The ultrasound

Argh! I am so frustrated by everything that I cannot remember! I asked my sister to help with details but of course she can't talk about what she wasn't there for. I am so frustrated that I can't tell you all the little bits I'm sure I vowed at the time to cement firmly in my mind. I feel like it's more of a loss, on a smaller scale, to have these minute details taken from me.

So I'll write what I know, which for now is how I kept thinking I'd be stuck in the hospital for the foreseeable future. I didn't have the knowledge of experience to envision any other outcome. So I'd ask the nurses about what it was like for women who were forced to stay in the hospital. I remember being so unable to picture myself confined to that bed for any length of time that the thought became a desperate panic. Even the news that one of the nurses ran a scrapbooking group did little to ease me.

At some point during the day, they also brought in two critical people to see me: The social worker who came to talk to me about what might happen, and a nurse from the neonatal unit to talk to me about premature babies. You know — the details about percentages of survival, of disability and so on. I didn't really process most of it.

My sister came that night (I think this is when she must have brought things for me.) She hung out for a while but the details are lost for now. After she left, the doctors came in to perform an ultrasound. (These doctors came and went in packs, as it was a learning hospital. I'd see a couple of revolving groups once or twice a day, when they made rounds, one for the morning, one for the evening.)

Evening Group Head Doctor squirted the goo on my belly and wielded the wand with all of her hovering fellow doctors and doctors-to-be playing witness. By this time, of course, I'd had my second Butt Shot. So this doctor was looking for evidence of its effectiveness, which she confirmed by excitedly proclaiming, "The baby is breathing!"

What she meant was that she could see the baby practicing breaths.

I guess this should be a happy thing, right? So why do I find myself crying right now? I never know what is going to affect me, what is going to steal my ability to remain aloof enough to tell the tale. I guess I cry now because ... because. I'm just at a loss as to why.

My baby breathing, so early, TOO god damned early, but forced to do so because I failed. Failed to carry to term, failed to be a good parent, failed in so many ways. Failed in this very true and basic essence of womanhood. I failed my child. I betrayed myself. I betrayed this baby, who somehow managed to rise about it all ANYWAY, to fight above the bitterness of the physical surroundings, to be so fundamentally there and alive and breathing. Why couldn't I have been able to celebrate that strength by not betraying and failing it? Why did I force my baby to fight for life instead of providing a hospitable and loving and protective womb in which to grow and thrive? Why couldn't I sustain the pregnancy instead of my failure of a body trying to end it? I cannot find forgiveness for myself. I cannot accept that some things cannot be explained, because I know somewhere deep inside me I am responsible for very base-level inability. In the end, I did not protect my child. Instead, I put my child in danger.

A safe, life-giving protectiveness turned vile and abhorrent.

Six months or so ago ...

I know, I know. We're slowly working up to the 24th, which was a Wednesday, and here it already is six months from that day of birth.

What day are we on now? We've finished Monday night, and now it's time to review Tuesday.

But I haven't posted in awhile because I'm scared of what awaits. After I tell you about the tests and tests (you might remember the tests from the other posts? Yeah, I'm going to repeat myself), I'll have to tell you about the C-section. And then the tiny baby in the plastic box. And I'm still not sure I want to go back there yet. So I'm dragging my feet.

Tuesday.

My sister had brought some things from home. A photo of my son was my most important request, but that deodorant came in close second. Because by Tuesday, I was feeling seriously grody. I hadn't had a shower since Saturday or even the opportunity to sponge bath. When the technician came in to listen to my innards, I told him I'd give him a million dollars just to hand me my deodorant. (Nurses, you put up with a lot, cuz this was one stinky chick!)

At some point, though, the nurse came in and told me I might be able to take a bath "later." In the meantime, she brought me some toothpaste and a toothbrush, along with that thing to spit in. (Another shout-out for the nurses here, for having to carry people's spit.) And she brought me towels and a basin of warm water and a bar of soap and

I felt.

So.

Immensely.

Grateful.

I remember vividly thinking how beautiful a moment it was, this basic luxury of being able to care for myself, to clean myself. That from that very moment, I would learn to appreciate every little thing in life. That I'd never complain about anything because that basic need had been denied to me and now I was getting to have it. I just wanted to wash my body.

At some point I did get to have a full-on bath. Maybe it was Wednesday morning? It was even more glorious, even as I cautiously carried my drugged and IV'd body into the bathroom and into the tub. I think I cleaned my hair three or four times.

During Tuesday's day, I also had someone who came and listened to different innards — my heart — with this somewhat painful little device that poked into my bones and skin. I'm trying to remember how I passed the day, other than phone calls to family and to work. I'm trying to remember so much that's falling away.

I'm going to stop for now, I think. Next time, I'll tell you about Mike Rowe, and about the doctor who came in late Tuesday night to do an ultrasound ... and exclaimed loudly, "The baby is breathing!"

The next hospital

"A baby can't survive."

It's hard to write that even now, after my baby proved everyone and every statistic wrong. It still hurts to remember the terror and doubt and desperation.

And I AM trying to remember everything that happened, because I worry if I forget a piece it will fester. It's surprising, the stupid things I remember in the middle of the bigger things. So I suppose I'll come back to these entries as new details emerge, or as I notice errors and inconsistencies.

But it's so difficult to recall the banalities, not only emotionally, but physically as well. It's soon in this that I'll tell you that the drugs dripped into my veins started, drugs that ripped away any belief I had I could retain some control and made me more woozy and fuzzy-headed than I understood possible. Drugs that led to hallucinations and a scrawl in my bedside notebook to "get off ALL drugs" as a goal for reclaiming my sense of sanity.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After they told me I'd be moving to the Level 3 hospital, my dad and sister waited until the ambulance showed up. I don't remember the conversation, other than my sister's constant reassurances. I told them they didn't need to go to the hospital with me; it was late, both were tired.

And I already felt terribly alone.

The EMTs came, eventually, with a stretcher, and I was moved onto it and out the door. It was my first ride in an ambulance. They wouldn't turn on the lights, though:)

I don't understand my humor sometimes. In the ambulance I bantered with the EMT in the back, who peppered my witty comments with serious questions. I just kept thinking I wanted to make SOMEone laugh. And he was a good audience. Not to mention -- who doesn't love to talk about herself?

Arrival at the next hospital was to the emergency entrance, where I was pushed past the admittance desk, into an elevator and up to the room. They transferred me over to the bed, which supposedly was much more comfortable than standard fare.

More questions about myself. A nice nurse. A phlebotomist using my arms for what felt like practice as in her search to find an unholed spot she was forced to dig into the backs of my hands ... and the sight of the incredibly beautiful, vibrant, alive circle of my blood as it ran out and spread onto the white, white sheet when she couldn't establish proper insertion in the back of my left hand. And then moved onto the right. And then into my right inner wrist, halfway between hand and inner elbow, where she finally found success.

Another hour or two of tests and questions. About what? I wish I remember, other than general repetitions of the story-thus-far and biographical information. Some explanation of what was going to happen. And the beginning of the IV drips.

I was given magnesium sulfate to prevent the pre-ecclampsia from developing into ecclampsia, which would mean convulsionsstrokebraindeathdeath. And potassium to counteract the magnesium sulfate and hydrate me. Blood pressure medications came and went in various doses.

The oxygen started, too. Tubing with little prongs that shoved into my nostrils. Because I still couldn't take a deep breath and that was terrifying me. Was it this night I opted for the sleeping pill, Ambien? I can't remember if I was beyond exhausted yet and gave in. Whenever night it was, it didn't help anyway.

And I was given the first Butt Shot.

Two shots administered 24 equal hours apart. Into my ass. Left cheek the first night, right the next, if you're really into the details of this story. It was a steroid that promoted development of the baby's lungs, lungs that weren't meant to breathe outside air until the very end of full-term pregnancy.

I do have to say I'm proud to brag that I resisted the catheter for a long time. I don't remember when I gave in, but I did. I peed automatically, into that tiny tube without feeling it, until after delivery.

I think sometimes that I will request my medical records so I can fill in the gaps. But I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. And when I read about medications I had, or procedures, all of the "possibles" fold into my understanding and overwhelm me anew.

I could have I could have It could have It could have. These possible side effects of magnesium sulfate:

Cardiac arrest
I was already having trouble with my pre-ecclampsia-induced irregular heartbeat.
Pulmonary edema (lungs fill with fluid; can be fatal)
Check, had that too.
Chest pain
Cardiac conduction defects
Low blood pressure
I WISH!
Low calcium
Increased urinary calcium
Visual disturbances
Oh yeah. We'll learn their names later.
Decreased bone density
Respiratory depression (difficulty breathing)
Had that already.
Muscular hyperexcitability

I was on the magnesium sulfate until just before I was discharged.

I learned how the bed went up and down. I learned where the call button and the light switch were. I asked for the blinds to be open even though it was night because I was so terrified of confinement in that little room.

This was Monday night.

It was only later that I noticed the incubator tucked into a corner, and realized this was a room meant for giving birth.

The second hospital

The hospital at night. Alone in my room, missing my son, I suppose it was inevitable I'd think back to his birth 7 and a half years before just a few rooms away. I remember it was late and everyone had gone home, and I was left alone to hold my baby boy. I remember how perfect it had been, how I snuggled him close in and whispered all the promises I still try to keep, promises born from my own failed childhood. I ached for him as I lay in the semi-dark, trying in vain to find sleep.

I guess the night passed; I remember more blood draws and eating at one point. Trying to watch crummy-reception TV. I'm sure someone talked to me about the status of tests. At some point they must have told me I was staying overnight, so then my hopes turned to release the next day.

In the morning, more tests, more people, more more more. I was wheelchaired at one point down for an MRI ... either of my brain or lungs, I don't remember. I felt so bad for the guy who had to push me, I tried to make up for it with stupid banter. The MRI wasn't as horrifying as it had been for my grandpa, whose terror at the closed space and subsequent flight from the room were the stuff of family legend. I worried about harm to the baby, and was reassured s/he would be OK. I'm thinking that test was something like $9,000, if I'm correctly remembering.

Back upstairs to the room, passing the day, into the night, with food, people, TV, boredom boredom boredom. And utter boredom. And still no clue as to the intensity of the circumstances. I just keep thinking now what a FOOL I was to be so ignorant. But how can one know when it's never happened before? I'm looking for self-forgiveness in this, along with the multitude of other regrets that pile up and demand attention.

I knew that when the doctor came to tell me I'd have to cancel my trip to Disneyland, planned just a week later with my son as a final it's-just-the-two-of-us trip, I smiled and nodded and smugly told my inner self he was full of bullshit. (This doctor will come up later in the tale, so mark him here in your memory.)

This doctor was the first to name what was happening to me: pre-ecclampsia. He explained the details of it, what was happening to me to land me in such a rare condition. My lungs were filling with fluid -- thus the breathing difficulties -- my brain was swelling. My blood pressure was still heading north. And so on. It's a rare condition, affecting about 5 percent of pregnancies, and the only cure would be the eventual delivery of baby and placenta. To stave off that event, I would be confined to bed rest, intensely monitored, medicated. I worried about work, but the doctor told me he'd write a note.

I guess they knew the outcome, though, that bed rest notes wouldn't be needed. Because when evening came, I was given the news that I was to be transferred to a Level 3 hospital -- the most critical of them all. Why? They explained that the hospital only delivered babies at 26 weeks and later, that it wasn't equipped to handle babies born earlier.

I was 25 weeks and two days.

Some inkling began then, because I wept as I explained the situation to my dad and sister. My dad kept kept repeating the words, in the way dads have of repeating words meant to stay quiet: "But a baby can't survive this early. A baby can't survive."

The first hospital

I don't remember how long I was in that little room at urgent care at the first hospital. Long past my son's boredom turning to apathy. Long past him exploring all of the equipment in the room. Long past lunch.

I didn't get it, and that just gets me now. I had no clue how bad things were starting to become, only that when they told me my skyrocketing blood pressure and the fluid climbing in my lungs and the other bits of health terror bought me a ticket to the next hospital, I insisted my sister take me through the drive-thru for food first.

That's right. I nearly sold my soul for Taco Hell.

I didn't comprehend what the beneath-the-breath anxiety of the medical staff meant, had never contemplated anything wrong with the pregnancy. I guess because I was just beginning to come to terms with the pregnancy.

So they examined me, they monitored my pressure, they did everything they could to bring it down and when it just continued to move up, it was time for more urgent medical intervention. So I was sent down the hill (via personal vehicle with a stop for a burrito first) to the second hospital. And admitted into the room where I'd planned in three and a half more months to actually give birth.

Nurses, doctors came and went. Tests, questions came and went. The afternoon and then the evening came and went.

My son marveled at the room, said it was as wonderful as the 5-star resort we'd stayed in in Puerto Vallarta. Didn't want to leave me. He drew pictures on the dry erase board and erased them with a hospital-issue washcloth. I remember this vividly because the picture he drew was of two separate fetuses in two separate amniotic sacs. They were himself (because he'd been born at the same hospital) and the baby still inside me. For some reason I was too terrified to ask, he erased one of them. I also didn't ask if it was himself or the baby he left behind.

I have that washcloth still, with the smears of green dry erase ink bordering the stamped "hospital property." It was the first thing of all the things I kept during the whole experience. I seemed to need to hoard all the bits and pieces because the loss of any one of them symbolized a much greater loss. That giving up one little thing could only set off a domino chain of even greater loss.

So my sister took my son home, after I told him I'd soon follow. After I wiped away his tears at having to leave me and reassured him I loved him. After I told him I'd soon follow.

I promised him I'd be home.

I was SO mad at that point, that I had to stay overnight. I was so bored. I keep thinking, "They'll do one more test and then they'll release me." I kept asking when they could take out the IV needle and assorted bandages taped to my inner arm. I watched nurses change shift, the new one asking what she could bring to eat. I declined, assuming I'd soon be leaving.

She stayed to take care of me, I guess understanding that I had no clue. She helped take the toe ring off my rapidly swelling feet. She talked to me.

I just wanted my son and my own bed.

I wouldn't see either for a week.

Why this is called Ankle Rolls

That line between the expression of melodrama and trauma is miniscule, it's nearly impossible not to step over. So before I write any more, I want to admit I'm likely to cross it as I struggle to find a way to convey what happened. Haven't I already, with oceans of tears on my pillow? All I can do is ask for your patience and understanding that I will always be my own biggest critic.

About a week before Oct. 21, 2007, I was nearly six and a half months pregnant and aside from a gag reflex on hyperdrive, had had no negative symptoms. (Unless you count utter denial about the pregnancy a negative symptom.) The baby had just begun to seriously make herself known through movement and kicks (though I felt her from at least before the third month.) And then I looked down and realized my ankles had become so fat, they actually had rolls.

I was pissed.

The only flippin' thing on my body that wasn't fat and now it had rolls. The injustice.

So I pondered and came up with this clever title. I thought maybe it'd help cement the reality of this pregnancy, to write clever ditties about it. To draw in admiring women who nodded in understanding. But I didn't have a chance to come back to this blog until now.

For about three nights, I started to have trouble breathing and thus I got very little sleep. I simply could not catch my breath. On that third morning, the 21st, I called my consulting nurse line, sure I was coming down with the flu. But there were no other symptoms. And nothing wrong with me aside from fat ankles.

The nurse told me to go in to urgent care. I was frustrated. Urgent care took effort and energy I didn't have, meant uprooting my family and dragging them with me for something I was sure would self-resolve. But I went.

The admitting triage nurse was going off shift, was in fact overdue as she had no problem complaining to me, so rushed me through and didn't indicate any problems when assessing me, taking my blood pressure, etc. When I was called back into a room, though, another nurse and the doctor rushed in.

"You need to relax," the nurse kept repeating. "You need to relax."

I yawned as I told her it didn't get any more relaxed.

But she kept telling me. "You need to relax."

Beginning to worry, I asked why. And though I didn't know it at the time, would not fully take it in until I was on the hospital bed with the oceans of tears at the sides of my head, that's when this all began.

"You need to relax."

You have to start somewhere

As my baby and I lay dying on the hospital bed, I kept thinking about this blog that I'd started. I kept thinking how helpful it would be to have a laptop propped on my belly because the experience was so unreal that the only way I would be able to believe what I was feeling-thinking-understanding-experiencing would be to document it here and read about it later. That I'd just had time to come up with the delightfully clever title before the whole world crashed down around me.

I remember at that point the sides of my face and hair were drenched from the torrent of tears that pooled into oceans on either sides of my head. The nurse came in to turn down the volume on the fetal monitor, and I begged her to leave it loud. Because I feared it would be the last time my baby's heart would beat.

These snippets of memories are rising to the surface as the time passes and the trauma begins to work its way out into the open. Memories I wanted to forget, that I should be ABLE to forget given the ultimate happy ending my story vows ... but that linger until I can give them fresh breath and a glimpse of new life and send them on their way.