explained that the x-ray showed signs of stomach blockage and that we would need a CAT scan to determine if it was just an ileus or worse. Worse? He said that it was highly unlikely, but possible that the stitching could have dehisced and the bowels could have come through the abdomen wall, similar to a hernia. But he repeated that he thought that was a very unlikely scenario. They scheduled the CAT scan for the next day and he got us a bed in the Maternity area so we could all stay together.
Shortly after Dr. Polly left our room, a new nurse appeared. She was in her 40s or early 50s with caramel skin. And she was extremely sympathetic. She explained to us that in order to prevent further vomiting they would have to insert a tube down your mother’s throat that would slowly suck out the remaining contents. Your mother was half conscious at this point but was very adamant that she didn’t want this done. We tried to reason with her, but, well, she can be pretty stubborn. Finally, I got her to agree to try it. You and I left the room and three nurses attempted to insert the tube. Your mother was heavily medicated at this time, and to get the tube down required her to swallow as the tube went into her throat. After three minutes, the nurses came in and got me. Your mother was crying uncontrollably. She told me that she wasn’t able to do it. I held her hand. I talked softly to her and calmed her down. I asked her to try just one more time. Privately, the nurses told me that she had no choice. She agreed to try once more and this time, thankfully, it worked. The contents of her stomach began draining out through the tube.
At this point it had been nearly thirty two hours since we’d left Saint Vincent’s Hospital with a newborn and the worst pain I’d ever experienced in my life. And that includes racing a national 10k in two feet of snow while sick and wearing a racing uniform that was three threads short of my underwear. Suffice to say it was the longest thirty two hours of our lives. Mentally and physically I was spent. We all were.
The good news was that your mom was finally receiving treatment. The bad news was that we were being admitted to the hospital and neither of us knew what was in store. While we waited to be transferred from the Emergency Room to the Maternity area, the kind nurse was nice enough to bring me a muffin and juice to snack on. From the moment you were delivered we never left your mother’s side. Much of this time you slept in your car seat on top of a chair and I sat next to you (sleeping when I could) in a constant state of shock. People have babies every single day and they go home and recover. No big deal. What could possibly be wrong? What could possibly cause someone this much pain? Why couldn’t doctors identify it? I felt as though we were at the mercy of the hospitals. We’d now met with four different doctors, and several more had reviewed our case, and still we didn’t know exactly what was wrong, just that there was a problem with your mother’s stomach and that we required another test to determine the extent of it. Was this something that would be easily cured? Would we be released from the hospital and back home soon? What should I be doing?
I realized that I finally needed to let our family and friends know what was going on.
We made the trip from the Emergency Room to the Maternity area of the hospital. It was in a different building on the opposite side of the hospital. Similar to the maternity suites at Saint Vincent’s, we had a private room with a bathroom, a television, and a window. I point out the window because the Emergency Room, which we’d spent most of the past couple of days in, didn’t have windows. In the Emergency Room, time went by so slowly. In part, because we were constantly waiting on nurses or doctors to come back and check on us, but also because I think we had no concept of night or day.
The nausea and vomiting had stopped since I’d had the tube placed down my throat. I was still in horrific pain, but at least could focus on you. I was in survival mode. I know it seems insane, but at moments I look back and wonder if what happened was in some ways a gift. In those early days, it was the exact opposite of what I’d feared during my pregnancy. I had complete clarity. I knew my purpose.
That evening we were introduced to our assigned nurse for the evening. She was from Scotland and had a Mrs. Doubtfire accent. She was sympathetic but firm. She helped us through that night, the hours when your mother literally howled and cried nonstop from the pain. Things were getting even worse. The nurse came every couple of hours, checked your mother’s drainage container to see if it needed to be changed and injected pain medication into your mother’s IV. Your mother would always beg for more which shocked me (normally, she won’t even take Tylenol). Several time before the nurse even came back your mother would have me go to the nurses’ station to ask for more meds. We were fortunate that you cooperated during this time. You ate and slept so easily. Really, you were an angel. You seemed completely unaware of the drama that had unfolded since you were born.
The next day we were wheeled to another area for the CAT scan. We waited for about ten minutes before the nurse wheeled your mother into a private room. You and I waited outside, hoping she could get through the entire scan. After she was done we went back to the room and waited for the results.
Dr. Polly was the one who delivered the news. He told us that the CAT scan showed that your mother’s abdomen was no longer stitched together. Her bowel was actually outside her abdomen wall; the scenario Dr. Polly originally thought was very unlikely. This explained the vomiting. To fix it, your mother required surgery to avoid rupture, sepsis, or worse.
I felt reassured. We had an answer. Finally.
I told Andrew I was skeptical. How could I trust this doctor? What if he, too, was wrong? But the truth was I was terrified of yet another surgery. It was essentially a second caesarean section. I wanted to review the CAT scan myself, but I couldn’t since it was digital and I couldn’t get out of bed. I asked your father to go take a look at it.
I have no medical background and have never seen a scan other than an x-ray, but the picture of the bowel through the abdomen wall couldn’t have been clearer. It was like a large ball outside of her stomach. It was scary. But it reassured me to know that the second surgery would make your mother feel better. Still, your mother was really unsure. Our original doctor was well respected and ended up being a nightmare. We felt we needed a surgeon that came with a personal recommendation. But only living in Jacksonville a couple of years, our network in this part of Florida is pretty limited. Really, we didn’t know too many people locally who could help. Then we remembered that we have several neighbors who are doctors and administrators at local hospitals. We decided to reach out to them to see what they thought of our surgeon.
While Andrew made phone calls, I Googled our surgeon, Dr. Polly, to see what I could find. I learned several things. First, he is quite accomplished. Second, my complication, while very well known, is EXTREMELY RARE (occurring in 0.1% of all pregnancies) and usually results in death because it goes undiagnosed. Third, if operated on I could make a full recovery. I liked the sound of that last part.
It turned out that one of our neighbors had known Dr. Gordon Polly for nearly twenty years. She ensured us that we were under the best care possible.
Aside from our concern with the surgeon, our primary issue was staying together. Dr. Polly wouldn’t know how bad the damage was until he operated, but based on the scan he didn’t seem very positive. If the bowel had died and had to be severed and reconnected our recovery would be too extensive to remain in the Maternity area. Because of the risk of infection, you would not be allowed to stay with her on a Surgical Recovery floor without special arrangements.
I told the doctors that I was breastfeeding and that I would refuse surgery if I couldn’t stay with my newborn. Probably stupid since they told me I would, you know, die and everything. But try arguing with a hormonal lady. You’ll lose that battle every time.
Finally, they began prepping your mother for surgery. Our neighbor came in a few minutes beforehand to check on her and see how she was feeling. It was extremely thoughtful and considerate. She walked with us to the operating area and wished us good luck. Once inside, we met with Dr. Polly and the anesthesiologist. Dr. Polly explained that the procedure could take a while depending on how extensive the damage was. He said he would go in through the same incision as the c-section, but may need to cut the stomach vertically to give him more room to operate.
I was incredulous. I’d made it through nine months without a stretch mark only to be gutted like a fish. (spoiler alert: Thankfully, we avoided that vertical incision.) I mentioned my love of Brazilian cut bikinis to Dr. Polly, but said if given the ultimatum I’d settle for having the tube being removed from my throat. Making it out alive would be a nice bonus, too.
We kissed your mother goodbye and waited.
They wheeled me in. I hollered to one of the nurses to make sure that someone brought lunch to my husband. I was so scared for you both. Isn’t that funny? We’d only just met and my entire world revolved around you.
Inside the operating room it was like a scene from a science fiction movie. Everything was white and very sterile and there were more knives than Williams Sonoma. Lots of people were milling around doing different preparations. They were warm. They tried to talk to me and make me comfortable. I’ve never had fear like I had that day. I was so frightened that my entire body shook uncontrollably. Before they put me out I looked each one of them in the eye. I said, “Please. Don’t screw this up.” I thought someone would laugh like it was joke.
But no one did.
It wasn’t long before Dr. Polly walked into the room. My first thought was that something had gone wrong. I guess it had to do with the MRI. You and I were only waiting a short time before the MRI tech had come and told us that your mother couldn’t lie through the scan. When Dr. Polly approached us, I asked if everything was okay. He said the surgery was over. We would be able to see your mother in about thirty minutes. He promised me that it couldn’t have gone any better. He also said that we could go back to the Maternity area where we could stay together.
We were called up to the front desk of the waiting area by a nurse who was going to take us to your mother. She led us to the recovery area. There must have been over fifty people in the large room, nurses, doctors, patients, with curtains to separate the patients. Through all of those people, I could hear your mother. Actually, everyone was listening to your mother. She was screaming. We made our way over to her, where she was lying on her back in immense pain. The nurse explained that she had already given her the maximum amount (three times the suggested amount, actually) of pain medication and if she gave her anymore our nurse would not be able to give her anything else for at least four hours. I told her to give her more and that we would deal with the four hours later.
Unfortunately, the additional medication helped only minimally. As if that wasn’t bad enough, we were faced with the difficult task of getting her back to the Maternity area. Outside the curtain I overheard the nurse and patient transporter arguing. The transporter didn’t think there was an elevator large enough to fit our bed. He believed that we would have to move your mother to a wheelchair. The alternative was to wheel the bed to the elevator, and if it didn’t fit we could move her to the wheelchair then.
I hated being talked about like I wasn’t there. “Just move me to the wheelchair!” I said. I might have been in more pain than I’d ever experienced, but I wasn’t nauseous and there was no longer a tube running down my throat. I wasn’t worried about making it into the wheelchair. I felt unstoppable.
It was a long walk back to the maternity area, but one I was glad to take. It meant we could stay together and it also meant that the doctor believed that he had fixed what had caused your mother so much pain. As we walked through the Maternity area, the nurses smiled and commented that they were glad to see us back since they knew it meant the surgery had gone smoothly.
Now that we were back in the Maternity room, I took my first deep breath of relief. I thought that now, after everything we had experienced in the past six days, your mother could finally start her recovery and begin to truly enjoy of motherhood. She tried to explain to me that while she was in an enormous amount of pain, it was a different type of pain. She knew she was fixed. She was also glad to have the tube out of her throat for the first time in nearly a couple of days. Mostly because it meant more of this.
We were in the hospital for several more days before they would release us. During this time we had many ups and downs. Accomplishments such as removing the catheter were quickly forgotten when your mother couldn’t make it to the bathroom or sit up by herself. Being able to finally eat was followed by the constant fear of vomiting. She experienced third spacing and had nightmares and spent hours on end screaming in pain. But it was still better than when we’d first gotten to the Emergency Room just days before.
This week you turned six months old, and we just now finished writing your birth story.
It has taken this long for many reasons. First, revisiting these memories is difficult. To go back over the details, many of which I am sure I left out, has only caused me to question the actions I took during that first week of your life. Maybe if I listened to your mother the night before your birth when she said she had a bad feeling, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe if we had switched doctors early on in the pregnancy when your mother had questioned Dr. Cantor’s conservatism, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I had been insistent on Dr. Cantor running tests in the hospital they would have caught everything sooner. I think my naive belief in the medical system caused me to trust the doctors in charge of your mother’s care rather than listen more closely to what your mother was telling me. I respected the advice of the so-called experts. I figured that with all of their years of education and experience that they had to know what was best. I was wrong. Unfortunately, I cannot go back and change how things played out. But the experience has forever changed me. I no longer trust doctors at their word and will always get multiple opinions and do my own research if anything happens to either of you in the future.
While your birth was quite traumatic for me and your father, you seem to have made it through the experience completely unscathed. You are such a miracle, such a wonderful little boy. I spend a lot of time wishing that these days would go on forever. I love how you have changed our lives. You make it easy to be a mother.
You’ve slept through the night since you were born, though everyone keeps insisting that will change, and your mother feels so fortunate that we’ve been able to breastfeed without issues. We are constantly surprised by how capable and intelligent you are. You amaze us every single day.
You may never truly comprehend how much we love you, but we’ll do our best to try to show you. Maybe someday you’ll have a child of your own who will have his own mother and his own birth story that you’ll share with him like I’m sharing with you. And maybe then you’ll tell him about what happened when you were born on a warm April morning way back in 2012.
And I hope, just maybe, you’ll understand.
p.s. This is wildly inappropriate to attach to this post, but seeing as I'm only making it in here every few weeks, I thought I'd better. Will you check this out? And vote, if you feel so inclined. If it's for us, even better.
p.p.s. Guess who woke up with his first tooth?
p.p.s.s. Also, the Studio and Office are both nearly complete. I know. I can't believe it either. Back soon with more.