before I forget any more
March 02, 2007
Our appointment was for 9:30 am. I already knew things were getting bad for me because I tested my own urine when we were in for monitoring that Tuesday, not to mention the 40 lb weight gain in February or the pain I'd been having which was suspiciously near where my liver should be. My mom had driven through the night to get here and went to the appointment with us. I had an overnight bag packed for both Howie and me. My dad was in town with his truck and had turned down load back home, ensuring he'd be there through the weekend. I guess deep down we all knew she was coming, but not even the doctors expected things to go the way they did.
The appointment started like the others- weight, blood pressure and urine sample. I was up another 9 lbs, my blood pressure was well beyond normal levels and they confirmed the protein levels that I had seen a few days before. Before the routine ultrasound was even done, Dr. N. had come in to tell us that I needed to go to University Hospital for monitoring. They wanted to monitor me for at least 24 hours to get an average of the protein levels and my blood pressure. If things looked like I was stable, I'd be allowed to go home after that 24 hours, otherwise I'd be in the hospital until I delivered. The tentative goal for delivery was still a week or so away, so we did another bladder tap to remove that issue from possible complications over the next week.
My dad and his wife had found their way to the hospital where our appointment was and met us in the lobby. We explained the situation and all agreed that they would go pick up lunch while I got checked in and settled. When we arrived at University hospital, we discovered that the front of my clothes was soaked from where the needle was inserted to drain her bladder. It seems that my skin was so full of fluid that it was leaking where I'd been poked. My dad and our lunch arrived and the rest of the afternoon is mostly a blur.
They started IVs, drew blood samples and explained the protocol for monitoring my urine. We began the parade of doctors through my hospital room. I don't think I can count or even remember all who came through. They wanted to do an ultrasound so that they could have one of their own to refer to instead of relying on the copies of my medical records that we had carried with us from our doctor's office. During the ultrasound the tech discovered that my ovary was extremely enlarged. It was a cluster of cysts and roughly the size of a fist. It was all we could do not to cuss when they left us alone in the room for a few minutes. We thought we were having a bad day. We had no idea.
When we got back to my room we were told that through routine tests done on the blood they had drawn earlier they discovered that my platelet count was dangerously low. She would have to be born that day or my levels might drop too far to attempt surgery. I asked for them to wait until the next morning, or at least give us 12 hours. I wanted to give Matt's parents the chance to come. As the reality set in that they wouldn't be coming and my condition was rather precarious, we consented and they began assembling the necessary team.
It took a few hours from when the decision was made to when everyone was in place. During that time we met with the neonatologists. They needed instructions. Although we had discussed over the previous weeks how far we wanted to go with interventions and in what situations, it was still difficult to face those decisions. Harder still was telling them that we weren't interested in extreme measures just to get her stable enough to run tests to determine whether she could survive the procedures that would be necessary. Shortly after, I was wheeled to the operating room with Matt to follow after I'd been prepped and the anesthesia placed.
The OR was a zoo. After months of working with the same small team of doctors, the swarm of people there that day were unfamiliar. Only Dr. L. from the other hospital was able to attend. She was the one who gave us the bad news the first day and we hadn't seen her again until the appointment that morning. She came in just as the operation was starting and I almost didn't recognize her behind the scrubs, mask and hat. I don't know if it was physical or emotional shock, but it was taking me a bit longer to process things amid the chaotic state of that room. I know a lot more time passed in there than I realized.
For the most part, I only remember little snippets. Like talking to the anesthesiologist about lowering the drape once Calla was out but then being too scared to ask when the time came- not afraid to talk to her, just so very afraid of what has happening on the other side. I remember the surgeons calling out that I shouldn't be worried that she wasn't crying and only being able to give one quick nod when they said they needed to intubate her due to the amount of meconium. I remember the head neonatologist coming to tell us that they needed to do chest compressions to get her heart rate stabilized. Most vividly of all, I remember the neonatologist coming back what seemed like only one minute later, but later learned it was several times longer. She leaned so she was at my level and only about a foot from my face. She said softly, "She's not going to make it." Through a flood of tears, I asked her to bring Calla to us.
Matt held her as we said both hello and good-bye. Someone had our camera and took some photos that I'll always treasure. I didn't even realize that was happening until nearly a week later when I was trying to find prints to put in an album for Calla's service, but I am so grateful. Matt offered to let me hold her, but I told him I'd held her for the last seven months and that he needed a turn. After a short time he took her to the room where my family was waiting so that Howie could meet her. He wasn't gone long and was back well before they had finished sewing me up.
I held Calla then, but she had long since gone. All I wished in the two months that we knew she might die was that we get to meet her. Now I find myself wondering if we would have had more time if we'd asked the neonatologists to be more aggressive. Was "she's not going to make it" the outcome no matter what? Even as I ask that, I know it would have just prolonged her suffering if we had pushed it. I'm sad that I never saw her eyes. I know they wouldn't have been opened because she was so early and that they would have been the steel blue of a newborn's, but were they Matt's or mine? I wish I could have seen Howie meet her. I feel like between having her gone so fast and everything else going on that I missed her. I miss her.
Our appointment was for 9:30 am. I already knew things were getting bad for me because I tested my own urine when we were in for monitoring that Tuesday, not to mention the 40 lb weight gain in February or the pain I'd been having which was suspiciously near where my liver should be. My mom had driven through the night to get here and went to the appointment with us. I had an overnight bag packed for both Howie and me. My dad was in town with his truck and had turned down load back home, ensuring he'd be there through the weekend. I guess deep down we all knew she was coming, but not even the doctors expected things to go the way they did.
The appointment started like the others- weight, blood pressure and urine sample. I was up another 9 lbs, my blood pressure was well beyond normal levels and they confirmed the protein levels that I had seen a few days before. Before the routine ultrasound was even done, Dr. N. had come in to tell us that I needed to go to University Hospital for monitoring. They wanted to monitor me for at least 24 hours to get an average of the protein levels and my blood pressure. If things looked like I was stable, I'd be allowed to go home after that 24 hours, otherwise I'd be in the hospital until I delivered. The tentative goal for delivery was still a week or so away, so we did another bladder tap to remove that issue from possible complications over the next week.
My dad and his wife had found their way to the hospital where our appointment was and met us in the lobby. We explained the situation and all agreed that they would go pick up lunch while I got checked in and settled. When we arrived at University hospital, we discovered that the front of my clothes was soaked from where the needle was inserted to drain her bladder. It seems that my skin was so full of fluid that it was leaking where I'd been poked. My dad and our lunch arrived and the rest of the afternoon is mostly a blur.
They started IVs, drew blood samples and explained the protocol for monitoring my urine. We began the parade of doctors through my hospital room. I don't think I can count or even remember all who came through. They wanted to do an ultrasound so that they could have one of their own to refer to instead of relying on the copies of my medical records that we had carried with us from our doctor's office. During the ultrasound the tech discovered that my ovary was extremely enlarged. It was a cluster of cysts and roughly the size of a fist. It was all we could do not to cuss when they left us alone in the room for a few minutes. We thought we were having a bad day. We had no idea.
When we got back to my room we were told that through routine tests done on the blood they had drawn earlier they discovered that my platelet count was dangerously low. She would have to be born that day or my levels might drop too far to attempt surgery. I asked for them to wait until the next morning, or at least give us 12 hours. I wanted to give Matt's parents the chance to come. As the reality set in that they wouldn't be coming and my condition was rather precarious, we consented and they began assembling the necessary team.
It took a few hours from when the decision was made to when everyone was in place. During that time we met with the neonatologists. They needed instructions. Although we had discussed over the previous weeks how far we wanted to go with interventions and in what situations, it was still difficult to face those decisions. Harder still was telling them that we weren't interested in extreme measures just to get her stable enough to run tests to determine whether she could survive the procedures that would be necessary. Shortly after, I was wheeled to the operating room with Matt to follow after I'd been prepped and the anesthesia placed.
The OR was a zoo. After months of working with the same small team of doctors, the swarm of people there that day were unfamiliar. Only Dr. L. from the other hospital was able to attend. She was the one who gave us the bad news the first day and we hadn't seen her again until the appointment that morning. She came in just as the operation was starting and I almost didn't recognize her behind the scrubs, mask and hat. I don't know if it was physical or emotional shock, but it was taking me a bit longer to process things amid the chaotic state of that room. I know a lot more time passed in there than I realized.
For the most part, I only remember little snippets. Like talking to the anesthesiologist about lowering the drape once Calla was out but then being too scared to ask when the time came- not afraid to talk to her, just so very afraid of what has happening on the other side. I remember the surgeons calling out that I shouldn't be worried that she wasn't crying and only being able to give one quick nod when they said they needed to intubate her due to the amount of meconium. I remember the head neonatologist coming to tell us that they needed to do chest compressions to get her heart rate stabilized. Most vividly of all, I remember the neonatologist coming back what seemed like only one minute later, but later learned it was several times longer. She leaned so she was at my level and only about a foot from my face. She said softly, "She's not going to make it." Through a flood of tears, I asked her to bring Calla to us.
Matt held her as we said both hello and good-bye. Someone had our camera and took some photos that I'll always treasure. I didn't even realize that was happening until nearly a week later when I was trying to find prints to put in an album for Calla's service, but I am so grateful. Matt offered to let me hold her, but I told him I'd held her for the last seven months and that he needed a turn. After a short time he took her to the room where my family was waiting so that Howie could meet her. He wasn't gone long and was back well before they had finished sewing me up.
I held Calla then, but she had long since gone. All I wished in the two months that we knew she might die was that we get to meet her. Now I find myself wondering if we would have had more time if we'd asked the neonatologists to be more aggressive. Was "she's not going to make it" the outcome no matter what? Even as I ask that, I know it would have just prolonged her suffering if we had pushed it. I'm sad that I never saw her eyes. I know they wouldn't have been opened because she was so early and that they would have been the steel blue of a newborn's, but were they Matt's or mine? I wish I could have seen Howie meet her. I feel like between having her gone so fast and everything else going on that I missed her. I miss her.
posted by Valarie at 2:10 AM
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