It was a year ago today that we learned about Ewan's broken heart.
May 19, 2010: First glimpse of Ewan, just before we heard the news
We didn't speak of it until afterward, but we each had an eerie feeling going into it that something would be wrong -- something that would challenge our convictions, something that would necessitate us rising to the cause of fighting for his life.
When the doctor came in to see us after the ultrasound tech had completed her checklist, his congratulations was sober. He told us about Ewan's heart, postulated as to the possible diagnosis, and offered an amniocentesis to see if there were any chromosomal or genetic anomalies. James remained clear-headed, but mine was whirling. I felt like I had gotten struck by a bus. They wanted to take my blood, test my DNA. He recommended taking folic acid with my next pregnancy (which I told him I had been taking regularly well in advance of my pregnancy), and I wondered why he said that when I was in the middle of this one.
He mentioned abortion over and over which, upon learning of the heart defect, I expected to hear at least once. My husband spoke for both of us when he said that would not be an option. He was clear, not the least bit ambiguous. He spoke with certainty and conviction. The doctor proposed a panel of tests that would tell us more and help us make our decision. We affirmed again clearly and in no uncertain terms we weren't going to seek to end the life of the beautiful boy they had just shown to us. For us, it simply was not an option.
And then he crossed the line.
How long have you been married?
We were just four days away from our first anniversary. He said that we were young in our marriage and still had a lot to learn about each other. He said this would put a terrible strain on our relationship. He said our relationship might not survive this.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
I was still stunned from the initial news, but my instinct was to jump off the table and cut the stream of words coming from his mouth. He was a medical doctor, not a psychologist or anyone we even knew or trusted. We could not have known then what would face us, but he did not know us. He did not know that Ewan had a name, and that it was not "fetus."
We left nearly three hours later. By then, most everyone who had been anticipating our news with us had the unshakable feeling that something was wrong. Our phone calls that night shared the news that we were having a boy, and then came the news about his heart. We wept with every single phone call, and I stayed home from work the next day.
I wept all the next day, too. And I had felt him move and squirm before, but that first morning after, he kicked hard and repeatedly, reminding me he was still here. He was alive and well, and he was strong.
But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died. For this we declare to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will by no means precede those who have died. For the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangel’s call and with the sound of God’s trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air; and so we will be with the Lord for ever. Therefore encourage one another with these words.
1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 (NRSV)
In loving memory
Ewan Eliezer Petermann
18 September 2010 - 3 October 2010
Half of my heart went to heaven last night.
We learned yesterday in the early afternoon that he had a bacterial infection (which proves fatal for so many of these special heart babies), and that several of his organs were failing. Though his oxygen saturation levels were in the upper 90s to 100, the oxygen wasn't perfusing through his body. The nurses said my normally active, awake, and squirmy boy hadn't opened his eyes all day.
And just the afternoon before, he had been looking intently into my eyes as I talked to and sang to him -- he moved his mouth as if to form words. I asked him if he had something to say. From the moment of his birth, he always had a deadlock with his eyes on James and I. When he looked at me, he'd really be looking at me. His gaze was so intent. There was recognition there, and I savored every moment.
We didn't get to see him open his eyes again.
In the presence of family and close friends, we gathered around his bed a little after 8 pm and prayed: thanking God for the gift of Ewan, thanking God for how even in just the span of his two weeks of life, his broken heart touched so many others. We thanked God for how He used Ewan to change lives, to encourage parents to hug their children a little tighter and a little longer. We sang hymns, and we played gentle lullabies.
The respiratory therapist came in an extubated him when we were ready. He was still connected to the ECMO machine so we could have our time to say goodbye. They brought in a couch for us to sit on in his room. We took turns holding him, kissing him, nibbling on his toes, stroking his hair, telling him how very much he was loved. He looked so very peaceful and was not in any kind of pain.
As Ewan Eliezer Petermann passed from this world to the next, he was surrounded by love and peace and so many people who loved him, who were there for his entrance. There was so much love, compassion, and dignity. One of the nurses who left us just before the shift change said that though she was not the least bit religious, she could feel angels in the room. I held him in my arms until the very moment the Everlasting Arms swept him up and took him home.
He came into this world in my arms, and that's how he left.
Even as I wept, I was filled up with peace. My sweet boy had fought so hard, but his body had failed him. He looked so peaceful and perfect. So many there that night -- nurses and doctors as well -- said it was hard to believe that a baby as perfect-looking as him could have something so very wrong with him.
I know. I know.
It was shortly before midnight that we called the nurse in to disconnect the ECMO. We knew we'd never really be ready for that moment. No one could have been. Every monitor was shut off, every machine shut down. You could see the change in his skin almost instantly. In just a few minutes, he was gone. The little heart finally stopped beating. Our sweet, sweet baby went to heaven.
If we had to say goodbye to him, I wouldn't have had it any other way.
* * * * *
Many have been struggling with the desire to say something that will help. Let me take that pressure away: there is nothing to be said that will take away or diminish our grief, even though we know that we do not grieve as those without hope. We understand that, and we certainly don't expect it. One of the hardest (but best) things to do is to sit in silence with someone who is grieving -- simply to sit and to be present without the need to offer words.
We thank you so much for how much and how well you have loved us, how you have loved Ewan, and how you will love us through this new season.
The man bowed his head and worshipped the Lord and said, ‘Blessed be the Lord, the God of my master Abraham, who has not forsaken his steadfast love and his faithfulness towards my master. As for me, the Lord has led me on the way to the house of my master’s kin.’
Genesis 24:26-27 (NRSV)
No more ECMO!
Ewan Eliezer lived up to his name today. Today we saw God's grace (Ewan) at work, and today we saw first-hand that indeed, God is my help (Eliezer). We knew his name was no accident.
Anyone who doesn't believe this day lives up to the fullest definition of "miracle" needs to have been here the past 12 days. Repeated echocardiograms and other tests showed that Ewan has one of the severest forms of Tetralogy of Fallot that they've ever dared to operate on. If his pulmonary arteries had been any smaller, we probably would have heard the dreaded words: there is nothing more we can do. Then there was the scary day in the cath lab -- the day where our sweet boy was sent into emergency surgery and we were told he had about a 30% chance of not making it out alive.
That night will be emblazoned in my memory forever. I was protected by such an astounding peace, but remember with chills in my own blood the repeated updates from the surgeons: their faces getting longer with every update, even the most optimistic amongst them losing hope as the hours wore on. I will never forget meeting with Dr. P just after four in the morning and the giddy look on his face, the elation in his voice. He couldn't believe it either.
We came out on ECMO. This would allow Ewan's heart and lungs to rest, allowing him to stabilize and get stronger. ECMO would buy us time, but it would be a priority to get off as soon as it was safe.
Make no mistake: ECMO was lifesaving for our son. But using it is a delicate balance -- there are risks with ECMO too, especially the longer a patient is on it. After James grilled our ECMO specialist from yesterday (every day that the machine was in there, there was a dedicated specialist who ran the machine), we learned that the primary risk is bleeding. Blood thinners have to be added because of the risk of clots forming. Secondarily, the machine isn't able to mimic the rhythmic pulsations of the heart and this can result in organ failure. Thirdly, the risk of clots forming means that there is a risk of a clot going to the brain or lungs, resulting in stroke or pulmonary embolism.
As much as ECMO did for Ewan and for us, eliminating dependence on the machine was priority number one in Ewan's road to recovery.
James and I waited outside the room during the trial off today. I stood outside the room, clinging to Ewan's stuffed giraffe in one arm and furiously clinging to my rosary in the other. I prayed and prayed and prayed as they clamped the machine. Because our first trial off failed so quickly and miserably, I just held my breath. I rocked from side to side on my feet as I watched the monitors. As far as the oxygen saturation levels went (you'll also see me refer to these as "sat levels"), we wanted to land in the mid-70s to low 80s. This is a good place to be, given Ewan's anatomy.
And so we watched as sat levels declined very slowly, flirting around in the mid 80s, hanging around 80 for awhile. His heart rate and blood pressure remained stable. Even though we all had prayed and hoped for this, there was a part of me that couldn't believe what I was seeing. My eyes darted back and forth from the monitor to the clock. As the minutes ticked by, we didn't see Ewan's sat level dip below 75. That was as low as it got. Thirty minutes went by and he was doing just fine. Despite sedation, his eyes were open and he was looking around the room as if to say, "What's the big deal?"
They did an echocardiogram after the machine was clamped to see how blood was moving through the heart. A doctor came out and introduced himself to me and told me that blood was moving well through the shunt, that his heart was pumping well, and that the results were (quite frankly) surprising to him. I didn't think it would go this well! he said, obviously pleased with how Ewan was holding his own.
From a subjective point of view, it was pretty clear that being clamped off of the ECMO wasn't stressing him out. He was relaxed and in no pain, just lying in his bed and looking around.
After almost forty minutes or so of being clamped off of the ECMO, the surgeon was called in. She looked at the monitors and asked how long we had been off of ECMO. Our doctor reported it had been over half an hour. She was pleased with his sat levels and agreed: let's take him off of ECMO.
Those were the words I was longing to hear.
So we called our families and closest friends, all of them rejoicing with us, all of their hearts filled with joy. This is just one step in the long road to bringing Ewan home one day, but it's a big one. Following the surgery to remove the canulas today, both of Ewan's surgeons affirmed: this is a big and significant step in Ewan's recovery. This is one step, but it's a big one. It's a hugely important one.
And so we went to our room, and just like Eliezer did when his prayer was answered in the affirmative, we knelt, fell on our faces, and gave thanks to God. I know that not everyone that reads this blog or who cares about Ewan believes as we do. I'm really not here to try and convert anyone or hit anyone over the head with anything. But having walked this path for nearly two weeks now, I have to stand up and affirm that all the glory goes to God for this. It is simply amazing what these doctors and surgeons can do -- Lord knows we would have lost our son without them. But as severe as Ewan's case is -- as hopeless as it looked time and again -- sheer, dumb luck is not adequate to explain why Ewan is still here. It just isn't. This is a miracle in the fullest, most robust sense of the word.
Ewan is still here, and so we give thanks just like Eliezer did: on our knees, on our faces -- humbled and grateful beyond measure. God has heard and smiled upon our prayers, Team.
Even as we give thanks, we have a new Eliezer prayer, and it is simply for this: stability. Ewan's chest is still open as the doctors and surgeons want to ensure that Ewan remains stable before they close up his chest. Today, he is resting and recuperating. They are not being aggressive with him in any way, and he is still holding his own. Thanks be to God! Once he is stable for a few days, surgeons will look at closing up his chest.
After briefly acquainting us with the steps coming in the future, our doctor said: today Ewan rests, and we will celebrate. Amen to that! There are new steps and challenges that wait for us in the near future, but for now I invite you to give humble thanks with us, to rejoice with us: for this son of ours is alive and off of ECMO!!
Ever since we found out about Ewan's heart, I've thought about Abraham and Isaac: how Abraham received Isaac as a promise in his old age, and then how God asked him to climb Mount Moriah and sacrifice that son. God asked Abraham to hold a knife over his son and offer him up. Abraham obeyed -- he took his son and after placing him on the altar, held the knife over him. And God stayed his hand at the last minute -- the last possible second, in fact.
I not only believe, but know that your prayers sustained us last night. I have never been so completely at peace. As odd as it sounds, as much as it doesn't make sense for it to be that way, I was at peace with whatever the outcome. If we had to say goodbye to Ewan. If we got to hang on to him for a little bit longer. We've known from the start that he was really never ours to begin with. We already knew we had absolutely no control over this situation, or its outcome.
And yet I remained completely at peace. I love my son with an impossible love, but I had in my heart something I've never experienced to quite this level before: the peace that passes understanding. And it didpass all understanding. It is real. I received precisely the grace I needed for that long night as we were walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
We witnessed a real, honest-to-God miracle last night. You should have seen the primary surgeon's face as he spoke with us. The word "miracle" was not used, but he was positively giddy. Even with the long road we had ahead of us, about twelve hours ago no one (and I mean not one) had the hope of us getting to this point.
It's as if God brought us to the point of complete and utter surrender, leaning fully into our faith, and stayed the hand of death at the last minute. No one knows how this will turn out. There are absolutely no guarantees as to the outcome. But for now, death did not have the victory. We are here. Ewan is stable and very boring right now -- all things considered, we're not only hanging on -- things are looking good.
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!
* * *
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.
Stefenie is holding a special blogging event today to bring together the stories of many heart families. Click on the icon above to see more.
I hardly know where to begin, since there are so many places we could start:
January 25, 2010: The happy day we found out we were pregnant with our first baby
That moment three or so weeks after conception when, unbeknownst to us, something went terribly wrong with the heart
The 20-week ultrasound on May 19, 2010 where we first heard the words "congenital heart defect" and "Tetralogy of Fallot" -- hearing abortion suggested
The fetal echo on June 1, 2010 at 22 weeks where it was confirmed -- hearing abortion discussed again
The 12 weeks between the fetal echo and now as we've done our best to anticipate and prepare in what ways we can
In some ways, this story hasn't really started. Very important parts of our story remain to be written -- it isn't time yet. Ewan is still swimming happily inside me, his repeated kicks and prods assuring me that he's doing quite well in there. I'm torn between desperately wanting to meet the baby boy that makes me giggle with his squirms, rolls, punches, and kicks, and wanting him to stay safe inside there forever. I know I can't do that.
I don't know yet what it's like to sit and wait for a baby in surgery. I don't know what it's like to count the tiles as you pace the floor. I cannot relate to watching monitors with numbers changing, to tracing the pathways of tubes and wires with your eyes, to feeling so helpless as watch your little one fight for his life.
But barring a miracle, we will know. We will know that path soon enough. And we need other families who have been there to walk with us -- sit with us, wait with us, cry with us, and hope beyond all hope with us.
