We didn't pull it off without a hitch, but we did do it. With the help of movers, cleaners, and a generous set of parents and a good friend, we managed to get me out of the apartment, some things donated, and everything else into storage. There was no way I could have done all of that on my own. But even with all that help, there were plenty of times if I wondered if it would ever get done.
When I first moved to the Seattle area, I was moving for my job and therefore had the privilege of experiencing company-paid professional movers. Sharing a house with two roommates at the time, I didn't have a full household of goods, but I was still impressed that the two of them managed to pack up the goods of my entire life in about two hours and I never even lifted a finger. So needless to say, my expectations were high when these guys came in.
While the three movers were packing up various portions of my home and asking for directions, the donation truck I had solicited for a pick-up came, and they needed direction as well. I had them take the old TV, our bed, and the three boxes of books on the porch. In those ten or fifteen minutes, it was me and five strangers, all of whom were asking for where things were, or if they could use the bathroom. It was chaos.
It was only later that evening when everyone else was gone and the movers had been paid that I noticed the donation truck picked up something they shouldn't have. I had directed them to the porch for the three boxes of books. And there they were, three boxes of books stacked in their own corner of the porch. In an opposite corner, there was a plastic bin of our personal papers -- records we needed to keep. And they took those too. My phone call asking about them was never returned.
And then there was still plenty left in the apartment. There were things left that I wanted the time to sort through myself, to decide if I would need them with me or if they were better off being stored for a time. I stopped by a few days after work the following week, thinking I could do a little at a time. I did do a little each day I was there, but there was still a lot left, which (again, thanks to the help of a good friend) was finally completed this past Saturday, all amidst trips to the bathroom to deal with nausea.
Then I got sick: not the nauseated pregnancy kind, but the I-got-a-cold-that-knocked-me-flat kind -- the kind that has you calling in sick for two days.
It would be wrong to say I've done any of this alone. I didn't pack and move alone, and I didn't get everything into storage on my own. Thanks be to God, I had a lot of help. James found the movers. My parents and my friends made sure I wasn't the only one left to pack and tidy up. I recognize all of this.
But there is something very alone-feeling about it. James is far away and I'm here, wrapping things up and being the one who is getting ready to say goodbye. And it all came tumbling in after the chaos died down: This has been home for me. This is where my family is and this is where I grew up. I have memories here, places I can point to and say, This is where we took that picture, or Remember how hard we laughed at the pier? I'm saying goodbye to co-workers and friends, to my family. I'm saying goodbye to the place where Ewan is buried. I'm saying goodbye to the friends who brought us food, or who did our grocery shopping and our laundry when it was too much after he died.
I am confident and hopeful that a beautiful life is waiting for us in Florida -- a life which wasn't going to be possible for us here. I know in my head it's the right thing, and a full heart propels me forward. But that doesn't mean goodbye is easy. Goodbye is and is going to be painful. And so it comes back to that beautiful and terrible tension again: in the one hand, the sorrow and the ache of goodbye, and in the other, the joy and the hope of a new life. Shadows and light: I hold both.
A few weeks ago, I started writing our story. I actually started a book project. I was getting some of the easier things written out first -- about how James and I met in college and eventually reconnected several years later. When in Nashville, I had a discussion with one of the friends we were staying with (who has had a couple of books published himself) who suggested a different beginning than the one I had originally plotted: our last night in the hospital with Ewan. Show them you're really going to go there.
Naples, FL
He was right. That was the right place to start.
When we got home, I unpacked, went through the mail, cleaned up the bathroom, did laundry. James has been sick with a sinus infection, so we spent some time snuggling on the couch and indulging our current addiction to "Grey's Anatomy". This past Sunday evening, I finally sat down to start pounding out that part of our story. That last night with Ewan is a time I've explored a few times before in my writing and though perhaps I should not have been, I was surprised -- not that I was exhausted and weepy after writing about 800 words -- but at just how deeply exhausted and profoundly weepy I was. That sense of loss is always with me, but being in that night again -- describing the blue vinyl couch we sat on, our conversations with doctors and nurses about Ewan's failing organs that day, and how awkward it was to hold a baby still tethered by his open chest to an ECMO machine -- everything was bubbling right at the surface. It was like I was there holding my dying child again, but without the shock that protected me in those initial hours of loss.
Since that day, I have had moments that have been dark and airless, where it seems as though I cannot catch a breath or see my own hand in front of my face, where it feels as though my heart has shrunk to the size of a dense, cold raisin inside my chest. I have also had moments that were shining with hope, and those where I felt completely numb. I couldn't know that day when I was sitting on the blue vinyl couch with my dying son in my arms what it would feel like in the days, weeks, and months that would follow. But I do now, and so when I look back on that day, it is with a deep knowing and sober understanding that I didn't have (and could not have had) in those first moments. To have felt everything I have in those days that followed illuminates that first day in a fuller way for me -- I see more now about how that day would turn my heart inside out and my life upside-down. Somehow, it makes my recollection of that day feel heavier and weightier, a mighty and sacred thing that will always be with me.
And so I had to step away from the writing for awhile, not because recalling that day brought up anything new, but because it did show me something important, something that I've known on a cerebral level but have only recently started to internalize, and it's this: the loss will always be a part of me. It's not something that I can just get over or get past, and it's not something to be confused about or apologize for. And so while I understood these things, what I'm only beginning to learn goes hand in hand with that knowledge -- that maybe healing doesn't consist so much in seeing a diminishment of the inward experience and outward expression of emotion, but accepting that those things are there and to a certain extent, always will be. Accepting the tears, accepting the pain, accepting the memories that will occasionally make you feel as though all the air has been sucked out of the room.
Without really realizing it, there was a part of my internal dialogue that was telling me to get back to normal, to get on with life, to put on a happy face, to make sure that the number of tears I cried diminished with the passage of time. I would get frustrated and confused when I found myself getting sad or weepy over things that I had wept over a hundred times already. And my internal dialogue would say something rude like: Haven't we been through this already?
I found myself frustrated that I was not nearly as task-oriented as before: that laundry went unfolded and not put away for days, that I would set small daily goals for myself and fail to meet them. This is not who I was before, and I found it nearly impossible to accept.
But what I realized in a new way after writing those 800 words was that because this experience was utterly life-altering, I must arrange my life in such a way that there is space for this huge thing that happened to us, permission for memory and emotion, and for challenging myself in those things for which I don't feel quite ready. I think I was trying to fit this enormous life experience we had into the framework of a life that existed before Ewan came to be. And it won't work that way. I've got to figure out how to let our life fall in line around it, to rearrange things in such a way that I'm not trying to live as though nothing ever happened. I'm sure that with practice, I will get better at answering e-mails again in less than a couple of months, that I will find that in fact, I can fold the towels within 24 hours of the dryer clicking off.
So for now, I'm learning to be in this place that makes room for my family, my work, my friends, and doing those things that are important to me. And I'm learning to accept what it is, arrange it around a loss that wasn't there before. Maybe I won't able to cross as many things off my list as before, but I will figure it out. And if you're still hanging in there with me, I just want to say: Thanks.
It was my birthday yesterday. My family drove from out of town for the occasion and thanks to an incredible deal from Groupon, we celebrated by going to the Seattle Aquarium and out to dinner afterward.
The weather here is incredibly mild for the time being. Though a strong wind from the south was blowing hard against us while we were on the waterfront, the fifty-seven degree weather meant that even though it was January, we really didn't need wool coats or gloves.
We embraced the experience right alongside all the other families that were there, touching anemones and starfish, making faces at a rather shy and incredibly orange octopus, and jealously watched the unbelievably lithe underwater movements of the seals. We pressed hands and faces up against the glass and for a little while, became kids again. James, who was enamored of animals at a very young age (and especially sea creatures of all shapes and sizes) repeated facts about the sea creatures we looked at, teaching us to wonder at them a little more.
After leaving the aquarium, we walked down Alaskan Way, passing several piers and the boats harbored there. The sun reflected brilliantly off the waters of the Puget Sound as the sun set, giving our faces a welcome respite from the wind that continued to blow. The day was capped off with dinner and a delicious piece of chocolate birthday cake that was rich enough for five of us to split and feel satisfied.
It was as good a day to celebrate as I could hope for.
But then the end of the day came and as I lay in bed, I thought of what a beautiful day it was: how we laughed and smiled and saw these beautiful things that normally lie below the surface of what we see. I thought of how much I would have liked to show Ewan these things. At four months old, I could imagine him smiling with big eyes, making awe-inspired sounds, and clapping his chubby little baby hands together. I could imagine him falling asleep against my chest as the day wore on, and in the car on the way back home.
That's when all that beauty began to hurt. I needed a day like yesterday, one where I could see beautiful things and share them with the people I love most. That includes Ewan, now and for the rest of my life, and it makes the loss feel fresh and raw all over again not to have him here. No one needs to preach to me about how he's in a better place, how he's no longer suffering, or how he's surrounded by a beauty that is incomprehensible to the human mind. I get that.
But it is also true that every time I don't get to share a day like yesterday with him, a part of my broken heart bleeds again. Even as I need that beauty to heal, it will continue to wound a little as well. I think that's just part of the deal.
You've been gone for just over 8 weeks now. The days slip past on the calendar, one looking much the same as any other. If someone had told me it had been eight days and another that it had been eight years since you died, I could find no reason within myself to doubt either of them.
4 days old
As we draw nearer to winter, the hours of daylight wane and the night is longer. I feel tired all the time and have developed the talent of being able to weep with no apparent inducement at all -- though I don't think anyone would challenge me on the fact that your death is enough inducement for whatever tears might come up until the day I die. Grief is a heavy thing, a burden created through an absence, and an aberration. Anyone who has grieved knows down to the very marrow in their bones: it's not supposed to be this way.
It is simply miraculous to me that one day, you didn't exist and then all of the sudden, you did. That you grew from a cluster of cells and developed within me, that I was able to know your life and your movements within me. I was in love with you before I ever laid eyes on you. When I finally did see you, I knew you. It would be wrong to say that I loved you any more in that moment, but upon having the veil removed -- getting to see your face and look into your eyes, and to experience you looking into mine -- I knew without a doubt that nothing would keep me from loving you, from fighting for you, from offering every ounce of will I possessed on your behalf. I knew I would have jumped on the operating table and offered you my own heart if I could. I would not have hesitated.
I've had time now to reflect and think on your short life, to remember you and many of the things that happened. I know I could not have changed the outcome -- but I wish I could have been with you until the very last second you were awake. If I have any regrets, it is that I was not there. You seemed to be doing so well, and the change seemed to have happened so quickly. My presence might not have changed much, but at least I could have been with you, holding your hand and assuring you of my presence and love until the last possible second. Given what you suffered in barely two weeks outside the womb, you had no reason to have a very high opinion of being born, but I hope you knew how much we loved you, how much we wanted you to live and thrive, to hold you, to one day take you home and do all the things that parents dream of doing with their children.
I bet you would have had the most beautiful smile, and the most delightful giggle. I can imagine them, and feel a painful lump rise in my throat every time it hits me that I will never get to see your smile or hear your laughter. And then I cry, and sometimes I keep crying because I have no reason to stop.
You will always be my first, Ewan. You are the one who made me a mother. And even though you don't need me anymore, you will always be my son, and I will always take delight in you.
I miss you so much, my beautiful boy. You have my heart forever.
I'm not the least bit religious, she said, but you can feel the angels in that room.
The ECMO specialist said this to us after she left his room, clocking out at the end of her 7 am - 7 pm shift. We were in the hall waiting for my parents to arrive, calling our families and close friends to let them know we were saying goodbye to Ewan that night.
There were always two nurses in the room with Ewan when he was on ECMO. One ran the ECMO machine and the other nurse was there to keep an eye on everything else. On the day we said goodbye to Ewan, the two of them that were there had a combined ICU nursing experience of nearly fifty years.
The ECMO specialist that day adored our baby almost as much as we did. She was so tender with him, and couldn't get over how beautiful he was. It's so hard to believe that anything could be wrong with him. She helped us to get our hands under him in that little bed to hold him, even with all the tubing and monitors all around. It was difficult to navigate, but not impossible.
By all appearances, he had been doing so well the day before. While James grilled the doctor, I stayed as close to his bed as I could, touching him, talking to him, singing to him. His big blue eyes were wide open and fixed on mine. He moved his mouth as if he were having a conversation with me. Even for all he had been through, he was so beautiful. I stayed with him, my hand on his head, stroking his hair. My other hand finding any other bit of his flesh to touch: an arm, a hand, a leg.
Since he was doing as well as he was, we told our nurses we were going to spend the night at home, about a twenty-five minute drive from the hospital. It was the first time in over a week we had dared spend the night away. We finally left the hospital at about 7:30 Saturday night.
It shouldn't have surprised me the next day to find that things had changed as quickly as they had. We've seen this before, and it doesn't get any easier. He's not neurologically responsive. He hasn't opened his eyes all day. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. But just the day before ...
For our child, that was saying something. This is the boy who managed to stay awake more than one time even after receiving a bolus of morphine, who made sure he saw us if he knew we were in the room. This is the boy who, whenever his nurses touched him, resisted and responded: raising his arms, making a fist, stretching his legs.
When I lifted his arm now, he didn't resist. It would return to his side with a flop. I tickled his feet -- this had always had gotten a response before. Nothing. And then we heard about the infection, and the problems with his intestines. About poor oxygen perfusion. We he was born, everything else about our child save the heart had been perfectly healthy. And now everything was failing him.
The day before had brought so much hope for me. But I knew what this meant.
It took some time and discussing, but we finally agreed that artificially prolonging his life and waiting for a middle-of-the-night phone call saying he was gone was not how we wanted this to go. If we had to say goodbye, he was going to be surrounded by love and sent off in peace. My sister and a couple of friends were already there. Our friend Mary had come to take pictures for us. When my parents arrived, we descended on his room.
We are here to make this whatever you want and need it to be, the nurse told us. You let us know what you want, and we are here to make sure that happens. I made sure to ask for footprints, handprints, and a lock of hair. We discussed the logistics of extubation and when and how the ECMO would be shut off.
They paged Ewan's doctor who came in his street clothes. He put an arm around each of us and said he was sorry, offered his condolences. For what it's worth, I think you're making a brave decision -- and the right one.
I looked at the man who had been treating my son. He had advocated for Ewan, too. We didn't get to choose anything that really mattered for Ewan -- his heart, his surgeries, I told him. But we can choose this for our son.
The eight of us that were there gathered around Ewan in his bed and we took turns being close to him. I kissed his hands, his head, and I nibbled on those sweet little toes. We prayed over him and cried. Thank you, God, for the gift of Ewan. Thank you for his life ...
We couldn't get the words out without choking on them. A painful ball rose at the back of my throat. I was the one who had pressed to do it this way. And now that it was really happening, it was so much more difficult than I had imagined. I had cried so many times in the course of that week over how I didn't want him to be poked or sliced anymore, how I didn't want him to have to suffer anymore. But I still wanted my baby. I still wanted to bring him home. I didn't want to say goodbye.
Eventually, the prayer turned to song. As we sang, they brought a couch into the room and positioned it close to his bedside. The respiratory therapist extubated Ewan, and the nurse took all the stickers and monitors off his face, wiping off any last traces of sticky residue. James and I sat down, and they put a couple of baby blankets on his lap. I hated that this had to be his first time holding his son. I hated that the only time after his birth that we would get an unobstructed view of his face was at his death.
But I remembered what I had said to the doctor. We didn't get to make choices about Ewan's heart -- but we can choose this.
As the nurses waited outside, James held him and we cried. I touched his feet and kissed his toes, I reached up and stroked his soft brown hair. Even as near death as he was, he was strikingly beautiful. We continued to talk to him, sing to him, pray over him. The others in the room gathered around us to get a closer look at Ewan, to offer us a hand on the shoulder.
Ewan's grandmother and aunt each got to hold him -- everyone got a chance to kiss him, touch him, whisper their love to him.
I was the last one to hold him. Everyone but James and I left the room and I held my son one last time. I cried over him and apologized for what he had suffered. I told him how much I missed him and how much I had always wanted him. I thanked him for fighting for as hard as he did, for having such a strong will to live. And so I held on for awhile. We wept in silence.
Several hours had passed since we had entered his room. James and I both knew that we would never really be ready. But when we were as ready as we could be, we brought the nurses in. We're ready, we told them, giving them the cue to shut off the ECMO machine and every last monitor. The room went silent and still. The color of Ewan's skin changed almost instantly. I held on to him, holding him as close to my own heart as I could, and made sure not to pull away from a single second of it, to take in every last second of his earthly life.
I wept, and I wept. His heart rate slowed and after a few minutes, stopped completely. Ewan was gone. If I had had my say, I never would have chosen goodbye. But since goodbye chose us, I would not have done it any other way. He came into this world in my arms, and that is exactly how he left.
Rest in peace, sweet Ewan. We love you. We miss you. Please pray for us.
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Today (October 15) is National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day.Find out more.
I won't lie: it's a long one I wrote here, and it's probably full of grammatical errors of which I would normally be ashamed -- but since I just had a baby, I'm giving myself a pass. Just letting you know ahead of time!
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I wrote recently about how my blood pressure had been climbing fairly consistently at my doctor’s office visits. And I wrote about how I knew it was related to anxiety attending what was waiting for us, but that our care provider decided to run some tests anyway – just so there were no surprises. I was sent home with a prescription for blood pressure medication and we were scheduled to follow up with a non-stress test at 3 pm on Friday, September 17 so they could see how Ewan was handling me being on the blood pressure medication. I got a call from the doctor’s office in the middle of my work day on Thursday, September 16 that I was to go home and be on modified bed rest (lying down or sitting).
At first I was upset, and then I decided I’d make the most of it. I slept nine and a half hours that night. I woke up without an ounce of tension in my whole body. I joked with James that they should try and take my blood pressure now – if I would even have one. I rested all the next day: reading my book, snoozing in and out of a few movies, letting James take care of me. I thought of all the things I could finish: packing my hospital bag, waiting for the arrival of those last few packages that would mean our material readiness, reading and finishing some books, relaxing before our little boy came.
As I rested on Friday, Ewan was incredibly active as usual. And as was my custom, I recognized and praised each movement, laughing as I watched and felt feet, knees, and elbows poking out of me. I could feel my anxiety mount slightly as we got closer to the time to leave for the doctor. It was so deeply ingrained in my subconscious, still; I told myself that Ewan was handling things well, having been so active all day.
After we got to the doctor’s office, I was hooked up to a couple of monitors to measure contractions, movement, and the baby’s heart rate. I was sent for an ultrasound. It was pretty obvious they didn’t like what they were seeing. The little guy that had been so active all day (and all the days before) hadn’t moved at all in nearly an hour – no flexing, stretching, or anything. The ultrasound tech didn’t need to say anything. It was clear we weren’t going to hear anything good.
When we talked to our doctor right after this appointment, and the look on her face was sober. She explained what they saw on the tests and how it wasn’t good news – how babies in utero typically sleep for 20-40 minute stretches at a time at most. She said with any other doctor, this would be a cue for an automatic c-section. She advised us to head to the hospital where she would meet us in about thirty minutes. They would monitor me there and quite likely, induce labor.
We took in a collective sharp intake of breath. Once more, we were faced with a reality we hadn’t quite expected.
This took us entirely by surprise – our little squirmer not moving at all –alarm bells going off. I took a deep breath, wanting to take it in, but not entirely able to. Why hadn’t he moved?
I trust my doctor completely and knew she wouldn’t be alarmed unless there were good cause. So we called our doula, called my family, and drove the two miles from the doctor’s office to the hospital, stopping on the way to get some food. I hadn’t packed a hospital bag – we hadn’t come prepared with anything. I had my purse and my cell phone and the clothes I was wearing. We weren’t ready for this.
I thought of all the things at home that I wanted with me: my birthing ball, all the things on my list of what to pack in my hospital bag, and at least some vague notion of who was going to come to the hospital and when and what we were going to do. Several text messages were exchanged. We had fortunately given my sister a key to our apartment when she was down for my last baby shower the week before. There was a list sitting by the computer of what needed to be packed. We sent more text messages, asking for more of what we knew we would need.
When James and I arrived at the birth center, they were expecting us, our doctor having called ahead. We were taken to our room and checked in. I put on a gown and mentally tried to prepare myself for our time there. It still felt so surreal, like this wasn’t really happening. I had been mentally preparing myself to go past the due date, and here I was getting ready to be induced two and a half weeks prior.
Some very sweet and funny nurses came in and captured some of my information: food allergies, age, and the like. Everyone there was prepped on our story and knew what was going on. Their own ease helped me relax.
They hooked me up to the monitors again to measure contractions, fetal movement, and the heart rate. By this time, Ewan was squirming and rolling consistently again. His heart rate was making the variations that they look for and expect. When Dr. J came by to check on us, she said she would have had an entirely different assessment if she had seen this strip just the hour before when we were in her office. Pointing to the printout we were seeing at the hospital she said, This is what we want to see.
Top graph (in blue) are baby's heart rate. Bottom lines are my contractions
That Ewan. What a little stinker!
She explained to us what our options were. She could send us home, seeing as the baby was obviously doing fine at this point. Her concern was that there might be a drop in activity that we wouldn’t know to be alarmed about and that they wouldn’t be able to get him out in time. That’s what my heart can’t handle, she said, choking up and her eyes misting over. The other option was to stay and induce. She would try some natural means first, stripping the membranes and seeing how that worked before we tried anything like pitocin. She left us so we could discuss, and would come back to check and see what kind of progress I might have made already.
She left the room so James and I could discuss what we wanted to do. We looked back at the monitor and the nurses pointed out I was having contractions about every three minutes, each lasting about a minute. They couldn’t believe I wasn’t really feeling anything yet. They weren’t the least bit painful, but were decently strong. It just felt like the kind of tightness you might have in your stomach when you’re sitting up in bed.
Dr. J came back to checked me several minutes later and asked what we wanted to do. We hadn’t entirely come to a consensus, but I had a deep level of trust in what she saw, in what she was telling us. I knew she cared about us and this baby. I knew she wanted a healthy mom and a healthy baby. And so we decided to stay. This was at about 5 pm.
That’s when I learned I was already 3 cm dilated and 80% effaced: decent progress for not really feeling anything at all. And look at that: I was still contracting well on my own. She stripped the membranes and we braced ourselves to meet our baby, heads still swimming in thick clouds of surreal. We called our doula again and let her know what was happening and she gave us instructions on when we should call her back: at the point at which I felt like I was going to need help.
The evening wore on little by little and eventually my family arrived with my hospital bag, my birthing ball, and the other things we had asked for. I joked through my contractions, feeling them obviously at this point, but was still comfortable enough to joke through them. They were coming every two-and-a-half to three minutes and were increasing in intensity. I updated Facebook, we watched videos on YouTube, and we waited.
I knew moving around in different positions was going to be my best bet, so we were hooked up to the monitors that would allow me to walk around, get in the bathrub, or sit on the birthing ball. I did it all, walking the halls, sitting on the ball, relaxing in the tub. I knew this movement will help bring Ewan down. The last thing I wanted to do was to be stuck in the bed.
My progress was monitored at 11 pm and 2 am. I was progressing: 4 cm, then 5. By the time I got to five, I was 100% effaced. This was good progress. This was good news. Dr. J was going to go home, but assured me she was just six minutes away and would be here to deliver this baby. By about 3:30 am, I was at 6.5 cm. Things were uncomfortable at this point and I was having a lot of back labor. James, my mom, and my sister took turn rubbing my back through contractions and we tried different positions to provide relief. We called Annie since I knew I was getting to the point where I was losing focus and the ability to get myself to relax in between.
When Annie (our doula) arrived and I was so relieved. She has such a gentle and compassionate way of taking charge. We walked, we sat on the birthing ball, we moved to the tub, I sat on the toilet for awhile. She helped both James and I. She commanded my focus and taught me helpful ways to breathe.
I had gone without any pain relief or other augmentation for my entire labor; this was my plan. I didn’t want an epidural, I didn’t want analgesics – I wanted to experience this naturally not only for my own sake, but because I believed this would be best for Ewan too. As I entered the transition phase, the contractions became stronger and closer together. I started waiting throughout and in between. I was in so much pain. Annie commanded open eyes, breathing through loose flappy lips like a horse, low tones from the back of an open throat, a relaxed body that welcomed the contractions. I was only getting a minute or so in between contractions. It took more will than I had at times to “blow that one away” and relax as deeply as I could in between.
Annie the doula!!
I could see how it pained James to see me like this. He held my hands, maintained eye contact with me, and cried with me.
Having done a fair amount of laboring on my side in the tub, we decided to get up, knowing that changing the position would help move the baby down. No sooner did I stand up in the tub than another contraction came. I held on to James’ arms as I bent my knees and bent my upper body over, breathing as Annie had instructed me. Suddenly things felt very different – my water bag (which had not broken yet) was coming out.
They told me it wouldn’t be long now. I was fully dilated and ready to push.
Dr. J was paged at about 8:00 am or so (from what I can remember), but it could be any minute. They got me back into the bed. A team of doctors and NICU nurses surrounded me, waiting. I was ecstatic with relief – it wouldn’t be long now.
The water bag had broken and we tried a few pushes in bed. I was still having incredible back labor with each contraction and bearing down to push was excruciating. My body was shaking and exhausted, adrenaline pumping through me. I got a several good pushes in that helped the baby down, but it still wasn’t happening as quickly as we thought.
Dr J finally arrived, surprised at how quickly I had progressed to be ready to push. She checked me and found that there was a small lip of the cervix holding the baby back; she explained this was common in first-time mothers and how it was probably my water bag holding it back the whole time. She emptied my bladder to remove any pillow he might be resting on in hopes of making things progress.
I was starting to feel discouraged; the pain was incredible, the contractions still stopping for only about a minute and lasting for at least as long. They had me lean over the top of the birthing ball on the bed. And then we tried squatting – I knew this would be effective, but my body was so shaky and I was feeling so weak. I kept saying I couldn’t do this. I held on to Annie in the front, and James supported me from behind. I squatted deep and pushed hard with every contraction. We went through several this way until I knew I needed to move to the bed.
We pushed more from the bed, Annie and James and the nurses helping me hold back my legs. It took more strength than I felt like I had available. I just wanted Ewan to come out.
And then we heard his heart rate was dropping. They had put an internal monitor in to measure his heart rate more accurately, and it was clear he needed to get out. I pushed hard and felt the burning that meant he was crowning. Dr J explained she was going to use the vacuum to help him out since his heart rate was telling us he needed help. I pushed and pushed and with one extended pull from the vacuum, I could feel his head come out. And then his body.
And then suddenly there he was, on my belly. Ewan. This so-loved, prayed over, extraordinary baby. Saturday, September 18 at 9:49 am.
I was all kinds of emotions: relieved, ecstatic, blissful. Still in disbelief. Nurses took him and cleaned him up, wrapping him in blankets and putting a knit hat on his head. They put him on my chest and suddenly, all of the previous seventeen hours had been worth it. He was not as pink as a normal baby, but had good color. I touched his little turned-up nose, stroked his face and just held on to him. He wasn’t wailing, but just gentle cries like I had – maybe he was as relieved as I was.
Just born!
Annie snapped a few family photos for us. The NICU nurses took him from me after a minute or so, putting him in the isolette that was waiting to be rolled off to the NICU. James went with him, meeting my family on the way. They couldn’t believe it was him – he was alert and awake, looking cute and pink as babies do.
Annie stayed with me and held my hand as James was away. And Dr J started to stitch me up. She suspected the tearing wouldn’t have been an issue had we not used to vacuum in order to help him out quickly. But I was torn up pretty good – third degree tears in multiple places. I really didn’t care.
I was suddenly so shaky and cold as I came off the adrenaline. Annie held my hand and told me what a good job I did (even though I had been wailing like a banshee for the previous two or three hours), how strong I was, and how perfect he looked. Dr J took her time stitching me up. The nurse hugged and congratulated me and it was just the four of us. For that hour or so, it felt like a perfect little tribe of women who had stayed with me through that, reminding me that I could do it, that I was meant to do it, and that I would.
And I did.
James eventually came back with pictures and stats: 6 lbs, 7 oz and 18.5” long. Beautiful and perfect. Dark hair with a little curl in it. Eyes wide open. Breathing well on his own. Stats looking absolutely perfect.
Visiting him in the NICU
We later found out that after doing a thorough examination, everything but his poor little heart is absolutely perfect: lungs are strong and healthy, liver and stomach and kidneys are working and in the right places, good bowel sounds (and movements). Tracking right in the middle for all his measurements except his head, which was greater than the 90the percentile (the better to hold all those brains in).
A few other facts not included in the story:
My BP was measured periodically throughout labor. It was consistently in normal ranges, one time measuring even 117/68. I think that at its highest during labor, it was 133/80. On Friday afternoon at the doctor’s office (after we obviously knew we were getting bad news), it was 158/100.
From the time we were admitted (and I had no idea I was in labor yet) to the time Ewan was born was about 17 hours. I’m told this is “quick” for a first-time mom, though the last several hours (from transition on) felt like 17 days. ;o)
No pitocin taken or required! We found it simply miraculous that because my BP had been high in the doctor’s office, they took care to put me on medication and see how the baby reacted to it. The lack of his movement would not have been detected when it was, and we would not have known to go to the hospital. Baby Ewan was telling us he was ready to go.
Labor started totally on its own. I was already having contractions that were moving things along. Stripping the membranes sped things up, I’m sure. But it really was baby Ewan’s time to come. I feared being induced, but just as I had hoped, I went into labor on my own anyway.
I had no pain medication of any kind for labor and delivery. Believe me, I can hardly brag about this, because in my mind I was begging for it – screaming out to God and whoever else would listen about the pain, about how tired I was, about how I couldn’t do it anymore, about how I wanted that baby out. I never actually said anything explicitly about being given drugs or an epidural, but I was thinking about it (back labor is hell). As much as it hurt, I’m glad now that I didn’t. I learned that yes, I could do it.
I think you already know this, but I really love and trust our doctor. She guided us through an incredibly difficult time and showed us a lot of love and personalized care. Lord willing if we should have another baby, I would seriously consider seeing her again and opting for a hospital birth (though she did say there is no reason I couldn’t have an out-of-hospital delivery for my next baby), just so she could take care of us again. She is nothing short of amazing.
Annie the doula was worth every penny and more. Dr J said it too, and I will add as emphatically as I can: (in my humble opinion) every pregnant woman should have a doula. I know for a fact I would not have made it through labor and delivery naturally were it not for her. She was tremendous, and obviously meant to do exactly what she does.
I had one of my weekly prenatal visits today. Not surprisingly, my blood pressure has been steadily climbing the last few visits. I'm fairly convinced that it's within normal ranges when I don't have an appointment. We totally love our doctor -- I talked about the stress of me being the only one working, trying to figure out the financial end of things while I'm leave, being turned down for financial assistance (another story for another time, perhaps), getting closer to facing the unknown about what it will be like with Ewan and his heart once he's here -- we are certainly dealing with an above-average amount of stress.
Until that 20-week ultrasound (and even in my final two visits with the midwives, after we found out about Ewan's heart), my blood pressure was in very healthy and normal ranges -- just like it's always been (I classically fall within a few points of 105/65 or so). Ever since then, every appointment sees numbers that have been steadily climbing and today's numbers were the scariest yet. I'm not surprised, but wish I could convince those subconscious parts of myself that are in charge of these kinds of physiological responses that it's all going to work out and that there is no reason to stress.
A friend reminded me today of leaving my burdens at the cross. I wish I knew how to do that. I know the verse about casting your cares on Him, about giving up your heavy yoke, about how worry profits us nothing, and about how we can't change anything by worrying about it -- when it comes right down to it, I guess I don't know what all that really means -- how it looks in real life to do that. I can say it, I can pray it -- but how do I actually live it? How do I still deal with the things that need to be dealt with (especially those things that I cannot delegate to another), but not worry about them -- especially when we keep running into brick walls with so many of the options we explore? They all seem to be rolled up into one big, hot and tangled mess for me. I don't know how to untangle it so that I'm not carrying a big burden of worry, but also not Pollyanna-ing my way through it -- burying my head in the sand and denying reality. I want to be able to do just that and have been praying toward that end, but it has yet to bear itself out in my day-to-day reality.
So, I'm on blood pressure medication now -- humbling for the woman who's always had a BP in a very healthy and athletic range. We have a non-stress test (NST) scheduled for Friday to see how Ewan is handling it once I'm on the BP medication for a few days. And blood was taken today so they could test for anything that would point to pre-eclampsia (which, thank God, there are no other symptoms pointing to this -- just the BP). I have a very good and very understanding doctor, but we all agreed that it is going to be best to eliminate the element of surprise where we can so we can all know exactly what we're dealing with.
She was very reassuring, telling me I know I can tell you not to stress about this -- that it will all work out and that in the end, you're going to take home a happy and healthy baby. I can tell you that all of this will be worth it. It's so easy to know it here (pointing to her head), but in real life, it's hard to know it here (pointing to her heart).
Ain't that the truth?! (See why we love her?)
In other news, Ewan is still doing really well in utero. He's moving quite a lot (seriously, my belly has looked like a cartoon lately with all the feet, elbows, knees, and fists sticking out of it) and his heart rate is quite healthy in the 150s. I'm technically full-term now at 37 weeks, but he hasn't dropped yet, so it will still be some time before we see any action in that regard (thank goodness, I say). I'm glad he's as strong and resilient as he is, and am thankful for the continual (and not subtle!) movement that reassures me he's doing just fine in there.
I can completely understand why my stress level is the way it is, and why my blood pressure goes to the levels it does when I'm at the doctor. Though I wish it were different, I have to be a little bit nice toward myself in that regard too -- it would be hard for anybody to go through something like this and not see the effects of it manifest themselves in this or in other ways on their overall health. I wish I could control those things, but it's just another area where I feel so entirely powerless to change anything. I want to do better by Ewan because I know he deserves it (and really, most of the time I don't feel as hypertensive as I do when I go to the doctor lately), but the last thing I need is to pile more on to the burden that for now, I don't quite know how to cast down.
This is my younger sister Kaari (her name rhymes with "sorry"). I think she's rather fabulous. And I've never (and I mean never) met another person so excited about being an aunt.
James and I toured the NICU at Seattle Children's Hospital yesterday. I've never been to a children's hospital, but I was impressed with how unlike a hospital it felt (i.e., my blood pressure did not go through the roof when I walked through the door, like it tends to when I enter most medical establishments). People were excited for us to meet our first baby. I didn't feel odd or like a pariah for being pregnant with a baby that has ToF. There were brightly colored murals everywhere, and everyone who worked there smiled. It felt like a hopeful place.
We learned that amongst the many and various resources available, we can connect to wireless internet while we're there. We are definitely planning on taking one of our laptops with us so we can provide regular updates (and pictures!) as we're able. But I wanted to let you know that Auntie Kaari might be dropping in at Team-Ewan.com from time to time, offering not only the updates on Baby Ewan's condition (and ours), but also a different perspective on the matter. She loves her nephew to the moon and back already, so I know she will do an awesome job. She's definitely ready to spoil him rotten!
At about 2 a.m. on Friday morning, James and I crawled back into our apartment and welcomed the cool embrace of the Seattle nighttime air. Having already spent 4 hours waiting for our connecting flight at DFW, we opted to wait another two hours in exchange for a pair of travel vouchers that amount to a free trip for us sometime in the next year.
We're doing laundry, restocking on perishable foods, and I'm madly processing the worthy photos of the 1800 I took. I kid you not: there were 1800 images on the memory card of my camera -- for six days in Kansas. I hope to post some here soon once I have a few more processed.For now, here's a preview ...
Three of Ewan's (nearly 20!) cousins
Claflin, KS
10 July 2010
The long and the short of it is we had a beautiful and wonderful trip (despite being in my third trimester of pregnancy and putting up with triple-digit temps with some ridiculous humidity). James has the most amazing, welcoming, and loving family. It's amazing to know that the three of us are surrounded by such a spectacular support network -- and that we just so happen to be related to some of them.
I hope to provide more updates soon, but that's about all I have for now. The dryer just finished, and there are some dishes to be done.
