After the worst day of our life came the waiting game. I was immediately started on IV antibiotics, was in bed for 23+ hours a day, and although it wasn't ordered, I decided that the best chance of keeping some amniotic fluid in (babies make more everyday) would be to put the head of the bed down and use gravity (a position called trendelenburg). So I did. Some of the nurses applauded me for doing so, some weren't so sure it would help, but if that is all I could do to possibly help this situation, I was doing it 100% of the time. I barely moved throughout the day. Trent had to work two more days after he returned to work at the doctors insistance, but he stayed every night on this ridiculous excuse for a chair/bed. The first night, he stayed in my bed with me. Neither of us wanted to be alone.
Our family was around most of the time. Emmi and Alicia were home from school and would hang out throughout the days. Bubba came when he could. Vickie Spangler brought everything under the sun that could be eaten. My mom insisted on coming almost daily even though I ignored her. When the deepest of the depression set in, I remember prohibiting guests all together. Mom asked if that included her, and I said no, I didn't have any problem ignoring her...which is kind of a backhanded way of saying I am comfortable enough with her to just not speak. Dad came before or after his cases... No one ever really knew what to say. I kind of zoned out like a zombie, until I would see Trent and his puffy bloodshot eyes, and then the emotion would get the better of me. I knew I needed to stay calm if we had any chance whatsoever of keeping this baby in.
They would do doppler tones on Gabriel three times a day. At 22 weeks, the baby's heartbeat can be challenging to find, so when it was doppler time, it was stressful. Some nurses didn't know where he usually was (breech) and where to find the heartbeat, so it would take them longer, all the while making us wonder if this was going to be the time that his heartbeat was gone...it was torture. But then we would hear him and he would be in the 140-160 range, and the past six hours in bed were worth it. Sometimes if they left the doppler in the room, I would sneak it and find his heartbeat between assessments, just to hear it one more time. Just one more hour. One more day. One more week. One more month. Whatever we could get.
A side note here....everytime they did the doppler on the baby, they would find my heartbeat first....apparently I have some pretty strong superficial vessels. My heartrate is usually around 70. One of the nurses commented that the ultrasound where the OB originally diagnosed PPROM showed Gabriel only had a HR of 73....but they only turned on the sound and only for two seconds....Could it be that they picked up my heart rate instead of his, but took it as his because that is what they expected to see?
We made it through 7 days, which actually is a miracle in itself, beating the odds by more than 90% . The days seemed like years, but I knew that this was all I could do, and I gave it to God. One week after it all began, we had another ultrasound, praying that maybe I had resealed or accumulated more fluid (although I knew in my heart that I was still leaking when I would get up and shower). To our dismay, the tech told us that no more fluid was there than last time. He did have some in his belly (signifying there had been some at one point), which was good. He looked perfect otherwise, and she printed us one of the pictures. It was depressing at the time, looking a baby we would surely never get to hold, or teach, or feed. But it was something to hold on to.
After we made it 7 days (now 23 weeks 3 days), the doctors began to consider what we would do if he stayed in until 24 weeks. The OB asked what I would want done at that time....a c-section would be classical (vertical) and the resucitation for the baby would include intubation, central line placement, etc etc. I said I wanted everything done and signed the consents that day. I made it to 23 weeks 5 days and got steroid shots. Each day was like an eternity in a hell I couldn't escape, but each day made it more likely that Gabriel would at least survive his delivery.
On that Friday, a different neonatologist came to visit us. It was early and we were still sleepy, but we woke right up because the fact that he was visiting us meant that he would be in our lives...to take care of our baby. He was such an upbeat guy, like a mix of santa claus and a lovable cartoon character, but when he spoke, years of education, knowledge and practice were obvious. He was clearly one of the best. That first meeting, he wanted to be very honest with us. Babies born at 24 weeks only had 47% survival rate. Of those that did survive around 80% had severe neurological deficits, and most needed to be intubated and given surfactant. Very scary numbers. Now we were looking at the possibility of having a special needs child if he even made it past delivery. Then, before he left, Dr. Edwards told us that our baby wasn't a statistic, and to always remember that we are already great parents. That is the first time I realized, we really were already parents...it was just in a different way than most people think of "parenting". We were doing it, and IT WAS HARD.
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