Surfacing (written 4/1)

WARNING: I wrote this post last week, and delayed publishing because I was concerned that it might be too upsetting. Anyone not in the mood for a bit of a cry should please feel free to skip this one. I decided to go ahead and post it because, for better for worse, it is part of our journey. As always, thank you for reading and helping us along our path toward healing.

I don't know what it is about this 8 month marker, but all sorts of memories are surfacing. Last night, in the middle of the night, I lay awake in bed and remembered the beginning of the end. After three calm weeks in bed, I woke up one morning with a terrible pressure in my bowels. I banished Bruno from the room again and again as I used the bedside commode, all the while thinking I had just eaten too much kale the night before. No one told me that early labor feels like the need to move your bowels.

I kept asking for the doctor (GD doctor was on-call that day), complaining of an upset stomach; I was told he was in surgery and couldn't get to me right then. All day I felt crampy and in pain and it wasn't until I started vomiting while using the commode that GD doctor finally called in some instructions. They put the contraction monitor on me, and low and behold, my labor had begun again.

The doctor finally arrived, did a digital exam without making sure I was cleaned up (remember, this all ended with an infection in my uterus and this is one of the moments I play over and over again and wonder if that is how the infection got there. Everyone says no; infections come from the bacteria already present in your system, but the pull to name something specific you can blame is so strong). He started me on a magnesium drip and then went home for the night. I didn't see him again until the morning, hours after Pedro's water had broken.

Let me say in no uncertain terms that I basically hate this man and probably always will. It may be unwarranted, he may be a fine doctor who was taking care of his ability to help all his patients by ensuring he had enough sleep, but in my particular case he left me laboring and alone in my hour of need, and he seems like as good a candidate as any to be the mental recipient of much of my impotent rage.

On the other end of the scale, let me describe the angelic nurse who sat by my bedside and helped me through the intense beginning of the magnesium drip. This drip starts with an enormous dose to get the levels up to speed, and then tapers off to something more manageable. The initial dose is a shock to the system, and feels like instantly getting a terribly rotten flu. This woman sat by my bedside through the entire first dosing, holding my hand, talking me through it, letting me know each step of the way what I could expect to feel, making me feel utterly taken care off. At the end of our whole ordeal, this same nurse offered to let Bruno and I stay in her country home in Oregon and just take a rest together. While we didn't take her up on it, the memory of that offer and her kindness and care that night stay with me as something to be grateful for even now.

The magnesium drip didn't stop my contractions, and I spent the night grasping the metal guard rail of my bed, trying to breathe away the pain and the fear. Bruno was tormented on his windowseat bed, blanched and curled up, unable to do anything to stop any of it. GD doctor, home in his bed, was paged, and prescribed Indocine, another med to stop the contractions, but with the possible side effect of brain bleeds. It was a horrible option, but we had no choice: it was that, or it would all be over by the end of the night.

I took the meds, and the contractions stopped; we thought, in our innocence, that maybe things could be alright. Catching a wave of temporary relief, we both fell asleep. I awoke to the worst feeling I have ever felt in my life: water rushing out of me, along with all my hopes for a happy ending. Pedro's water had broken.

I choked out Bruno's name, and he got the nurse; I will never forget the mix of disappointment, resignation and deep sorrow in her voice as she confirmed that the fluid was amniotic fluid. The next morning, the doctor finally showed his face, and had nothing at all to add as we started the finally leg of our terrible journey.