That's right folks, today I had my preemie. My first child, my first son, the one I've absolutely adored feeling kick inside me for the last 8 weeks, the one who's been giving me so much trouble practicing his jujitsu all morning long while I try to sleep.
My pride and joy, the absolute center of my universe, who is like sunshine on my skin, came almost 16 weeks too soon. And I cannot decide how to feel about it.
The first thing to say is that until Friday, October 4th, there was NOTHING wrong with my pregnancy. Did I have some horrifyingly bad heartburn? Absolutely. Did my breasts hurt like someone had been stepping on them all night? You bet! But was my baby making us worry? Was he developing wrong, giving me contractions, or otherwise giving us ANY reason to worry?
NOPE.
So when I went into OB triage yesterday for intense, horrible cramping, it was because I genuinely knew something was wrong. And when the doctors told me that it was my abdominal muscles tearing and was normal, I thought that I must have been inadequate. Abdominal muscle tearing happens to almost 2/3 pregnant women, why was I suffering so much!? When the pain got so bad on the way home that I screamed and cried, part of me assumed I wasn't actually in more pain, I was just ASHAMED of myself. What kind of woman can't handle that kind of basic side effect?
Today I told myself that I wouldn't bother them again unless it was absolutely gut-wrenchingly unbearable. Little did I know how soon that would be. When I woke up around 10am, after a shockingly long and peaceful sleep, the pain started again. I accepted it as something I'd be facing for another few days at least. I got in the shower, planning to go visit my mom and step-dad, an hour and a half away. The pain kept going, I assumed that with the hot water and standing more than usual, it would end when I sat back down.
Unfortunately I was wrong, AGAIN. With abdominal pain that felt like I was being torn apart from the inside out, I knew again something was wrong, but didn't decide to call until I realized that it was coming MUCH more frequently than before. And by much more frequently, I mean we started with every half hour/hour, and went down to every few minutes. My poor neighbors listened to be holler and whatnot for a half hour before I called my midwife, who told me to haul ass to triage.
Once we were there, around 2pm, she was still on the way. The poor nurses at triage listened to my screaming with so much professionalism. I've never had appendicitis, but I thought in that moment that maybe I was ruptured and going septic, SOMETHING, it was so much more than just pain, it was absolute misery. Torment. Anguish.
When my midwife walked into the room, I could see the look of "oh SHIT" on her face. This was NOT the same pain we'd been facing yesterday at all. Luckily she kept her cool long enough to keep me cool as well. She started with questions and went into a cervical exam. Now, I've had cervix exams before, and while the speculum is always uncomfortable, I've never screamed when one was inserted into me. Today I did. My midwife went straight from "this is fine", SKIPPED "oh shit", and gave me a "holy FUCK" face. Immediately, there were calls for other doctors, calls for labs, and an alert that we were going upstairs -- to active labor.
She came up to me and grabbed my hand, letting me know that she believes what she's seeing is the baby's head in my cervix. For anyone who hasn't been through enough pregnancy to know what that means, it basically translates to "You're giving birth. SOON." And in that moment, my fear that something was wrong was like a nuclear bomb in my chest. My lungs collapsed, my heart crunched into itself, and the tears were flowing instantly. I could hardly breathe but I couldn't stop myself from crying. It's only hitting me now as I write this how stressful it was, and how it's affecting me still.
By 3pm we were upstairs, I had a labor gown on and was talking to NICU doctors, my delivery doctor, nurses, midwife, you name it. We saw no less than 8 people in and out of the room to tell us IF baby comes out tonight, what's going to happen. I could barely keep track of any of it. I was barely able to listen above the contractions anyway.
A shot in my thigh for his lungs, a blood draw to take a look at my own health, a magnesium drip to help my muscles, oxytocin to help me continue contracting and slow my bleeding, a hundred other things to remember that I do not. Blood pressure cuff on constantly.
Water breaking. It's 3:30pm. A gush and the contractions change. All of a sudden I feel a different kind of pressure when I contract. I tell the doctor I think I'm going to have to push. He wants me to hold on, to try to stop the contractions, to keep him in for 2 more days so the shot for his lungs can reach him. Another contraction comes, I tell him that will not happen. He tells me to push if I need to.
Within 3 minutes there are 8 people in our room all at once, tables surrounding us in the room, another contraction and suddenly 3 people are shouting that I NEED TO PUSH, NOW. I try, they keep yelling, I cry, and try again, the yelling continues.
The doctor tells me that I need to "really push, like right now, like REALLY hard". I scream at him, "I AM pushing, DAMNIT!" and just as quickly as it started, he is out. It's over. I felt his body intensely, screamed loud enough that I'm sure my dog heard me from home, felt the bulge pass, and was instantly okay. The "high" they say you get after an unmedicated vaginal birth? It's real. I'm glad I had it, too, because if I didn't, I can't imagine I'd have stayed so calm while I watched from the wrong end of the room as they worked desperately to make sure my son survived. My partner stood to the side, watching intently, taking in as much as he could of our son before he was stolen away from us to be monitored. At 3:50pm, our son came into the world, struggling to breathe but fighting, and by 4pm he was gone.
Aaron was so strong the whole time. I knew he was crying, we both knew there was a large chance we would be going home with much more somber news. We both knew how strong a possibility that was, and I will forever be grateful that he didn't let me see him crying, that he pretended to be strong when I needed him so much. He was suffering, too, and knew it wasn't the time to break down, so he didn't. When it was all over, and they wheeled my child over to see me wrapped in a plastic bag, a hat, and with a breathing tube down his throat, I couldn't keep it together, neither could he.
There was so much happiness and so much fear. For now, he was okay. For now, he looked good. For now, I could appreciate how small his nose was, how much hair he had and how perfect it looked, how small and deformed his ears were. His hands were flexing, his fingers reaching for comfort that I could not provide, and that broke my heart. But this was what we needed to do.
I will not hold my son for at least another week. I will not feel his chest rise and fall against my own, he will not feed from my breasts, he will feel instead the cold of heart monitors, and be fed someone else's breast milk through a tube. For now, he is not mine. I can see him any time, but he is not mine to love and care for and make comfortable. Nurses and doctors will give him comfort for now. And all I can do is wait, and watch.
My son is doing well. He's been breathing on his own since he was born, just not particularly well. His nurses say that if he keeps up the good work, he might even be off his ventilator before we leave the hospital Monday. His heart is strong, his oxygen levels fluctuate but he's doing well anyway.
It's about 2am now, and I should be asleep. All of the adrenaline I got after birth has worn off, and my emotions are heavy on me. I'm not just worried, I'm plagued by thoughts of what could be happening right now and what will happen over the coming weeks. He's so strong, and so big. And somehow I feel weak and small. Somehow I still feel inadequate. I still feel like I don't deserve him, and like I'm not ready for any of this.
I feel completely drained, but my brain is working overtime trying to convince me both that everyone is fine, and that nothing is fine. I will eventually be okay, I will eventually have him in my arms, I will eventually have him home.
Until then, I am okay, and so is my very small family. Jasper is alive, and I can't really ask for much more than that.