Beginnings: Part 3

This post should conclude Weston's birth story. In my last post about his birth, I left off at the point where I consented to a c-section, and the medical staff started prepping me. You can read parts one and two of this story here and here. This post will have some graphic details, but I will be ladylike in my descriptions.

The medical team told me to take off all my jewelry; I gave it to Shannon. I was rushed down the hallway, lying in my bed and surrounded by doctors and nurses. I felt like I was in a medical drama on TV. Not the kind of show you want to be in. The medical team took us by a group of lockers and told Shannon to put my jewelry in there and put on scrubs. He told me later they kept telling him to hurry. They told both of us that Shannon could come in the operating room after I was fully prepped. I was SO SCARED.

I shook uncontrollably as I was wheeled into the operating room. I later learned that shaking is normal (before a c-section? I don't get it.), but this was anything but a normal surgery. I was lifted onto the table and put in a seated position. Even though the situation was grave, the staff still took time to be nice to me and explain what was going on. I am incredibly grateful for that.

A man with a very pleasant and relaxed demeanor walked over to me and simply said, "Hi, Ms. Yoder, I'm Dr. K from anesthesiology." After reading the surgical report a couple of weeks ago, I'm shocked to discover that I actually remembered his name correctly. Anyway, I liked that seemingly insignificant personal touch.

Now, I think I have mDentioned somewhere along the way that I am scared of epidurals. So, on top of everything else, I was not exactly thrilled to have a giant needle stuck in my spine. I could feel Dr. K prepping the area and was just gearing up for the pain. But I didn't really feel it. Things started to feel warm, and someone laid me down on the table. Then the curtain was raised so I wouldn't have to watch the surgery.

At this point, I felt like I had been in the OR for a long time, so I started asking where Shannon was. I asked repeatedly, and I was told he'd be in after prepping was finished.

After I was lying on my back, I looked up and was horrified at what I saw. There was a shiny silver light directly above me that reflected the operating table, including my body. Was I going to have to watch myself be cut open? After looking harder, I could only see from the crotch down (ladylike enough?). I looked over my head, though, and had a nice view of my entire body. This would have required craning my neck at an unnatural angle, though, so I assured myself that I wouldn't have to see my body being sliced open.

Shannon still was not there. People started poking at my belly. Dr. K asked, "Does this hurt?" as he pinched my belly. YES!! Then he asked, "Are you allergic to Drug ABC?" Well, I had no idea. But I couldn't be cut open when a mere pinch was hurting, so he had to give me a different, stronger anesthesia. This proved to be the most regrettable event of the entire birth.

Knowing our baby would go directly to the NICU after birth, we had already decided that Shannon would leave with the baby as soon as he/she was out. I had asked my wonderful doula from Caroline's birth to attend this one. Typically, doulas advocate for the mother in labor and help the mother with natural pain relief in order to give birth without drugs. Although drugs were clearly going to be part of Weston's birth, I still wanted my doula there so I wouldn't have to be alone while they sewed me back up. However, things happened so quickly that I did not even have time to call her. So I was thinking about the fact that I would be alone, yet awake, for much of my surgery.

A lot of my friends have given birth, and I have heard a lot of birth stories, but I had never heard a detailed explanation of what goes on during a c-section. I had assumed that I would feel pressure and movement as they maneuvered the baby out. I have seen a lot of family pictures immediately after birth, where they bring the baby around to the smiling mother. Given the underdeveloped lungs of a 24-weeker, I knew that there would be no time for photo ops before my baby was whisked off to the NICU, but I was still looking forward to my baby's entry into the world, not to mention discovering the sex.

So, my arms were strapped down to the table. That was pleasant. I asked for Shannon again. Then I saw a lot of very pretty things in the air above me for a long time. Then there is a gap in my memory, and then I saw more pretty things, but no Shannon. Then, I looked up into the lamp. All I saw was a reflection of red, red, red. Even in my drugged-up state, I figured I was looking at blood and that my baby had been born. I could feel tugging on my lower half and hear the voices of the surgeons.

What had happened to my baby? Was it a boy or a girl? I just knew it was a boy, but I wanted to make sure that my mother's intuition had been right all this time. I was petrified to ask any questions, though, because I didn't want to be alone if I had to hear bad news.

I HAD MISSED THE ENTIRE BIRTH OF MY BABY, apparently due to high tolerance to the damn anesthesia drug. But I remember his death quite clearly. I don't think I need to point out the utter unfairness of this. 

The pretty things gradually disappeared, and then I was just exhausted. Someone took me to the recovery area, where my nurse was. I was alone in my bed, with a curtain around me for privacy. I was desperate for information about my baby but was too scared to ask. Although the drugs were making me so tired, not to mention the fact that it was 3:00 am or so, sleep eluded me. There was no way I could sleep without knowing if my baby was ok. I have never felt so alone and helpless in my life. I'm sure I have already made this identical statement somewhere else on this blog, but it is not a hyperbolic statement. It truly was my most lonely time until after Weston died. Now I know that there is nothing more lonely or isolating than the grief that accompanies losing a child.

Anyway, I finally got up the nerve to ask my nurse where Shannon was. "He's with your baby." "Are they in the NICU?" "Yes." "OK." "You know you had a boy, right?" So, that's how I found out the sex of my baby. Pathetic. I was too scared to congratulate my mother's intuition for being right.

I learned later that no one actually told Shannon we had a boy, either. A group of neonatologists surrounded Weston immediately as soon as he was born. Shannon overheard one of them say, "He's got a good strong heartbeat." Whew! But Shannon didn't get a good look at him for a while.

After a while, Shannon came to see me in recovery. He was tired but happy. We had a son, after all. He told me later that he didn't really know what to do with himself. I was all drugged up, there was nowhere for him to sit in my recovery area, Weston was surrounded by doctors and nurses, and my room was unavailable. It was the middle of the night, and he was exhausted.

I was moved back into my old room at about 5:00 in the morning. Someone told me they would wheel my bed into the NICU so I could meet Weston on the way. But then I was told that my bed would not fit in Weston's pod, so I'd have to meet him later. I was upset, but still delirious, so it didn't really sink in for a while.

Back in my old room, I got a couple hours of sleep. I don't remember much about that morning as far as medical care goes, but I do remember waking Shannon up every couple of hours and asking him to go check on Weston.

By 10:00 am, I was desperate to meet Weston. It had been almost eight hours since his birth. The anesthesia that made me crazy was wearing off, so I was lucid, but still in a lot of pain. My nurse cautioned me that it was still too soon, but we could try. I tried to sit up and move to the wheelchair, and the pain was excruciating. I collapsed back into bed.

I was devastated. First, I had no memory of Weston's birth, and now I was physically unable to see him. I was literally starting to wonder if this was even real, if I had even had a baby. There was guilt too: after all, I had Caroline naturally. Let me tell you, that was painful. Now I had all these STRONG drugs in me, and I still couldn't tough out the pain to meet my 1 pound 6 ounce son who desperately needed his mother. The only thing that kept me somewhat sane during those few hours was (1) the fact that Weston was stable; and (2) the fact that Shannon could check on him often. 

Shannon went to the NICU once with my iPhone so he could take pictures for me. That is how I got the first glimpse of my baby boy.

At noon, my nurse said we could try again. It had been ten hours since the surgery and Weston's birth. It was incredibly painful, but I made it into the wheelchair. Shannon wheeled me down to the NICU for the first glimpse of my son.

Weston took my breath away. He was unbelievably tiny; I could barely see him through all the tubes and the isolette. He looked like he would break if I touched him. I did fall in love with him immediately, but love was not my primary emotion; it was secondary to fear at that time. People kept congratulating me. I thanked them but thought to myself, "For what? He is less than a pound and a half and barely viable. This is not how things are supposed to be."

I guess this officially concludes Weston's birth story. Fortunately, Weston's condition was pretty uneventful in the first few days. He was born early on a Saturday morning, and I was discharged the following Wednesday. I'll write a post about those few days at some point. Scrolling back through my old posts to figure out where I started chronicling our journey and, therefore, reading my hope-filled posts, is too painful right now.

If there ever comes a day when we can't be together, put me in your heart. I'll stay there forever.
~A.A. Milne (Winnie the Pooh)