The Worst Days of My Life

I've shared parts of this in the past- the good, happy side of this story.  If you haven't already, you can read about my miracle here.  But as time creeps closer to the 10 year anniversary of these events, I find myself reflecting more and more on the horrifyingly scary things that I went though, and how I came out the other side.  So here's my story, in all it's gory details.

Childbirth stories are usually happy, beautiful stories that a woman wants to share again and again, and everyone wants to hear.  Sure, there's pain, and screaming, and a room full of people looking up your vagina.  But in the end, there's a little bundle of joy to cuddle, and everyone is ecstatic, and proud, and crying tears of joy.  Some of us aren't that lucky though.  Some of us have a tale that sounds more like a horror movie. 

In September of 2004, about a month after two adorable boys joined our family through adoption, it dawned on me that my period was late.  Not really surprising considering the amount of stress I was under, from suddenly becoming a mommy to these two very needy little boys, plus dealing with social workers and court.  At my husband's annoying insistence I took a home pregnancy test.  You could have knocked me over with a feather when I looked at the pee soaked stick, and saw that it was a big fat positive.  I didn't cry tears of joy.  I wasn't elated.  I was truly and honestly stunned into complete silence.  I thought for sure the test must be wrong.  This had to be God's way of playing a cruel joke on me, because even though I spent years wishing for a baby, a baby was exactly what I didn't need at that point!  In fact, a baby could destroy the family I was just beginning to build, and tear my two little boys away from me, sending them to another foster home where they would wait once again for someone else to call mommy and daddy.

I was able to get an appointment with an OBGYN within a couple of days.  She confirmed I was in fact pregnant, and was able to see the teeny tiny heartbeat on an ultrasound.  I stared at the screen in disbelief, but then reality set in, and BAM! I suddenly felt the deepest joy I had ever experienced.  However, what she also discovered would explain the years of not being able to conceive, and would be the cause of major heartbreak and fear in the coming months.  You see, I had what was called a septate uterus.  This is a deformity within the uterus that makes it difficult to conceive, and often impossible (I would find out two years later that I should not have been able to conceive at all.)  It also makes the uterus resistant to stretching, which can cause miscarriage or premature birth.  My doctor explained that I had a much higher than normal chance of miscarrying, or if I did manage to somehow stay pregnant, I had an even higher chance of going into preterm labor.  After eight years of disappointment, I was so happy to finally be pregnant that I honestly wasn't concerned in the least.  And really, what could the big deal be if the baby was born a little bit early?  I knew lots of people who had their babies a couple of weeks early, and they were all fine!  

Because our adoption was not finalized yet, we decided to keep my pregnancy a secret from the social workers for as long as possible.  I felt that the longer my boys stayed with me, and the more bonded we became, the harder it would be for them to be removed from our family.  It turned out to be the right choice.  When I was about 5 months along, I finally told our social worker, and I was so relieved when she said that removing the boys would be detrimental to them, and they could stay with us! 

My pregnancy went along perfectly.  I had no morning sickness at all, and other than a little fatigue, and having to pee all the time, I felt great!  I did everything exactly right- I took my pre-natal vitamins daily; I gave up caffeine and junk food; I ate a very healthy diet; I didn't take any medications.  I treated my body better than I had since I was 12 years old.  I secretly laughed at my 22 year old sister (I was 32) who was four months further along in her pregnancy, because she was miserable.  

However, on January 2, 2005, everything would change.  It had been a normal Sunday, and I was busy doing housework, in between playing with the kids.  In the evening I cooked dinner, bathed the boys, read their bedtime stories, and got them all tucked into bed.  I finished up the last bit of laundry, and settled into my comfy recliner to watch t.v.  I sat there relaxing, feeling Baby Zack wiggle around in my belly (we found out about 3 weeks earlier we were having a boy, and had already picked out his name.)  It was about 10pm, the hubs was asleep on the couch, and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.  

All of a sudden, my solace was interrupted by a warm gush in my nether region, and I had a split-second flash of "Did I just fucking pee myself!?"  Baby Zack liked to use my bladder as a trampoline, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.  But just as quickly, that thought was replaced with panic and an instinctive "SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT!"  Within seconds, I was out of my comfy chair and in the bathroom.  By the time I got there, I was soaked in blood, and it started pooling on the floor around my feet.  So I pulled my jammies off, and sat down on the toilet.  I'm not sure why.  I don't even remember sitting down, I was just all of a sudden there.  Maybe it was an unconscious attempt to keep from making a mess on the floor, although that ship had sailed.  The next thought that entered my mind was that Zack was going to fall out of me, and into the toilet, and he would drown, and how would I explain that?  I don't remember making any sounds- I wasn't crying or calling for help.  In fact, it was eerily silent in the bathroom.  I just remember seeing blood everywhere, and thinking that my baby was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it.  I also remember feeling very alone.  All of a sudden I was snapped back to reality as my husband stood in the bathroom doorway.  I couldn't figure out how to tell him what was happening, and then I finally started sobbing.  I quickly wiped away as much blood as I could, and slipped on a pair of dark sweatpants.  As my husband led me out of the bathroom, I turned to look behind me, and saw what appeared to be the scene of a very violent crime.  I felt as if I were walking through molasses, but within moments we were out the door, with two sleeping kids in the car, driving to the hospital. The hospital was 10 minutes away. We got there in about 3 minutes, but it felt like an hour.

At the hospital, the nurse asked me how far along I was.  I told her I was in my 22nd week.  She didn't say a word in response.  She didn't really need to- the look on her face told me that it was likely too early for my baby to survive if he were born that night.  She quietly hooked me up to a monitor, and quickly found Zack's heartbeat.  It was strong, and the sound of it filled the room, and brought me a sense of calmness.  The monitor also showed that I was having contractions, although I couldn't feel them.  I spent the next four days in the hospital, with my feet elevated above my head.  I wasn't allowed to get out of my bed for anything.  Not even to pee, and let me tell you, trying to use a bedpan while almost 6 months pregnant is not easy!  Thankfully the bleeding and contractions stopped, and I was allowed to go home.  Somehow, Baby Zack managed to stay safely within my body.

Things seemed to go back to normal., although I was restricted to very little activity, which I tried really hard to listen to.  I had two little boys who needed lots of attention though, so I couldn't just lay around.  But I felt great, so I wasn't worried.

On January 16th, 2005, my world came crashing down around me again, only this time it would take years to recover from.  It was another seemingly normal Sunday, exactly two weeks after the bathroom crime scene incident.  I woke up that morning feeling a bit off.  I couldn't really explain it- nothing hurt, I wasn't sick, and I wasn't bleeding.  (If all the blood I described earlier wasn't enough tmi for you, here comes a little more.)  I kept going into the bathroom what seemed like almost every hour, because I felt like I needed to poop, but I couldn't.  I also found myself wanting to lay down several times throughout the day, which was really uncharacteristic for me.  As the day went on, this feeling of needing to go to the bathroom seemed to occur more frequently.   And then it happened.  I went to the bathroom, and a glob of mucous came out of me.  I quickly found my copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting because I had no idea what in the hell was happening!  I couldn't believe what I was reading though.  It said something about a mucous plug and labor beginning.  But how could that be?  I was only 24 weeks pregnant!  I called my doctor's office, but since it was Sunday, I had to wait for the answering service to get in touch with whichever doctor was on-call, and then wait for a call back.  It seemed like an eternity.  I explained what was happening to the doctor, and she told me go to the hospital just as a precaution.  So, I called my mom (who was at a different hospital with my 22 year old sister, who had just had her baby the day before) to ask her if she could meet us at the hospital that we were going to, and sit with the boys.  I apologized profusely for tearing her away from my sister and the new baby, mostly because I have a hard time asking for help, but also because I hate feeling like an imposition.

We loaded the kids into the car, and made the drive to the hospital.  As we got closer, I started having the most intense pain I had ever experienced in my life- I was having contractions, and they seemed to be about three minutes apart!  We arrived at the hospital, and I was taken immediately in to be examined.  My husband was in the lobby with the kids, waiting for my mom.  Just as I was trying to climb onto the examination bed, a contraction hit, and buckled my legs underneath me.  The nurse helped me onto the bed, and kept telling me to "breathe through it."  How the fuck could I breathe!?  It hurt too much!!  She asked how far along I was, and I told her I was 24 weeks 4 days.  She asked if I was sure, and I said yes.  I then had another very painful contraction.  The nurse examined me as soon as the contraction passed, and instantly her demeanor changed, and all hell broke loose!  The nurse shouted over her shoulder "WE'VE GOT A BULGING SACK!"  I had no clue what the hell that meant, but I could tell by the urgency in her voice, and the fact that she YELLED my business to the whole ward (so much for HIPAA) that it was not good news.  All of a sudden, there were lots of people in the exam room, and my bed was rolling out the door.  A voice coming from the blur around me was asking where my husband was.  Somehow I managed to remember that he had been waiting in the lobby for my mom.  Another voice told me that I was 8cm dilated, and I was having my baby right now!  I screamed, "IT'S TOO EARLY! I DON'T WANT MY BABY TO DIE!!  PLEASE DON'T LET MY BABY DIE!!"  It was only January, and I wasn't due until May.  I'm sure I scared the shit out of all of the other moms-to-be, and now have a lovely story about the time they went to the hospital to give birth, and there was a crazy woman screaming about her baby dying.  Some nurse tried awkwardly to console me as I sobbed uncontrollably.  I couldn't believe that after so many years of not being able to conceive, and going through our adoption, and then finally getting pregnant, I was going to lose my baby like this.  I felt terrified, and although I was surrounded by people, I felt so very alone.

They wheeled me into the delivery room, and suddenly my husband was there.  He was so calm in the midst of the activity around me, but I could see the fear in his eyes.  I was poked more than a dozen times before they could find a vein for an IV.  My body was going into shock and shutting down, so my veins were constricting.  Someone popped my amniotic sac like a water balloon, and then we were ready to deliver.  Unfortunately, it was quickly discovered that Zack was breach- one of his feet was in the birth canal.  I have no memory of the doctor coming into the room, but I later found out that while my husband was waiting to be brought into the delivery room, he saw her at the opposite end of the long hall.  He said a nurse caught up to her, said something, and the doctor dropped her bags, and ran as fast as she could into the delivery room that I was in.  I only became aware of the doctor's presence when she said she could try to deliver Zack in the breach position, but it would likely kill him.  I needed to have a c-section.

The delivery team moved me to an operating room, and started prepping me for surgery.  As they were getting ready, the NICU team was also setting up.  The neonatalogist came over and introduced himself, and explained what would happen.  At least I think he did, I was in and out of awareness by that point.  I did hear him ask if we wanted his team to do everything in their power to save our baby.  I cried and said I didn't know.  To this day, it kills me that I couldn't answer that question.  Just admitting it, and typing it out here gives me anxiety and makes me cry.  I couldn't even fathom that Zack could survive, and I was terrified to even hope that it was possible.  My husband quickly told the doctor to take every measure possible to save our baby.  I am so grateful that he was coherent enough to make that decision without me.

The next thing I knew, I was being sat upright, and something was jammed into my lower back.  They laid me back down, and I was instantly numb from the throat down- except that I could still feel people touching my belly.  Suddenly, I heard someone say they were ready to start, and I screamed, "I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!  I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!"  I was terrified that my c-section was going end up like one of those horrifying t.v. shows where the person could feel the pain of being sliced open during surgery.  The doctor assured me everything was okay, and that it was just a sensation of pressure, and that I wouldn't actually feel anything.  I wasn't sure I believed her, so I mentally checked out at that point.  I closed my eyes, and silently begged and pleaded with any god that would listen, to just let me die there with my baby.  I couldn't go on in this world without him.  I tried to make myself stop breathing.  Somewhere in the chaos of what was happening, I believed that if I could just stop breathing long enough, my heart would stop beating, and it would all be over.  Of course, I was hooked up to monitors, and I had an oxygen mask on, so as it turned out, dying wasn't actually an option.  Then I heard my husband talking to me, pleading with me to open my eyes.  The surgery seemed to take forever, but I was told that it was really only about 15 minutes from the first incision, to the last staple closing my belly.  The NICU team rushed Zack away before I could even get a glimpse of him.  It would be a couple of hours before I would get to see him.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw that night.

 

Zackary was born weighing 844 grams.  That's a mere 29 ounces, or 1lb 13oz.  He was bigger than he should have been.  Since I had almost lost him two weeks previously, his little body went into survival mode, and he started growing at a faster rate- that may have been what saved his life.  He had to be resuscitated when he was born, and he was given less than a 10% chance of surviving that night.  >His skin was paper thin, and would tear with the slightest touch.  To this day, he has a scar on the side of his rib cage, where his skin ripped when he was being removed from my uterus.  His skin was transparent, and he had no layer of baby fat to separate it from the muscles and blood vessels beneath, which gave him a strange red-purple color, instead of the healthy pink glow of a newborn.  His body was nothing more than a bundle of exposed nerves.  The slightest touch was painful for him, so we could only touch the top of his head and the bottom of his feet.  The bones in his skull weren't even in place yet, and they overlapped each other, giving him a slightly alien appearance.  His eyes were fused shut, and he had no cartilage in his ears.

 He lost several ounces the first few days of his life, dropping precariously close to one pound, but that was okay, because he was still alive.  He was fighting!

Four days after Zack's birth, I was discharged from the hospital.  Walking out, and leaving a piece of my heart behind was excruciating.  There were no happy family members escorting us out, no balloon or flower bouquets.  No smiling nurses waving goodbye and wishing us good luck.  Instead we walked out in silence, and we were watched with pitying eyes.  I sobbed the entire way home.  There was no "Welcome Baby" sign in our yard.

The first few weeks of Zack's life were the most painful and scary days I have ever experienced.  I sat helpless next to him day after day, and although he came out of my body, I wasn't allowed to touch him without permission.  I had to wait ten agonizing days before I could hold him, and that required two nurses and a respiratory tech, because of all the wires, and the ventilator tube down his throat.  I learned hospital jargon and medical terminology that no parent should have to learn.  I watched as his heart rate and oxygen levels dropped dangerously low.  I saw him turn blue and almost lose his battle several times, and then be brought back by the deft hands of his nurse.  But each day, this tiny little baby would prove just how strong and resilient he really was.

Zack spent 91 days in the NICU, and came home a healthy 3 month old, who weighed 5.5lbs and still hadn't reached his due date.  He defied the odds that were stacked against him, and surpassed all expectations.  It was a long road, and it took him several years to "catch up" both developmentally and in size, but he avoided almost all of the potential life-long complications often related to prematurity.  At almost 10 years old now, we still struggle with some sensory issues related to food, and he is still a little underweight.

I spent many years feeling guilty for everything my tiny baby had to endure, after all, it was my body that failed him- my deformed uterus that couldn't stretch enough to let him stay safe.  If I had only gone to the doctor to find out why I hadn't been able to get pregnant for so long, a simple ultrasound would have shown us, and my deformity could have been corrected.  And then maybe I would have carried him to term.  And then maybe he wouldn't have almost died.  And then maybe...

I spent years being hyper aware of every little sniffle or cough, because a simple cold had the potential to land him back in the hospital.  I held my breath for years, being terrified that something bad would happen and I would end up losing him.  I sat feeling helpless and heartbroken when his physical delays were glaringly obvious next to his peers on the playground, and I knew it was all my fault.

Because of all that I went through with Zack, and how incredibly lonely I felt (being abandoned by almost everyone I knew during all of this is a whole other blog post) I became a mentor in the NICU.  Helping other families during their prematurity journey has been one of the greatest and most healing experiences for me.  I still carry some guilt, and I probably always will, but I no longer have the debilitating panic that I used to.  And in the end, I see just how far Zack has come, and I am reminded that this little boy wasn't supposed to survive the night he was born.  He was stronger than anyone thought, and if a baby that small and sick can be that strong, then I can too!

Hot Child in the City

I was surprised recently when I received a FB message from a family member I hadn't talked to in years. It was my most favorite aunt!  I was a little girl when she was in her late teens, and she would take me everywhere with her whenever I visited my grandparents during my summer vacations.  She was more like a really cool big sister than she was an aunt.  She was beautiful, fun, and had lots of friends, and I completely and utterly idolized her.  We went to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm together every summer.  She would also take me to the roller rink with her on Saturday nights (don't judge- it was the late 70's!)  There were always lots of guys who wanted to skate with her, and she always found a boy close to my age for me to skate with.  (The last song of the night always seemed to be Reunited by Peaches and Herb.)  I was totally horrified at the thought of skating with a boy, but she wouldn't let me say no.

My aunt seemed to always have fun.  Always.  And so I had fun as an extension of that.  The Nick Gilder song, Hot Child in the City, always reminded me of her, even though I was too young to fully understand just how fitting the song really was.  As I got older, things changed though.  She didn't have time for me anymore, and I was heartbroken.  What I didn't understand until much later, was that my beloved aunt had become a drug addict.  My family protected me from that information for a long time, until they no longer could- until I was old enough to understand the things being said about her in hushed voices.  My beloved aunt drifted away from the family for quite a long time.  She did things, and made choices that everyone judged her harshly for, and she broke my grandmother's heart.  What I knew then, and what I understand even more now, is that it was the drugs that pushed her to those choices.  Sure, she chose to start experimenting with drugs, but her addiction wasn't completely her fault.  She tried to get clean many times, but it never seemed to stick.

The last time I saw my aunt was in 2001, at my grandfather's funeral.  She was angry at everyone.  She had been angry with my grandfather for several years, because after my grandmother's death in 1997, he would no longer bail her out of her troubles.  The last place she wanted to be was around any of the family, and the judgmental glances directed at her.

My aunt and I have exchanged several messages now, and she is definitely not the same angry person she was 13 years ago.  Her mistakes have taken a toll on her, both physically and emotionally, and I could tell she was worried that family members may have poisoned me against her.  I assured her that I didn't care how much time had passed, or what she had done since we last spent any real time together, and she seemed content with that.  I can also tell she has deep regrets for how her life has turned out.  I hope that I can give her a small amount of peace by accepting who she is today, and not pointing out the mistakes that I know she is already so painfully aware of.

Online Friendship

I have a serious love/hate relationship with social media.  All relationships can be hard, and online relationships are no exception.  But online friendship brings a set of unique circumstances with it.  One of the biggest hurdles, of course, is geography.  I often find myself connecting with people who live nowhere near my corner of the world, yet I feel so drawn to them.  Is it even possible to become real friends with people you will likely never meet in person?  (What is a real friend anyways?  Do we even know anymore?)  I have come to care very deeply for several people whom I've met online.  I've been lucky to meet a few of them over the years, but sadly will likely never have that chance with most.  Some of these people mean so much to me- I am excited when they have happy news, I have cried tears for them when they have been faced with devastation and heartbreak, and I feel crushed when I know that what they need more than anything is for someone to be present with them, and I can do absolutely nothing about it.

One of the many pitfalls of online communication is the potential for one-sided relationships.  Not everyone wants the same thing when they join social media, and not everyone is what they seem.  You can't look people in the eyes to see if they are being honest.  I've experienced this several times throughout the years.  We probably all have.  I'm often still taken by surprise when it comes to light that someone I really liked isn't who I thought they were.  Maybe it's because I don't know how to be anything but myself, and I expect everyone else to be the same.  I think on some level I trust too easily, and take people at face value.  But I'm also jaded and distrustful of people online.

So how do we protect our hearts from being trampled in this realm of online friendships?  (Again, what is a friend?  Do we throw that word around too easily these days?)  Do we just go through the motions, and not actually connect with people?  Or do we try, hope for the best, and then pick up the pieces later if it turns out that the relationship we had hoped for was never meant to be?  This is the line I walk... connecting but only very partially; wanting to let people know I am there for them, but not wanting to pry or intrude, in case they aren't as invested as I am; trying so hard, but acting aloof and unaffected when I realize that I've completely misread a situation, or someone else's intent.  Some days it's enough to make me just stop trying.  Some days it feels like walking alone in a crowd of thousands who can't see me at all.