Before I start, I must write a disclaimer for this particular post. In every relationship I have ever had - daughter, sister, brother, friend, spouse, etc - I find that two people can experience the EXACT same thing (arguement, love, win, loss, etc) but have a completely different take on what happened. So this post will tell the story of May 17, 2011 from my perspective. Trent wants to write his in a later post, without reading mine first.
I was on call on Monday, May 16th, 2011. It was an easy day as call goes, and I was home by 4:30. I was at the point in the pregnancy that I was just beginning to show, but little things like work were starting to tire me out after about 12 hours. So when Trent got home and started dinner, I got into the bath, my guilty pleasure. After a good soak and dinner, Trent and I were ready for bed...but all throughout dinner I had a "leaky" feeling. I wrote it off as just remnants from the bath and went to bed, but I did mention it to Trent. We decided that since I had the next day off anyway, I should go ahead and call in the morning and go into the OBGYN to have it checked out.....just in case.
So I called as soon as the office opened and explained the "leaky feeling". The questions in return were on the lines of, "was there a gush?" "how much fluid?" "any blood" "are you still feeling the baby kick?" That last question stopped me in my tracks. Freak out #1. As my first pregnancy I wasn't totally sure I had felt him kick, more like tumbling. The movemet had never been regular yet, so I didn't know the answer. There hadn't been any blood or any more leakage. The nurse on the phone thought I should come in just in case...right away. Those two phrases don't go together. You either come in right away OR just in case.. Freak out #2. After I hung up the phone, I went to the bathroom. Now there was blood. Freak out #3.
On my way to the office, I called my dad. Up until I heard his voice, I didn't really think or admit that something might be wrong. As soon as he answered the phone, it was like all of my worries about what might be bubbled to the surface and I had a mild breakdown. Between sobs, I explained everything and he said he and mom would be on the way. But by that moment, I had pulled it together and my practical side came back out...it was probably nothing, just wait until I see someone and I will let you guys know after that. So I went right in when I got to the office, and this is the point where the details begin to blur. I saw a NP first. She did the dreaded sterile speculum exam, but by this point there was too much blood for the "fern test" or the nitrazine strips (which test for amniotic fluid, meaning rupture of amniotic sac). These tests would be futile in the presence of blood, so she left the room not wanting to say much. A minute later, my OB came in and said she was admitting me and to go right over to triage, where I would have an ultrasound and get some fluids.
There is a walkway from the dr office to labor and delivery, where I was to be admitted (not until later did I understand how depressing it could be amongst and hear babies being born). I walked to the desk feeling almost like I was walking the plank, where I met Lynn...a little spark of a woman that "guarded" labor and delivery and the NICU. No one got in without Lynn's ok. Meanwhile I called my dad to come. Trent had gone to work, so that dreaded phone call was next. I didn't give too many details, because I didn't know any. I just told him, "I think you should come". He called his parents, they were on their way. While I sat in the triage room before anyone got there, I just kept thinking, "Everything was perfect. I did everything right. This can't be happening." The feeling of hope and excitement that we had just two weeks before at the ultrasound were no where to be found. I was 22 weeks, 2 days pregnant.
In a blur of time later, everyone had assembled. Trent, Mom, Dad, Ma, Pops, Bubba and I were all in a triage room about 10x10 waiting for the ultrasound tech to come and look for any signs of fluid or amniotic sac rupture. It was probably about 30 minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. I know I was shaking and Trent was trying to be strong but I saw the worry on his face. My mom just kept holding my hand and trying to reassure me. I'm sure my dad was going over the medical possibilities in his head, and trying to not let emotions get the best of him. All at once, the ultrasound tech, the nurse and my doctor entered the room. Im not sure how much everyone else knows, but I know that when a doctor comes with the ultrasound tech, she is not expecting good news.
As the cold goop was on my belly and as the probe was placed on my stomach, Trent held my hand and I watched the face of the doctor. She didn't take longer than 5 seconds to look at the screen and announce, "You're ruptured". Preterm Premature Rupture of Membranes. 2% of pregnancies are affected. No known cause for me. 80% of people deliver within 48 hours. The rest within one week. 60% will develop an infection that causes labor. Stats rolling around everywhere. The room fell silent until it was again filled with sounds of tears and sobs from each person in the room. I put a pillow over my head to block out this feeling, to cry for my baby, for my husband, for our family. As soon as I could bear it, I took the pillow away to see the absolute heartbreak and devestation I felt mirrored in the face of my husband. And my parents. And my brother. And Trent's parents. And the doctor (who is also pregnant). Before the ultrasound was taken away, they measured a heartbeat. While the doppler they had done when I got the the office that morning was 156, the heartbeat they found briefly (only for a second or two) was now only 73. The doctor explained that the baby was probably compressing the cord due to lack of fluid and that 73 bpm is too slow for a baby, and he had probably already had some ischemia (lack of oxygen) to his developing brain. She explained that they would put me in a different room (referred to as the "back hallway") until his heartbeat slowly diminished to nothing.
Before we went to that new room, she had a neonatologist come in to talk to us and explain that babies under 24 weeks gestation do not make it. She explained that they wouldn't even attempt a ressuscitation because those babies do not do well and it is too hard on their little bodies for the time that they are alive. She said that a heartbeat that low was even more bad news, since he was already compressing his umbilical cord. I could easily see how hard it was for her to tell us our baby wasn't going to live, but it was her job to be honest about the situation.
There are no words to explain how we all felt at this time. Hopeless, helpless, angry, sad, devestated. The only word that comes close is broken. People came and went, taking Trent out of the room and trying to console him. He knew we were losing our baby. We held hands and prayed together for strength and to find the right decision. Decision. The doctor had told us that we had a decision to make. We could wait it out until the baby's heart rate went down and eventually stopped on his own, or we could induce labor and deliver him before his heartbeat went away. I point blank asked my pregnant OB doctor what she would do in this situation, and she said, "I would not continue this pregnancy". Trent and I looked at each other and cried so much more and prayed, and in that moment, I think we both honestly knew that our baby wasn't going to make it.
After being transferred to the new room (which was big enough for at least five patients), I remember asking my dad, "Isn't inducing labor like trying to play God?" "Would it be giving up on the hope of a miracle?" "Should we just let God decide?" He listened to my very hard questions with agony in his eyes. He said that we would make the right decision and we didn't have to do anything right now. I pleaded to him, "How can I deliver a baby thats still alive knowing that it will kill him? How do I deliver a baby who is already dead?" How can this be happening? There were no answers.
An unspecified amount of time later, they brought the ultrasound lady back (this poor woman, she kept having to give us bad news) and the OB held the probe this time and said before she began, "He's probably already gone". She placed the probe on my belly and said, "well, not yet." I saw the little heart beating on the picture before they put the doppler on, which sounded quick and snappy. She measured and he was back to 150bpm. She said he must have moved off of his cord, but it was only a matter of time before he was back on it, especially with no real measurable fluid. Normal pregnancies have AFIs (amniotic fluid index) over 15. Mine was 1. She looked around at the people in the room, now including alicia and todd as well as everyone else. She said I should send home some of my "cast of characters". Fat chance.
Pastor Marty Ballard came a short while later, after having heard from Trent's parents what was going on. He listened as we explained our "decision" we had to make and that Gabriel most likely had suffered brain damage when his heart rate was so low before. I think he got the impression that we had given up, because he insisted that God performs miracles and we should leave it up to him. We prayed again, and never even considered our "options". This one was in God's hands, and that is where we were leaving it. Despite all the stats and odds that they had thrown at us. We couldn't take a life, we would wait it out.
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