The doctor looked at me. “I know this isn’t what you want, but I can’t watch this anymore. Your baby is telling us she needs to come out. Now.”
I burst into tears.
Pregnancy was not something I enjoyed. And I have a lot of sadness and guilt about that. But while I loved that I WAS pregnant, I hated actually physically being pregnant. I muddled my way through, despite the pain that made walking, rolling over, or standing hurt starting at 13 weeks, despite the contractions that began at 15 weeks, despite the month of insomnia that made me feel crazy and delirious.
One Saturday in early November, Maya got sick. She threw up all day, had a fever, and just wanted to snuggle with me the whole day. That night we finally got her to bed, and within an hour I wasn’t feeling well.
“I’m nauseous,” I told Jeremy.
“It’s been a long, stressful day. Let’s go to bed.” He passed out immediately and within an hour I was shaking him awake.
“I can’t stop shaking. I’m freezing and hot. I have a fever and I am so so nauseous.”
And thus it began.
For the next two weeks, I barely got out of bed. I had a fever for 9 days and no appetite. I stopped eating and barely drank. I had no energy. I didn’t go to work. I called the doctor constantly and they reassured me that it was a virus, made worse by being pregnant, and to do my best to eat and stay hydrated. I went for a flu swab: negative. After a week my mom drove me to the doctor where they ran a million labs, which showed that I was super dehydrated and my body was hungry, but there was no clear cause of what was going on. A virus, they said. They gave an IV of fluid and promised it would help. I didn’t feel any better after. I just wanted to sleep and I wanted the fever to go away and I didn’t even care about missing work, or what Jeremy was feeding Maya for dinner, or that I hadn’t been able to play with her or talk to him in days. It took all the energy I had to get to the car and back into bed. I barely slept for more than an hour at a time because the fever and chills and sweats woke me up.
After 2 weeks, the fever abated. I wasn’t really better, but had to get back to work. I couldn’t make it through a full day without falling asleep at my desk. My mom had to come over after work so I could get into bed and sleep.
On a Wednesday after working a few hours and leaving, exhausted, I went to the doctor because I was having some cramping.
“You’re not dilated, and the baby sounds great. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, because you’ve had cramping and other symptoms throughout the pregnancy. Plus, you’re still recovering from being sick which could be the cause,” she told me.
In the middle of the night, I woke up to stomach pains. I sat in the bathroom with GI discomfort for a while, but told Jeremy that yes, he could get up early to go to the gym and I would be fine. By the time he got to the gym, I called him.
“We need to get this checked out,” I told him.
“Do I need to come home?” he asked. I couldn’t decide and finally told him, yes.
By the time he got home, I was having contractions every 5 minutes. I was 35 weeks along.
“I called the doctor, they said we can go straight to the hospital to be evaluated,” I told him. He looked at my hospital bag I had ready by the door.
“You’re bringing that? Really?” he half-laughed.
I looked him dead in the eye. “You might want to pack a bag.”
On the way to the hospital I threw up. By the time we got there and checked in, and got hooked up, my contractions were intense and every 2 minutes. They ran a million tests, took a zillion vials of blood, and put me on an IV.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” they said. “You might be dehydrated which could be the cause of this, and we’ll see if we can slow down the contractions. Or it could be appendicitis. Let’s give it some time.”
We waited.
I asked a zillion questions about what could be going on, what would happen if it didn’t resolve.
After a while, some of the blood tests had come back with no real information, but I started running a fever. Around that time, the contractions intensified and the baby’s heart rate got way too high.
“We’re going to watch it for a little,” the doctor told me, “But I want you to know that babies cannot sustain heart rates that high for too long. We might need to talk about changing our plan.”
I started to panic.
After being checked multiple times over the next hour, they determined that I was only 1 cm dilated and the baby’s heart rate was still in a danger zone.
“I know your birth plan outlines something entirely different,” the doctor told me. “But something is wrong, and I can’t watch this anymore. We need to get the baby out now. She can’t sustain this in the time it would take to wait and see or induce you.”
I burst into tears. “You don’t understand,” I said. “My older daughter’s birth was so traumatic and this time is supposed to be different, this is not what’s supposed to happen.”
I asked a few questions, but it was clear to Jeremy and me that there was no option. Our baby was in distress and they needed to protect her.
Things moved fast. They immediately began prepping for surgery, bumping out someone who was a non-emergent c-section. They collaborated and got dressed while answering my millions of questions.
“I can’t even have blood drawn without laying down and panicking,” I shook. “I can’t have a spinal, I can’t survive surgery, I can’t I can’t I can’t.”
I left my body and saw myself dial my mom’s number. “I’m okay,” I said tearfully, “But the baby has to come out. I’m going in for an emergency c-section now.”
My mom cried too, but said, “If this is what has to happen, then I’m glad they’re doing it. You are both going to be just fine. I love you and will talk to you after.”
The midwife I had been working with told me she would stay with me the whole time while the doctors operated.
In a surreal fog, they got me into the OR, got me on the table. Erica, the midwife, held my hands while they gave me the anesthesia and held on tight when I panicked that I was numb, panicked about nausea, panicked about the baby, panicked about it all.
Erica talked to me the whole time, and finally I heard the doctor say, “she’s out, and she’s beautiful.”
“Go!” I burst into tears and told Jeremy. “Please, go see her.” After a few moments I heard her cry.
“She’s breathing! She’s okay!” the NICU doctors called over.
“Maggie,” I bawled. “Her name is Maggie.”
They took her right up to the NICU and I made Jeremy go with her. The thought of her being alone caused so much emotional pain.
“This isn’t what’s supposed to be happening,” I sobbed to Erica, as they stitched me up and I lay there without my baby.
When they wheeled me into recovery, I had texts from Jeremy. “She’s okay,” they said.
Moments later, I felt hunger and thirst for the first time since I had gotten sick weeks ago. I begged the nurses for food, and devoured ice chips and cereal and crackers.
The doctor came to talk to me. “There is nothing conclusive that explains your virus or why you started having contractions. We ran a ton of tests and none give an explanation. But what I can tell you is that our bodies are incredible. And babies are incredible. And your body and your baby knew that something was very wrong, and she needed to get out so you could both be okay.”
The neonatologist came in, and I only heard pieces of what she said. Baby okay….breathing support….feeding tube….35 weeks….several weeks in the NICU…..not with you in the room….while before going home….
I began to cry again.
Maggie was in the NICU for 17 days, and I cried for the bulk of those 17 days. I don’t think there’s a way to convey the pain of not having your baby with you in the hospital, or leaving the hospital each day without your baby (let alone trying to recover from major surgery, trying to keep things normal for your toddler you have barely seen in weeks, and pumping every 3 hours round the clock to have milk for the feeding tube). The NICU experience is a whole post in itself that I’ll write some day but I think I am plenty drained for now.
She’s now this perfect, thriving 3 month old baby, who as her pediatrician says, “doesn’t even know she was born early.”
My sickness and her birth and the NICU weeks seem like yesterday and also like a surreal other lifetime.
It was hugely traumatic, but I’m healing better from it than with Maya’s birth (which I still haven’t written about), largely because I know this time that I need to write about it and talk about it. And I’m able to be so traumatized and yet so thankful. She knew she had to come out. And it happened the complete opposite in every possible way from what we wanted – but she’s here. She’s fine. She’s great.
Thankful doesn’t even begin to cover it.