“I’m just going to retake your labs” the nurse kindly told me.
As a nurse myself, I immediately asked why.
“Oh, just some of the values seemed off.”
What values I wanted to know.
“Your hemoglobin, your white blood cell count, your platelets.”
Oh.
We waited for the labs to come back. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t google everything under the sun, but I also knew that almost anything goes with pregnancy, so I think we did a good job of not jumping to any wild conclusions. Then the labs came back and with them, came anesthesiologists, my obstetrician, and more nurses. As they filtered in and out of my room, I watched the birth plan the birthing center so proudly “designed” evaporate into thin air. I had never been a huge proponent of birth plans, perhaps this was why.
When I retell the story, I’m always amused with how the anesthesiologist asked me in the most straightforward, serious tone possible, “have you been experiencing any symptoms?”
Allow me to climb onto my soap box for one second here. “Have I been experiencing any symptoms?” Was this a rhetorical question? No, no they were serious. Well, let’s see, I’ve gained 40 POUNDS, I’m 39 WEEKS PREGNANT, I’ve NEVER been pregnant before, so I don’t know what pregnancy is supposed to feel like, so…yes, I suppose you could say I’m experiencing some symptoms.
Ah!! They clasped their hands. What symptoms, they wanted to know! Their excitement was rich with curiosity.
To this day, I wonder if they knew how ridiculous their line of questioning was. Granted, they obviously needed to know more information, I just think their approach was a bit off.
I walked them through my symptoms. I was out of breath all the time, I was tired. There was a mystery bug bite on my thigh that had been there for months. I had to pee all the time. Did I mention I was tired?
Nothing, aside from the bug bite, seemed alarming. After all, I was pregnant.
Okay, I will now descend from my soap box.
The teams conferred with each other. They ruled out HELLP, a rare type of preeclampsia. It could be viral. It could be nothing. But we all knew that wasn’t true. It was something. And that something quickly became an elephant in the room, sitting there, awkward and huge, totally out of place. I was supposed to be having a baby. My husband and I were finally going to be parents, but something was wildly wrong with me. The more pressing question though was how was I going to deliver this baby. At this point, an epidural was out of the question. When your platelets are low you run the risk of an epidural hematoma, which could cause devastating spinal cord damage. The problem was I didn’t just want an epidural, I needed one. An epidural not only works to block the pain, which I knew I would need (I had already come to terms that I was not trying to be a martyr); but by lessening the pain, you become more relaxed, which allows the baby to exit the birth canal with a bit more ease. It didn’t help that baby boy was pushing ten pounds and I was barely dilated.
The teams conferred some more. I’ll never forget the anesthesiologist who came into the room next. She had long, dark fake eyelashes adorning her expertly applied eyeliner. I’m always in awe of health care professionals who wake up in the morning and find the time to beautify themselves. I’m a messy hair bun, throw on mascara at the stoplight kind of nurse, so it always amazes me when women - especially those in the healthcare industry - take the time to properly get ready. Hollywood glamour aside, she was so reassuring as she walked Bren and I through the plan. Progressing with an induction without an epidural would most likely result in an emergency c-section. They (along with myself) had very little confidence that this ginormous baby would come out on his own. In an attempt to prevent an emergency c-section, they decided it would be best to go straight to a c-section. This plan would optimize my chance of a healthy delivery and mitigate risk to our baby. Unfortunately, the c-section would be performed while I was under general anesthesia. Which meant I would be intubated. Bren wouldn’t be allowed in the operating room. Neither of us would be there when our baby was born. I mean, I would physically be there, but I would be sedated. Our baby would be whisked away while I was stitched back up, held not by me, not by my husband, but by a stranger. A loving, kind nurse, but a stranger no less. But that is the next chapter in my story.
This chapter ends while Bren and I were waiting for the team to come back to roll me down to the operating room. We gave our parents an update. My obstetrician - the doctor who gave us a post-it note the day prior - came in to review some last minute details. Once intubated, our baby would be delivered within minutes. After I recovered, I would be meeting with an oncologist.
I remember looking her in the eyes, asking “why?”
I knew why, but I needed to hear it.
“They’re worried about leukemia.”
A minute later they wheeled me away.
*I’d like to point out that although I’ve shared my story hundreds of times, I’ve never written these words before. I didn’t journal after Cillian was born, I didn’t have time to. I barely talked to a therapist. Everything was difficult. I was on an emotional rollercoaster filled with anger, sadness and grief. I didn’t even know until a year ago that what I experienced was childbirth trauma. I had great difficulty in saying “when I had Cillian,” because I felt as though I never delivered him. He was delivered from me while I was unconscious. I’ve only recently accepted that despite these circumstances, my body still delivered him into this world. It brings tears to my eyes knowing that this is my birth story. I am so blessed, so lucky to have a perfectly healthy, beautiful son, but I will always grieve what was taken from us on what was supposed to be the most magical day of our lives.
