Our Journey Begins

I had at least 4 or 5 people warn me that magnesium is nasty stuff. Still, when they started a bolus of it in my IV at 6:00 in the evening on March 1st, I wasn’t sure what they meant. Part of me--prior to feeling the internal, infernal hot flash and achy listlessness the magnesium caused--was just grateful to be receiving it. Magnesium, given at first in a 30-minute bolus and then continued as a maintenance medication for 48 hours, not only slows labor progress and contractions but also provides neuroprotection for preterm babies. The monitors, the magnesium, the shots, the lab work, the inconvenience of the hospital stay were all strangely welcome things to me once I heard the baby’s heart beat and knew I hadn’t lost him with the newest round of bleeding that had started mid-WSU game that afternoon.

I got my first round of betamethasone steroid shots in my right hip around the time they started the magnesium. The nurse, sweet as she could be, gave me the shot directly over my hip joint instead of higher in the more muscular/fatty tissue. What resulted was a deep, throbbing, bruised ache all down my right leg (that lasted 2 ½ days) instead of a quick, temporary burning sensation. And then I started feeling the effects of the magnesium. Not my finest hour, and it got worse.

Magnesium is, in fact, nasty stuff. Very nasty stuff. My sister and Brian were there wrapped in coats half freezing while I had a fan blowing 18 inches away from my face with towels dipped in ice water draped on my head and neck. The towels felt lukewarm. I could feel my strength and coordination leaving me, and I was soon fitted with a bright yellow “fall risk” hospital bracelet. In the middle of all of this, a gal with impeccable timing came in from lab to draw my blood. She missed, fished around, and I about lost it. I mostly kindly (I think) asked her to stop and come back later. They handed me a bucket in case I puked.

When they came back in with a catheter and no local anesthesia, I had my doubts, but I trusted my nurse. I wouldn’t recommend having a catheter placed with nothing to numb...well...you know. The blasted catheter about did me in. I felt myself getting sleepy and feeling drunk. My speech was slurred and I only remember pieces of what I said (or was said to me). My nurse checked my blood pressure, which had tanked. She explained to Brian and me that I had likely gone into fight or flight mode and dropped my blood pressure as an autonomic response in preparation of fleeing or fighting. Whatever. I slipped into a sleepy la-la land. Brian and the nurse watched me and worked with me until I was allowed to close my eyes.

There was little sleep to be had while the magnesium was running because my nurses had to listen to my lungs and check my reflexes every hour while I was on the stuff. In between these hourly checks, when baby’s heart rate decelerated for too long or he wriggled away from my belly monitor, nurses were in to shift the monitor, change my position, give me a bolus of IV fluids, and/or put an oxygen mask on my face. Add this to the ache in my right leg and the stiff labor and delivery room bed, and it meant that sleep wasn’t a very practical thing to hope for. Still, I closed my eyes when I could. Brian stayed with me, encouraging me, helping me, and leaving only when my sister was there to take care of me so that he could see our girls. He spent his nights on a hard pseudo-love-seat, not sleeping either. His love, his calm, and his selflessness were an anchor for me.

No food or drinks and no sleep that first 48 hours meant I was pretty wrung out by the time the meds had run their course. I remember watching the clock hit 6:00 on Monday night and hoping they would finally feed me. It had been something like 56 hours since I had eaten or drank anything. I was given a cup of broth and some crackers, and my sister hit KFC so I could eat chicken strips and mashed faux-tatoes. It all tasted glorious.

The emotional toll of that 48 hours was noteworthy, too. Although I had some of the best nurses I could have hoped for, and I knew a broad network of people were praying for us, my fatigue and discomfort made it fairly easy for me to feel rather anxious and globally overwhelmed. I did at least keep sight of being grateful--grateful for God’s presence and for the help surrounding me and my baby boy. The nurses often apologized for waking me, poking me, shifting me. I always thanked them and told them not to apologize; I appreciated their attentiveness and care--especially in my non-showered, post-magnesium state. My gratitude seemed foreign to many of my nurses. Apparently, “thank you” is not the first thing out of many patients’ mouths.

Gratitude can come easily for me, but--as I have mentioned--fear can come easily for me, too. I had to make a conscious effort to remain praise-filled in the midst of the rising water. I sang to myself, I prayed, I looked up Bible verses on my phone, and Jesus found me each time my head dipped below the waves. He dried my tears. He promised He was there.

Tuesday morning, I was still having mild contractions, and baby’s heart rate was still decelerating at times. The debate at that point was whether to take the baby via c-section or to send me upstairs to a different unit for hospital bed rest, trying to buy a few days or weeks until baby’s arrival. When Dr. Feuille came in early, his verdict was that I should move upstairs. He believed that even though the risks of a full abruption and stillbirth may be slightly increased, since I would be monitored regularly upstairs, those risks seemed smaller than the risks associated with delivering a baby at 28 weeks. Even as I nodded, my heart sank, and I prayed. I didn’t like either of my options at that point, but the thought of going upstairs terrified me. I could feel changes in my body, and I had a general sense that something wasn’t right. Still, I tried to convince myself that the brutal 2 days I had just endured and the emotionality of the whole situation were making me a less-than-objective judge of the situation. After Dr. Feuille left, I sang to myself and prayed some more. Then, I got a text message from a friend with this verse:

“You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand there are pleasures forevermore.” --Psalm 16:11

Instead of finding encouragement in the verse, something about it made me panic a little. I felt even sicker about the decision to move me upstairs, even though the thought of delivering a 2-pound baby wasn’t particularly comforting. The whole “you make known to me the path of life” stuck with me, and I didn’t feel like a move upstairs was “the path of life” for this baby. I pressed in and prayed for peace, prayed for my doctors’ judgment, prayed for my baby boy. And all the while, I called Jesus’ name and fought back tears.

Finally IV and catheter free, I hobbled out of bed and went to the bathroom where I noticed a tiny amount of new bleeding. Not thinking much of it, I mentioned it to my nurse. When the high risk doctor came in a little later, she told me she was leaning toward delivering the baby. Her resident--one of my favorite people during my stay at the hospital--had meticulously gone over the data from my monitors, and it was her opinion that my condition wasn’t as stable as they had initially thought. When she learned of the bleeding, she shared the information with Dr. Feuille and he agreed with her recommendation. A surge of relief washed over me, followed by a pang of guilt and fear. I looked at Brian’s face. He looked a little shell-shocked. I felt even guiltier; I hated it that I couldn’t hang onto his baby longer, hated it that I felt so relieved when he obviously was put on edge by the news. And then my head started spinning.

There was a brief debate among my doctors and the NICU director about the hows and whens of delivery. The high risk doctor wanted to put me on another bolus of magnesium and deliver later that evening for maximum neurological benefit for the baby, but Dr. Feuille disagreed. He wanted to deliver the baby in the afternoon when the hospital was fully staffed rather than wait until evening. He consulted with the NICU director and determined the magnesium may make both baby and me lethargic, as well. The NICU director said he’d rather have a baby with some fight than a baby with a slightly better magnesium boost. He mentioned that the circumstances would be favorable for the baby since the baby had been stressed but wasn’t in active, chronic distress. Dr. Feuille made the final call, and by 9:00 a.m., I was told I’d be heading back for a c-section at noon.

For a short, quiet moment, Brian and I were the only ones in the room. He squeezed my hand. I cried a little but realized quickly that rising up from the chaos around me was an overwhelming sense of peace. God had it. He’s still got it.

Family and a few friends trickled in to give us hugs and to let us know they’d be there for the baby’s delivery. We told them the baby’s name was Joel, middle name to be determined. Some of them told me I had done well getting the baby to 28 weeks. For the most part, those words, though kind, made me stiffen. I have always been an A student, someone who wants big things in life done well and fully. When I did the math, Joel was cooked to 71.25%. That’s a C. My thoughts raced back and forth between feeling accomplished at the fact God had allowed me to carry him to 28 weeks with the benefit of the magnesium and steroids and feeling like a colossal failure. My mother-in-law hugged me and told me I had done everything I could and that God had it from here. I clung to her words as they wheeled me back to the operating room.

In the operating room, everything seemed surreal. I got my epidural and settled in as the doctors, nurses, and NICU staff filled the room. They offered to set up mirrors so I could see the delivery. I emphatically declined. For awhile, I just closed my eyes and hummed Hillsong’s “Oceans.” Then, at 1:23 p.m., our pint-sized miracle made his arrival. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and his shoulder, and the placenta was apparently shot. The decision to take him had been a wise one. I heard his tiny little cry, and I was overwhelmed with joy to know he was here and alive. I opened my eyes and watched Brian. As the NICU team calmly got the baby cleaned up and stabilized, I saw Brian’s strong poker face melt into the expression of a proud daddy. I asked Brian what the baby’s middle name was now that he couldn’t drag his feet deciding any longer. With a smile, he said, “Let’s go with William.”I sighed, shut my eyes, and cried. Joel William was here, and my part was over. A kind nurse helped me wipe the tears that had trickled down into my ears.

Someone showed me my tiny, fuzzy little guy with a ventilator tube already in place before they moved him to the NICU. More tears. More relief. And my mama heart breaking and glowing all at once.

Brian followed Joel while Dr. Feuille finished putting me back together. In addition to the run-of-the-mill c-section cuts and stitches, I apparently had extra scar tissue that had caused my bladder to be folded up on itself and attached toward the top of my uterus. Dr. Feuille fixed me up, stitched me up, and wished me well. His presence was so gentle, his faith evident throughout my care.

I was wheeled through the NICU on my way to recovery. The nurse lowered Joel’s bed so I could see him. I saw more blankets than baby, but I at least knew he was stable. The NICU staff already had a laminated sign with his name, time of birth, weight, length, and doctor’s name at the foot of his bed. I loved it that they were ready for him.

The first few days of my c-section recovery were hard, to say the least. I was fatigued, hurting, and emotionally all over the place. I slept when I could, and Brian wheeled me down to see my Joel off and on throughout the day. I wanted to be on my feet, wanted to stop hurting, wanted some space to breathe after being bombarded by case workers, nurses, doctors, and parent advocates, wanted the gut check to subside every time I walked through the doors of the NICU, wanted to look at my baby without feeling the urge to bawl.

God’s patience in the midst of my chaos has been amazing, though. His love has covered me like a balm from the beginning, and His response to my prayers and to the prayers of others has been very real. I told a friend of mine one of my first days home that I could feel in an almost tangible sense the support and prayers of the vast network of people who have stepped up to love on my family. Even in some of my most pain-filled, fear-filled, exhaustion-filled, heartache-filled moments, somehow I could always feel “Hallelujah” rise to the surface from the depths of my soul. I felt--and continue to feel--lifted up, wrapped up, carried. And there are really no words that can express how much that means. God is so good, and His presence is so real. If I have learned nothing else through this crazy season of my life, it is that.

Leaving the hospital Saturday night was hard, but not as hard as I feared it would be. After carrying that baby for 28 weeks, not knowing beyond blind faith if I would get so see a live, little face, sharing Joel’s care has been somewhat welcome, even if not what I would have chosen in a perfect world. Being home with two beautiful little girls who were ecstatic to see Mama home after a full week at the hospital made the transition a little easier, too.

In the two weeks since Joel’s birth, I continue to have moments of calm that resemble “normal” and moments in which I feel more like a puddle than a person. God’s strength is found in my weakest moments, though, and He has yet to fail me. He keeps me upright, keeps me going, and ultimately takes me just as I am.

Today at my incision check, I was expecting to be released to do more, lift heavier items, go about life at a more normal rate. Instead, I was gently told I have likely been trying to do too much too soon. My blood pressure is borderline, I have had some issues with swelling (especially at night), and a few other issues. I was disappointed, to say the least. The nurse reminded me that when recovering from a c-section, usually the mama has a baby that sets the tempo for recovery. In my case, with Joel in the NICU, I have been trying (without thinking much about it) to make up for “lost” time I spent on bed rest. I’ve been hurrying to jump back into the lives of my girls, spending a few hours a day at the hospital, attempting to tackle more at home to grant a break to my family and friends who have been stepping up for months to drive me, take care of my kids, clean for me, and pumping 8 times a day without fail so that I can try to fatten up my Joel, among other things.

Once again, I am having to readjust my thinking. I still need to heal--in more ways than one--and I need to be careful even once healing comes to not forget the lessons about reliance that God has taught me in my vulnerability. Even though this time in my life has been hard in many ways, it has blessed me in many more ways. When this is all behind me, I hope I am never so strong that I think I can rely on my own strength. I hope I am never so content that I see happiness independently from the joy God has placed in my life. I hope I am never so wrapped up in the forward march of life that I forget--even for a moment--the depths of God’s faithfulness.

And our journey is only beginning.