Chris and I always knew we wanted three children, but the thought hadn't really crossed our mind to actually have the baby while we were living in Europe until we were coming up on our second year here. After a couple beers at dinner one night, it suddenly seemed like it made perfect sense..to take advantage of this time as a stay at home mother without having to worry about maternity leave or looking for a job while I was pregnant or taking care of a newborn. Barcelona is one of the most family friendly, child-loving places we had ever been to, and the lifestyle here just seemed to support healthy living and baby growing. And as it turned out, we didn't have much time to hem and haw over the decision...the morning we were getting ready to leave on our trip to the Cotswolds, I found out I was pregnant. Just like that, Jordi was on his way.
I had an idea of what doctor we wanted to see ahead of time. An American friend who had been living here the year prior was also pregnant in Barcelona and had highly recommended her doctor, Dr. O (shorted to keep it anonymous). She was an American doctor, who had been living in Barcelona for over 20 years, and came very highly recommended. Dr. O delivered at the prestigious Teknon hospital -- arguably the best hospital in the city, medically speaking, and was open to VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) and natural birth. All things being normal and healthy, I prefer to keep birth fairly simple and respect the process, opting to see midwives instead doctors if everything was healthy and uncomplicated with my pregnancies. I had no issues with doctors or medical intervention when and if it was necessary, but didn't want to go there if I didn't need to. However, I felt like this doctor was the best choice for us being that we were in a foreign country with such limited options in terms of language barriers, so we decided to start seeing her once I was 7 weeks along.
On our first prenatal visit, I noticed there was a very medical, sterile, hands-on kind of approach. There were ultrasounds done at every single visit, a laundry list of vitamins and supplements for me to take, and she relied solely on machines and lab results instead of her own hands to do the assessing. She was, however, extremely kind and thorough, and it was a huge plus that she spoke English. I kind of took her overzealous, somewhat alarmist, medical approach with a grain of salt, happy to be under good care and figured when the time came, I knew enough to make sure I could advocate for the natural birth experience I hoped to have.
My pregnancy progressed beautifully -- after the initial 14 weeks of nausea went subsided, I had my energy back and we proceeded to get in a ton of travel while we could. Little Jordi has visited more countries and cities during his gestation then I did during my first 30 years of life :)
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| 18 weeks in Scotland |
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22 weeks in Switzerland
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| 28 weeks in Mallorca |
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| 32 weeks in Provence |
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| 36 weeks in Andorra |
At week 20 we had our fetal survey ultrasound, during which the doctor does an in depth look at the baby’s growth and organs. It was confirmed we were having a boy, and he was perfectly healthy according to all the blood work and ultrasound scans. My health was fantastic, my weight gain was on track for once, and it seemed like this was shaping up to be the easiest pregnancy out of all three. We were so excited to know it was a boy, and everything looked great.
Once we entered the third trimester, around week 28, I started to doubt whether or not having the baby with Dr. O at Teknon was the right decision. I had just returned from a birthing conference in the UK, and additionally I had been hearing many, many horror stories from women here in Barcelona about what really goes on at the private hospitals in terms of supporting women who wish to birth naturally. Stories have included women still getting shaved and given enemas before birth, nurses actually using their hands pushing on women’s bellies to get the baby out while women were pushing (I’m serious, this actually happened to a friend of mine), and just a generally crazy rate of forceps and vacuum deliveries, inductions, augmentations, and c-sections. I knew my doctor was excellent, and wouldn't allow for this unless absolutely necessary, but ultimately there was always the chance that Dr. O wouldn't be available the day I went into labor, and I would then be at the mercy of the newly assigned doctor and the hospital nurses and protocols.
After speaking with Chris, and several women who had been through birth at both private and public hospitals , I started to realize that maybe what would be best for us would be to plan a birth with a group of independent midwives instead. After doing some extensive research, I found two wonderful groups of British trained midwives with many years of experience practicing here in Barcelona. After meeting them both at their women’s center, I realized immediately this was what we were looking for. Like a breath of fresh air, It felt as though I was meeting with a motherly friend. They were advanced practices nurses with all the knowledge and medical expertise to identify and respond to the medical aspects of birth, but didn't make me feel like I was strange for wanting to allow my body to do what it was meant to do. I decided on one particular group of midwives, and for the first time since becoming pregnant, felt extremely excited for the birth.
The plan was to continue all my prenatal care with Dr. O at the Teknon to receive all my routine testing, scans, and blood work, while also seeing the midwives simultaneously in preparation to deliver with them. If my pregnancy continued to progress without any complications, and all the conditions were right, we would plan to deliver with the midwives, keeping Dr. O as our backup doctor. At that point I was the perfect candidate -- no health issues with myself or the baby, and a previous successful VBAC (Mia).
Around week 30, we ran into our first little “complication” -- the baby was in breech position. Clearly it was still very early in this pregnancy with plenty of time for him to turn head down, but I had been through this before with Evan, our first baby. Evan was first found to be breech at 28 weeks, and did not budge an inch for the entire remainder of the pregnancy until he finally had to be delivered via c-section because of the position. I knew if I wanted this guy to turn, I needed to get myself to a chiropractor immediately and start the special exercises to get him to flip. I also knew that if I couldn’t get him to turn, I was facing another c-section.
It was at this time that we also ran into a complication with our private insurance we had been using for our prenatal care at Teknon. Long boring story short, after many weeks, involving Aetna reps and HR from Chris’s company, we still had not received confirmation that a birth at Teknon Hospital would be paid upfront by Aetna, and I couldn’t risk waiting any longer, as I was nearing 34 weeks.
I spoke with our group of midwives about the situation, and they recommended another English speaking doctor who accepted our other private Spanish insurance, Sanitas. I trusted the midwives, and also read some very positive recommendations for this new doctor, so we decided to make the switch. Dr. O was away on holiday when I made this decision, so I sent an email to her explaining the situation. The following week I received a very nice phone call from Dr. O, who understood completely why I had to make the switch due to insurance reasons, and wanted to be sure I was in good hands and to see how was I was doing at that point. She urged me to contact her if I needed anything at all, and wished me well. I felt sad at that point, she was a good doctor and I could tell she was genuinely invested and concerned about me.
At my first visit with the new doctor, I was a bit nervous. It wasn’t exactly the fancy Teknon office, and the doctor spoke English about as well as I speak Spanish. However, she was incredibly nice and put me at ease. We confirmed via ultrasound the baby was now head down which was a HUGE relief, and everything at that point looked normal and healthy. I explained to the doctor our plan to deliver with the midwives, and she was supportive. I’ll admit, at that point, my care seemed a little chaotic. I was frantically trying to put together a cohesive chart of all my scans, tests, and lab work - I had been to three different labs, and now two different doctors in addition to the midwives, all the while toggling back and forth between two different insurances. But I had to keep reminding myself that I’m healthy, the baby is healthy, all my care is up to date, and I have both a doctor and a midwife here to take care of me who have worked together in the past. Everything seemed to be in place.
The next few weeks progressed smoothly. I felt great. Better than I had with my last two pregnancies. But one thing that I did notice, that really started to bother me, was the size of my belly. It was small. Noticeably smaller than it had been with Mia and Evan. And at my appointments with both the doctor and midwives, I consistently measured about 2-3 weeks behind. Both the doctor and midwives assured me that this was OK -- the baby was on the small size of normal, but normal nonetheless, and nothing to worry about. But, of course, as a mother, you worry. I couldn’t understand why I would give birth to two babies, nearly 9 lbs each, and then have one tiny baby after that. I knew in my heart, from that point forward, something wasn’t right. There was a reason why this baby was so small, though nothing else at that point was out of the ordinary.
Saturday, September 9th -- 38 weeks
That night, I started to get stomach pains. It first hit around 2am, waking me from sleep. It was burning, searing epi-gastric pain, just below my rib cage in my stomach that left me in agony for hours until around 1pm when it stopped. When it finally stopped, it was gone completely, and I had assumed it was heartburn from having salsa the night before. The rest of the week I felt fine, and tried to stay away from any acidic foods thinking that was likely the culprit of that pain I had felt. I mentioned the pain that week at the doctor’s visit, and she agreed it was likely heartburn. At that time, I had no other symptoms or health issues -- no protein in my urine, my blood pressure was normal, I had no swelling or headaches. Just this upper belly pain.
Saturday, September 16th --39 weeks
That day started the week of hell.
The rest of the week continued the same way -- every night was always the same. I would wake up in the middle of the night with “heartburn” so bad I couldn’t sleep. I tried eating TUMS and kept my diet so bland I refused to eat anything except chicken, rice, bananas, apples, and oatmeal. I drank only water, and slept sitting up. I chewed on ginger, drank mint tea. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING helped. Once the pain was “on” it was on for 6-8 hours until morning time. I spent the nights pacing back and forth, hunched over pillows, leaning against windows, or sitting upright on the couch. I would end up sleeping all day while the kids were in preschool, as that would be the only time I could sleep without the pain. I also noticed when I woke up from a nap, I would feel like I had the flu -- sort of sick and shaky. I chalked that up to extreme lack of sleep, and end of pregnancy exhaustion.
Wednesday, September 18th -- 39 weeks and 2 days
Wednesday night the pain hit an all time high. I remember just pacing the halls for hours while the whole house slept, begging for the pain to stop, moving from the couch to the bed and back again, over and over, as the repetitive motion was the only thing that I could do to take my mind off the pain a little. After 4 or so hours of this, I woke Chris up and told him we needed to go to the hospital. Something was wrong. This wasn’t normal. We called my midwife to get her opinion, and she agreed. This did not sound like typical “heartburn”, and she told me I needed to get evaluated by a doctor as soon as possible. We hung up the phone, and talked about what to do. These were the times when it absolutely sucks to be away from family, in a foreign country. The thought of waking up the children, and bringing them to an Emergency Room in the middle of the night wasn’t appealing. We had plenty of wonderful friends in the area offer to help us with emergency child care, but when push comes to shove, who the heck wants to get a call at 2am to come and watch someone’s kids? The more we weighed our options, the more the pain started to subside. As I started to feel better, I told Chris I wanted to wait at least until the morning, after the kids were at school, and then we would go to the doctor then. Chris followed my lead, told me he would do whatever I felt was best, so we put on a movie and as the pain disappeared, I finally fell asleep.
Thursday, September 19th, 39 weeks and 3 days
The following morning, my midwife came over to check on me. When she took my blood pressure, it was high -- 140/90 at that point. She listened to the baby, who was reactive and sounded great on the doppler, but we decided that it was definitely necessary to get to the doctor today to have some blood work done to rule out pre-eclampsia. Together, we went to the doctor’s office, as my usual doctor was not available so I had to see another strictly Spanish speaking doctor. My midwife came with me to translate. The doctor I saw that day didn’t seem convinced what I was experiencing was anything more than acid reflux. I was not presenting as the average pre-eclampsia patient -- I had no headaches, no swelling, no excessive protein in my urine. I did notice when the nurse took my blood pressure, she didn’t do it correctly, letting the air out much too fast before she could get an accurate reading. So when she told me my blood pressure was only 100/60 at the doctor’s office, I didn’t take it as a relief. The doctor did not seem concerned and all, but as a precaution she sent me to a lab to have some blood drawn, and made a plan to check back on Monday -- at this point it was Thursday. She advised me to start taking Zantac once daily at bedtime to help with the acid reflux. At the lab, I was told the results from my blood work likely wouldn’t be back until Monday as well. I thought that was completely insane...that was four days away, I could go into labor any time. How is it possible to go four more days without knowing if something was seriously wrong with my lab work or not? My midwife, who had come with me to the appointment, agreed with me, but what else could we do? At this point everyone seemed so convinced that this pain was nothing more than heartburn, I just agreed to wait it out until Monday to see what the lab work showed.
Friday, September 20th - 39 weeks and 4 days
That night I held out hope the Zantac would be my magic cure-all. I stopped eating at 5pm that night, and took the Zantac at 10pm. Unfortunately, that night was more of the same. Searing, excruciating stomach pain until dawn. I was wiped out at that point, now on day 6 with no sleep, and feeling weaker by the minute as I was unable to eat much of anything in fear of triggering the pain. I woke Chris up at 6am and told him I had had enough -- I was taking a cab to the Teknon Emergency Room. SOMEONE there had to be able to help me. I couldn’t go through another night of this pain. Chris offered to come, but at that point I just wanted to get there as soon as possible. I told him to just stay with the kids, and once they were at school, to meet me at the hospital. I was still feeling the pain pretty badly at that point, so the cab ride to the hospital was pretty horrendous and seemed to take forever to get there.
Once I arrived, I assumed I would be treated with some urgency -- after all, I was a pregnant woman in obvious distress. But, after limping along in my broken Spanish trying to explain what I was experiencing, it was clear there was no urgency other than to first sort out payment with the hospital. Once I paid the deposit and got checked in, I was brought in to triage. I explained as best I could in Spanish that I was experiencing severe stomach pain, which were NOT contractions, and had been having that pain for a week. They hooked me up to monitor the baby’s heart rate and any contractions I may have been having. I gave a blood sample and a urine sample, and then just laid on the bed in the room alone, trying to cope with the stomach pain while I listened to my little baby’s heart beating away happily on the monitor. After about an hour of being on the monitor, the doctor appeared again, and told me everything looked fine, and I was free to go home. ‘That’s it?’ I thought. He said the baby is very reactive, which means the placenta is perfusing fine (not a valid assumption, but whatever), and the pain I’m feeling is just acid reflux. I asked him about my blood work, and he glanced down at two sheets of paper he was holding (the results of my blood work) and said that, yes, yes, everything was fine. He barely looked at it. (Come to find out later, everything was not fine. My platelets were already below normal at that point, which should have been the first red flag). It was then that he noticed my blood pressure was 148/99, and seemed to do a double take. He asked the nurse to take the blood pressure again, which was now 138/90, and then said, “that’s fine”, and handed me my discharge paperwork. I asked him what to do about the severe pain I was experiencing, and he gave me another Zantac to take then, and that was it. I left in tears, feeling like I was going crazy. Two doctors in two days have told me this is nothing more than acid reflux.
Saturday, September 21 -- 39 weeks and 5 days
Saturday morning came, and it was my birthday. I refused to let this pain ruin the day. By 9 am, the pain from the previous night had started to subside, so Chris helped me make a little nest on the couch so I could get some rest. He cooked me scrambled eggs, and took the kids out to the local parade that afternoon so I could get some rest in the quiet house alone. They came back with gifts, a cake, and homemade cards, and we all enjoyed the day together at home. It was actually a really nice day -- I felt very well taken care of, and empowered by my new ability to handle the pain from the previous night. I told Chris I was going to find the strength to get through this. I even had a piece of birthday cake that night, thinking, what the hell, it can’t make the pain any worse than it already is!
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| The kids and I on my birthday |
That night I was KNOCKED TO THE FLOOR with the pain, which started to kick in full force around 10 pm. As I paced back and forth from the bedroom to the couch, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the hallway at one point and was horrified. I looked sick. This isn’t right. Something isn’t right. I began to really fear for myself and my baby at this point.
Sunday, September 22nd -- 39 weeks and 6 days
Sunday morning arrived and I was no longer feeling empowered. I made my mind up, the pain stops TODAY. I physically couldn’t bear one more day.
Out of options, I sat down and emailed my original doctor -- Dr. O. I explained what had been going on with the pain that week, the different doctors I had seen, what they had told me. I told her I trusted her opinion and needed some help -- I needed to make the pain stop somehow. I asked for her opinion, suggestions, or potentially a GI doctor referral.
Not 5 minutes later, I received an email reply from Dr. O, asking for my phone number so she could call me. She said she was very, very concerned about me, and told me she believes I have HELLP Syndrome -- a potentially life threatening condition when your body begins to identify the baby as a threat/foreign body causing an response in my body that can eventually lead to liver failure or rupture, stroke, or even death. This would explain the epi-gastric pain. The condition is usually a complication of pre-eclampsia, which I hadn’t had any symptoms of, so my presentation wasn’t typical, but based on the rising blood pressure and epigastric pain, it was a strong possibility. She asked about my blood pressure, and also if I had had labs done recently and I filled her in on the past week. Dr. O told me it was imperative that I get back to the Teknon ER immediately, and that she would call ahead to see which obstetricians were on call and speak to them directly herself. We hung up, and I started to frantically try and figure out what to do first. About ten minutes later Dr. O called us back, gave us the names of the two obstetricians who were on at Teknon that day, and told us that they know our situation, and they will be expecting us shortly.
I tried to explain to Chris what was going on, who was also trying hard to wrap his head around this dramatic turn of events. I think at the time Chris didn’t really understand the severity of the situation, nor did I. He was worried for me, but also knew I really didn’t want to be bullied into a c-section, so at that point he was trying to make sure that going to the hospital was what I really wanted. I told him, very certainly, that I had no choice. The baby and I were potentially in danger, and it no longer was up to me -- we needed to get to the hospital ASAP. I started stuffing clothes into a bag for the kids, and called our friends to see if they would be able to take Mia and Evan for the day and potentially overnight while we went into the hospital to get things sorted out. My friend Julie was amazing, and immediately jumped into a cab and met us at our house, no questions asked. We exchanged hugs, and Chris and I jumped into the cab and headed to Teknon. Dr. O had arranged it so that the hospital would accept our insurance as long as we were admitted through urgent care. Another miracle created by Dr. O.
When we arrived at the hospital, it was quite different from the previous visit to the ER earlier that week. The front desk immediately took our insurance card, and told us they were expecting us. After a short wait, I was brought into a triage room, where they immediately took my blood pressure, started an IV, took a blood sample, then asked me to undress and brought me into an ultrasound room.
I’d say about 25% of the people we spoke to at the hospital spoke English. Thankfully, with some medical background, I could understand what was being done, but I needed to know results and plans moving forward so I could mentally prepare myself. The obstetricians came in, and started reading through my chart which I had provided them (here in Spain, most doctors give you all of your lab results and chart information to carry with you). We explained to the doctors as best we could in a mix of Spanish and English what had been going on that week, and she told us that she would be looking at my blood work and do an ultrasound to try and see what was happening at that point. There was a strong possibility that they would have to deliver the baby that day.
Then she started the ultrasound. The baby looked good -- but small. At that point they estimated him to be about 2.7kg (6 lbs even). Nearly three pounds less than Evan and Mia had been at birth...I knew something was wrong, even though, again, they assured me this was OK. The fluid, however, was low. The doctor explained that she didn’t like how low the fluid was, so regardless of what the blood work shows, they would prefer to deliver the baby today. I do remember that conversation being in Spanish.
I was then taken into a small “holding” kind of a room. This is when things started moving very fast, and flying downhill. I was on a really uncomfortable bed with no pillow, still dealing with the stomach pain and feeling very hot. They put monitors on my belly to monitor the baby’s heart rate, and soon after that a nurse came in to insert a urinary catheter. I asked her why they were placing the catheter at that point, since we weren’t even sure if we were going ahead with a c-section since we didn’t have the results of my blood work back yet. It took a while to understand (again, this part was all in Spanish), but she said they needed to start to monitor my urine output to monitor my kidney function. Soon after the urinary catheter was placed, the nurse came back and told me she needed to give me a medication -- a large IV dose of magnesium sulfate to prevent me from having a convulsions/seizures due to the rising blood pressure. As she pushed the medication into my IV, the medication felt like fire running through my veins and in my mouth, and it was at that point I started to lose my shit a little. Overall, I’m a pretty good patient. I don’t make waves, I usually understand what is going on and ask very few questions, have a decent threshold for pain and hide my fear. But this was all getting to be too much. At that point we hadn’t even established that anything was wrong with my blood work -- so far all I knew was that my blood pressure was a little elevated, in the 140/s/90’s and my amniotic fluid was a little low. Now suddenly I was being treated for full fledged pre-eclampsia and essentially being prepped for a c-section. Communication was challenging to say the least, and the horrible burning sensation of the medication was sending me into a panicked state ...the walls were closing in on me, and I had the overwhelming urge to start ripping the wires, IVs, and tubes off me and just run out the door.
It was at that point the obstetrician came in. Thankfully, what came next was in English I so fully understood.
“You have HELLP, we need to get the baby out now.”
Apparently, at that point, my liver function was compromised, and my platelets were about half of what they normally should be. The doctor then went on to explain that because my platelets were so low, they would not be able to do an epidural or spinal for the c-section because the needle puncture could cause excessive bleeding close to my spinal cord which could lead to paralysis. I needed to go under general anesthesia, and therefore I would not be awake when the baby was born.
I had never been under general anesthesia. And having surgery when I was at such high risk for bleeding also didn't thrill me.
At this point, Chris chimed in, because he knew how important it was for me to be with the baby immediately after birth, and I think he was looking for a silver lining in all of this..
“How soon after the surgery is over can Stephanie be with the baby? Will you bring him to her in recovery?”
As I laid there speechless, still trying to take in the news of the general anesthesia, the doctor replied…
“Stephanie will need to go directly to the intensive care unit after the baby is born for specialized treatment for her condition. She will need to be there at least 24 hours...possibly as long as three days.”
I still didn’t get it.
“Can I have the baby with me?” I asked.
“No, there is no way. We can not allow the baby inside the intensive care unit, he will go to the postpartum floor with your husband until you are released.” She replied.
“I can’t see the baby after he's born?!” I wasn’t even able to get the words out, it was more of a panicked, hoarse whisper.
Now, I know there are much worse things that could have been said or been happening at that point -- how lucky I was that it was me that needed the ICU and not the baby. I know in hindsight I was fortunate the baby was OK, and that I had excellent medical care and we were going to be well taken care of. But at that moment, hearing that news was the biggest blow I had experienced in my life. My heart ached for my son, who would be born into a world essentially without a mother. Without laying on my chest and feeling loved and cared for...without being able to hold him skin to skin, and nurse him like I had wanted to do for so long. I couldn’t give him the love I had been waiting nine months to give him after he was here.
I had, then, what I believe, to be my first panic attack. Looking back, it was a little dramatic, but this scene inside that tiny little suffocating room was surreal. A total nightmare I couldn't wake up from, and just kept getting worse.
I started to hyperventilate, clawing at Chris’s back as I hugged him and gasped, “I can’t do this...I can’t do this...I want to run...this can’t happen…” Chris did his best to comfort me, but I know he was scared too.
I will say at this point, there is a big difference between the medical demeanor of the Spanish nurses and doctors, and those in my experience as a nurse in the US. At least from what I saw inside that Emergency Room and ICU at the Teknon hospital. While in nursing school in the US, we are taught that nursing is both an art AND a science. Is equally important to know the pathophysiology and technical side of nursing, in addition to making sure we are in tune with a patient's social, spiritual, and emotional needs...in other words, be compassionate. At my lowest moment inside that holding room, as I clung to my husband terrified, I looked around and saw the room full of nurses and doctors just staring at me, stone faced. No one was offering me words of reassurance or putting their hand on my leg. There were no looks of concern, or sympathy. They simply stood there staring at me. It was all business inside that room, and it certainly didn’t help my mindset. Clearly they were excellent medical providers in terms of their skills -- very professional and precise -- but completely devoid of emotion or sympathy.
After a few minutes hugging Chris, my breathing slowed, and I knew there was no where to go but forward. Chris and I looked at each other in the eyes -- “It’s going to be OK. I won’t let anything happen to you” he told me. I knew there was no way he could promise this, but I felt the power of our bond at that moment, what we were experiencing together, and knew I had to be stronger than this. I took several deep breaths, and told the doctors I was ready when they were.
They took off the monitors from my belly, and had me walk to the operating suite, leading me to a cold changing room with lockers. A nurse came in, and told me to take off the rest of my clothes, and put on the gown, then led me into the operating room. A few minutes later, the anesthesiologist came in, who thankfully, was a HUGE reassuring force during this time. She was amazing. She spoke perfect English, and spoke in a soft, sweet voice making sure I understood everything that was happening and what to expect. She answered all of my questions, and did her best to put me at ease.
At that point I felt like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption right before he broke out of prison. I was in a terrible place, and I knew in order to get out, I had to crawl through a long, hard tunnel of shit. I knew I was about to get into that tunnel, and once I got in it, it wouldn't be very pleasant...but I also knew what was waiting for me on the other side. My beautiful baby boy.
The next 20 minutes were a blur, I sat on the side of the operating room table sort of numb and shaking, letting everyone do what they needed to do as they prepped for surgery. I signed a lot of papers, then they sent Chris in...he wouldn’t be able to be there for the birth, so he was coming in to give me a hug before he had to go back to the waiting area.
“I’m so scared” I told him.
“I know” he said. “It’s all going to be OK, I promise you.”
“Hold him non-stop, tell him how much we love him, tell him I’m coming soon. Please, promise me.”
“I promise, I won’t let him out of my sight”
The last thing I remember was them laying me down flat on the operating room table, and the anesthesiologist telling me I would feel them starting to prep my belly for the c-section, but not to worry, they wouldn’t start until I was completely out. Then she put an oxygen mask on my face, and told me to take a deep breath...I remember one breath only, and that was it.
I woke up feeling very calm and incredibly comfortable for the first time in weeks. I hadn't had any dreams while I was out, it was like I had just closed my eyes for a second. The operating room was dim, and I was perfectly tucked into bed. I’m not sure what I expected to feel like after surgery, I think I had seen too many episodes of Dr. 90210 with patients waking up confused, combative, or nauseated, but I felt actually pretty good. I understood immediately where I was, what had just happened, and had no sickness or pain. The anesthesiologist and obstetrician were there, telling me everything went fine, the baby was perfectly healthy, 2.7 kg just like they thought (6lbs even) with apgars of 9 and 10. The baby was born at 5:51pm. Then, soon after, Chris came in.
I still cry when I think about this part.
Chris told me he pleaded with the nurses and doctors to allow me be with the baby for even just a few minutes before they took me to the ICU, and after much pushing and prodding (and a call to the manager) they agreed. Just then, they brought in my baby boy, and placed him on my bare chest just like I had so desperately wanted.
It was the most beautiful and yet painful moment of my life. Meeting this precious little person...sharing those moments with him, knowing we would have to soon say goodbye and be separated. I rubbed his back, and stroked his perfect little arms and fingers, staring at his incredible little face...he latched right on and nursed for the first time. I whispered to him that I loved him, and it was all going to be OK. Chris put his arms around both of us with a smile and tears in his eyes, taking pictures and capturing this moment...it was the perfect ray of sunshine during that dark stormy time, and I will be forever grateful to my husband for making that moment happen for us.
After about 20 minutes, but what seemed like only seconds, they came in to take the baby, and I was wheeled to the ICU. Chris gave me a hug and kiss, and went with the baby up to the postpartum floor for the night, and said he would come down during visiting hours the next morning. At that point it was close to 8pm. I was exhausted, and I just wanted to get some sleep, knowing that the sooner the next day came, the sooner I would be with my baby.
Just then, I looked up and saw Dr. O standing next to my bed. My eyes filled with tears immediately.
“Thank you” I managed to whisper. "You saved...us."
Dr. O's eyes also filled tears. “I was up in Costa Brava with my family on holiday, but had to come down to see how you are doing. I’m so sorry this was missed earlier, but I’m so relieved you and the baby are OK now. They are going to take good care of you here, and once you are stable, you will be with your baby.”
There just aren’t any words for what it meant to me to see Dr. O there at that moment. I have never had a medical provider go so above and beyond.
The ICU doctor on that night also came to my bedside, and was introduced to me by Dr. O. He was incredibly kind, and explained that I would stay overnight of course, but there was a good chance I would be able to go up to postpartum to be with the baby and Chris the following morning. I breathed a sigh of relief, and tried my best to relax and get some sleep.
A few hours later, a nurse appeared, so I took this opportunity to ask if I could have a breast pump so that I could pump every few hours and get my milk supply going -- they were very supportive of this request, and immediately one of the nursery nurses from the postpartum floor came down with a hand pump, and showed me how to use it. Ultimately, they ended up dumping all the milk down the drain because of all the IV medications I was on at that point, they felt it wasn’t safe for the baby. I continued to pump every three hours, the only thing I could actively do for my baby at that point, and the only thing that gave me the feeling of control and empowerment during a time when I felt completely helpless.
I was a mess of tubes, monitors, and wires. I had four IVs going -- two going into each hand and arm, monitors on my chest and finger, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, a wound drain coming out of my abdomen, and a urine catheter. I was on a continuous magnesium drip, along with additional anti-hypertensive medication and pain medication. The pain from the incision was starting to hit me, and I realized, looking around the lonely white walled room in the middle of that long night -- I was officially in that tunnel of shit.
I drifted in and out of sleep, until I could tell morning was coming close...the activity in the hallway was picking up.
The overnight doctor came in to update me on what was happening.
“How’s my baby?” I asked him (not sure why I asked him that).
“I have no idea. But I can guess he’s doing a lot better than you are at this moment.” the doctor replied.
He went on the say that, though it ultimately wasn’t up to him, he thought I would probably be sent up to postpartum around 11am, but they were still waiting for some recent blood work of mine to see what my status was before any decisions could be made. Great news!
At that point, I looked out and saw Chris at the nurses station talking to two different doctors. A few minutes later, he came in the room -- I was beyond ecstatic to see him. I didn’t realize until then, visiting times were only for 15 minutes, three times per day. I bombarded him with questions:
“Tell me everything...how is he? Is he OK? Did you call our parents? Does anyone know he is here? Did you talk to the Doctor? Did he say when I can get out of here? It is like the twilight zone down here...no one talks to you, just come in and out to give medication and check the monitors…”
Chris broke into a grin and began talking about our baby boy.
“He’s amazing. I held him all night. He’s perfect...let me show you pictures….”
He whipped out his phone to show me, and suddenly, I got a huge lump in my throat. As much as I wanted to see the baby, it was almost too painful to look at the pictures knowing he was here, and I couldn’t be with him. I looked at a few, forced a smile, and then asked him to put it away.
“I’m sorry...this is really hard” I told him. Of course, he immediately understood and put the phone away.
We talked about the emails he had sent to our families, and who he was able to get on skype and on the phone...He told me everyone was thinking of us, thrilled our baby was here but concerned and wishing us well. He told me he was surprised I was so lucid.
The overnight doctor had told him that I would be out of the ICU in a few hours, but the new doctor coming on that morning quickly vetoed that, saying he had no right to tell us that, and there was no way I was going anywhere unless he felt it was appropriate.
My heart sunk.
We spent the last few minutes just holding hands, reassuring each other. The worst is over. We talked about days from now, weeks from now, months from now...when that moment waiting together in ICU would be a distant memory...when I would be able to hold and kiss my baby whenever I wanted, realizing how short that time in the ICU really was, and how insignificant it will soon seem.
Most importantly, we talked about his name. We had two names in mind: Teddy and Jordi. We loved the name Teddy, but Jordi was a classic Catalan name, and one that was easily pronounced in English and not too “weird” according to American name standards. We wanted to wait to see him to decide, and at that moment, we both agreed -- it was important to us that he have a part of his birth place with him forever. He was born in Catalunya, and we wanted to honor that and remember that. Plus, with his little golden tan and head full of long dark hair, he just looked like a Jordi.
“Jordi it is” we agreed.
Chris had to leave to go back up to be with Jordi, and I was once again left alone in the room. I laid there, staring out at the nurses station. Later, Chris and I would laugh about this...I literally spent the ENTIRE day starting at the poor nurses in the nurses station. I was fixated on the fact that if they saw me there, they would remember that I needed to get up to postpartum and discharge me. In reality, I was probably just annoying the crap out of them, staring at them all day like a psychopath.
Around 10am, the new doctor finally came in during his rounds. I decided if I was really smiley, friendly, and energetic he would see that I’m recovering well and decide I’m ready to be discharged to postpartum. Completely and utterly delusional at that point, but willing to try anything.
“Good Morning Doctor!” I practically shouted. I flashed a grin so big I may have pulled a neck muscle.
“Good morning. How are we feeling?”
“Good. Great. Much, much better (psychotic smiling). Ready to be with my baby, that’s for sure (hopeful smile with a hint of desperation).”
“Miss Williams, your condition remains very serious. You have toxemia, which is not to be taken lightly. At this point your platelet count is only 50,000...we want it to be, at the very minimum, double that to feel comfortable that you are out of danger, and over 150,000 to be considered normal. Your blood pressure continues to be high, and we need to see that it is going down into normal levels without medication. You will need to be on this magnesium drip for a minimum of 24 hours, and then you may potentially need to be treated with corticosteroids.”
I heard him, enough to remember what he said, but honestly -- I don’t think I heard him. All I heard was that I couldn’t be with my baby. In hindsight I fully appreciate how seriously they took my condition, and how thorough they were making sure I was treated appropriately, and medically stable before letting me out of the ICU. Today, I completely understand, and actually appreciate, the strict mentality of the doctor on that day. At that moment, however, I was still fixated on bonding with Jordi.
“Please, Doctor. Isn’t there any way I can get this IV drip while I’m in the postpartum unit? I promise you, if I had my baby on my chest, my medical condition would improve much faster, I can assure you that…”
“I’m sorry, we can’t do that. We need you to stabilize. That is our priority right now. You will stay here at least until 7pm tonight, and after that, we will reassess your status and go from there. Goodbye Mrs. Williams”. And just like that, he walked out the door, and two nurses walked in taking his place beside me.
I dissolved into tears. 7pm...that was 9 hours away. NINE hours. I covered my face in my hands and sobbed, as the two nurses just continued their duties and started stripping down my sheets leaving me completely nude and exposed as I cried.
Is this really happening? Are they really doing this while I’m crying right now?
Finally one of them spoke.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I just want to see my baby.” I said.
“Didn’t you see a picture?” she replied.
What?! Seriously?!
“Yeah. It’s not the same.” The sadness was fading into anger. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as they silently proceeded to finish a sponge bath, and change my sheets. Again, excellent, precise medical care, horrendous emotional support.
I get it. I get that I’m in the ICU, which isn’t the most touchy, feely place in any country...I also get that there might a be a cultural difference in terms of how we approach patients, but this was ridiculous. I just wanted out of there.
The day wore on. I decided if I couldn’t go anywhere until I was showing improvement, then I would do everything I could to get my body back on track. Mind over matter, it was time to believe and visualize the changes I hoped to make, and do what I could to get myself that much further down this tunnel. I bent my legs up and down, sat myself up as best as I could, and drank water and broth -- the only things they would let me eat or drink. I practiced mediation during my blood pressure checks. I continued my pumping every three hours, and of course, stared down the nurses station like it was my job. They actually came in at one point and asked if I wanted the door closed for “privacy”. Before I could say no, they shut the door and left. Oops.
Chris was down for his fifteen minutes of visitation at around 6pm when the nurse came in to explain I was going upstairs. I didn’t believe her. She was speaking Spanish, so I wasn’t sure I understood correctly.
“Wait, what?!”
“At 7 o’clock, you are going up to the postpartum floor. As soon as this IV is done, we will take you up.”
Chris jumped up, “This is great!!! I’m going up to get the room ready...we’ll see you soon!!!”
Suddenly, I was shaking with nerves.
They unhooked the monitors from my chest, took off the blood pressure cuff, and unhooked my IVs. I was transferred onto the new postpartum bed which would then take me to my final destination up on the mother/baby unit. They wheeled me out into elevator up to the postpartum floor.
Up on the postpartum floor, the atmosphere was happy and joyful. The staff were smiling, and the hallways and waiting areas were filled with family members holding balloons and gift bags, excitedly talking and laughing with each other. We continued down the hall, until we arrived at our door...I was so excited, relieved, and overwhelmed with emotion I honestly couldn’t even speak when the attendants asked me the baby’s name.
There he was.
The lights inside our little postpartum room were dim and peaceful, and there sat Chris beside our window, holding Jordi who was sleeping, swaddled in a blanket with a little blue Teknon hat on. Tears were streaming down my face, and all I could do was smile when both the transporter and the ICU nurse told me “felicidades”, before leaving us alone as a family.
“Take off his blanket and onesie” I told Chris. Quickly he stripped Jordi down so I could hold him skin to skin, and placed him on my chest, placing a blanket over us.
I snuggled him close and whispered to him, crying, “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
The three of us sat quietly together, letting the sheer relief wash over us as we finally got the chance to stare together in amazement at our new child.
Unfortunately, this time was cut short -- now that I was there to be with Jordi, Chris had to head back out to get Evan and Mia, who were now at Dario and Delphine’s house. Our friends had all been amazing, everyone we knew calling to let us know they were there to help in any way they could...even the neighborhood folks. They all pitched in, taking turns walking Molly and watching Evan and Mia during those first two days, and keeping them entertained during what I imagine to be a slightly scary, confusing time for our kids. Chris and I both agreed it was time for some normalcy for them. Chris left to pick up the kids and bring them home to sleep in their own beds, and planned to spend the following day taking Mia to the doctor’s office and spending time with them.
Of course it would have been ideal to be there with Chris, or better yet in our native country where we could have visitors and family surrounding us. It was hard at times when the nurses would ask, “are you alone?”, and hear the sounds of laughter and chaos in the rooms next to mine as I sat alone with Jordi. But honestly, I was just so thankful to be with Jordi, I didn't care about anything else. That night, with the help of the nurse, I was able to get up on my feet for the first time in over a day, and got the bed set up with the guard rails and pillows along side me so that Jordi could spend the night sleeping with me in bed. He was so tiny, after he finished nursing he curled up on my chest like a little puppy, and slept there for the rest of the night. Nothing compared to the feeling I had waking up that next morning to the sound of breakfast being delivered, sun streaming through my windows, and my beautiful, peaceful little boy fast asleep on my chest.
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| View from our hospital room |
As quickly as things started to deteriorate in the emergency room during the day prior, they started to improve there in the postpartum room that following week. The nurses were much nicer, and the place ran like a well oiled machine. The care was excellent, though still frustrating at times when I was unable to communicate or understand, especially when they would want to take the baby. There were definitely some "psycho mom" moments, when I was told they were taking him to be weighed, and an hour later he was still gone, leading to my repeated hounding of the nurses and nursery until they brought him back. I had issues, I was aware I had issues, but at that point I didn't care. I just wanted him with me at all times. Regardless, we made it through...we watched a lot of Gilmore Girls reruns in Spanish, ate a lot of REALLY bad hospital food, and took some epic naps.
Chris would drop the kids off at school, then come to be with me at the hospital until he had to pick them up again at 1pm. The pediatricians came in each day, thrilled with how well Jordi was doing -- his weight was holding steady, and even back up to birth weight by the time we were discharged.
Overall, my recovery was pretty quick. Although delivery of the baby is the cure for HELLP syndrome, my blood pressure remained high for a couple weeks, and so I was kept on anti-hypertensives until it came back down to normal, and had a few follow up appointments with some general medicine doctors in the weeks following the discharge. After two weeks, my liver and kidney function were completely back to normal, and my platelet count had risen back up to over 300,000. Like nothing had ever happened.
For a while I had a hard time with the “what if’s”...what if I hadn’t emailed Dr. O that day...what if this happened before I was full term...what if I had gone into labor without knowing my health was so bad…But those feelings have passed, and what I am left with now is a feeling of thankfulness for how it all turned out. It brought Chris and I closer, knowing we shared this experience that, although I have documented in painstaking detail here, no one will ever truly understand. Jordi is here, he is perfect and precious, and we are so incredibly fortunate to have him in our lives. The future is all that matters, and for the rest of this child’s life, I will be there. The past is the past, and all I care about is all the wonderful things that lie ahead of us as a family.
We make a good family of five.
The big kids have actually kind of shocked me with how much they love their baby brother. There is a lot of sweet talking, head kissing, and protective instincts going on with the new baby and his siblings...Mia is all over him, drawn to him immediately and constantly throughout the day. Evan was a little reserved about it at first, but recently he has become much more interactive with Jordi, touching him, talking to him, and showing him books and pictures.
Life with three...well, that’s another blog entry in itself. I will say, the jump to three hasn’t been as crazy as the jump to two was. This isn’t our first rodeo, so overall we are much more relaxed. Of course, there are plenty of “kill me now” moments when Jordi is crying, the kids are whining about when dinner is going to be ready, and the dog needs to be walked. Or when we realize Evan has a cut from the day before we forgot to tend to and we are out of bandaids, out of diapers, out of coffee filters, out of paper towels we had been using for coffee filters, and the kids have no clean pants (this was an actual day last week). Right now I'm living day to day, trying to get this one extra ball into our juggling act, but the nice part is, this time, we know that hard parts are only temporary, and eventually life starts to become predictable and easy again. For now? Just enjoying the morning snuggles with my little sack of sugar and doing my best to ignore the dust and dishes. This is what truly matters.
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