I only make miracle babies. At least, that is what I tell my children.
On April 8, 2019, I woke up at 5AM with my water breaking, in a way that left me wide eyed and looking for a towel. I looked over and saw my husband sleeping, and instead of waking him up, I called my mom.
I understand that the reasonable thing after your water breaks would be to tell your husband first, but context is key. The truth is I had already been to the hospital THREE times in the last few weeks, and every time I was convinced I was going into labor. In fact, I had just been there two days before because I thought that my water broke, only to be sent home many hours later.
The call to my mom was highly logical considering the time of day and my state of mind. I knew that my parents had pH tests that they used to measure the chemical levels in their pool. I needed one of those tests the same way I needed a pregnancy test 9 months before. This pH level test that was meant for my parents swimming pool was going to tell me (in a bright shade of pink) whether I peed my pants in the middle of the night or whether I was about to meet my son. I refused to go back to the hospital without definitive proof that I was indeed going into labor.
While it was still dark outside, I drove to my parents house, who unlocked the door in their pjs. I checked the test, and the bright pink square, that measured 1/8″ of in inch on a paper strip, told me what I needed to know: it was time to wake up my husband.
The nurses in the hospital greeted me like an old friend. However, the initial exams were very discouraging and showed that my water did NOT break. Thankfully, the nurse said that my story of how my water broke was so good that she promised they would do more “extensive” testing before sending me home. While I waited, I decided that if I was sent home from the hospital again, My Pride and I would just have this baby at home. However, it didn’t take long to find out that pH level tests work, and it was time to get a proper room. This sweet validation showed itself through sympathetic smiles to the other women we passed along the way who also wanted a room.
I immediately got the epidural, because otherwise I would be in more pain.
The nurse came back after an hour or so to check on me. I said that it seemed like labor had stopped. She checked everything out and said that actually it was almost time to push. I responded by saying that was what I meant to say, and I was glad we were on the same page about how things were progressing. Then I thanked God (again) for epidurals.
This next part is still hard for me to talk about. I find myself shaking and taking lots of deep breaths as I try to formulate the words. The truth is I don’t think there are any words that I can write or say that will articulate the depth of emotion from the following moments.
Matt and my mom were in the hospital room when it was time to meet our son. The original plan was for my mom to leave during the actual delivery, but in a last minute audible, we invited my mom to stay in the room. With my mom on my right and my Matt on my left, I began to push.
Either the epidural stopped working as well or the pain was that much stronger, but everything became more painful. I had been pushing for a few minutes when I looked up and saw the faces on the nurses begin to harden. Their joyful smiles turned to poker faces, and immediately I wondered what cards they weren’t showing. My son’s monitor began to beep and the phrase, “he’s losing oxygen, we need to move quickly,” sliced through the chaos and splashed all over me.
The nurse put oxygen up to my nose, and I watched the poker faces crack as concerned eyes looked everywhere but at me. At the same time, the people around me pleaded with me to push as hard as I could again and again and again. Right as I was convinced that I was about to be carted off for an emergency C-section, a little baby showed up and was lifted in front of me.
Instead of the pure and holy snuggles I received with my daughter, I watched in love and horror as a blue lifeless baby was held right above me for only a moment before he was swiftly taken to the other side of the room. It’s a moment that I’m sure was loud with many people speaking at once, and I am sure it lasted only a second. It was also a moment that for me, when I visit back to it, lasted lifetimes and is relived in suffocating silence.
My mother grabbed me tight, and we wept quietly, while I watched my baby on the other side of the room, with his sweet father standing over him, holding him as much as he was allowed. In the movements of the room, I overheard nurses calling the NICU to come quickly, I watched as one nurse moved to my other side and stayed to comfort me. The room seemed to double with nurses in an instant, and the main one in charge of my son listened tensely through his blue chest for a heartbeat.
In the movies, this would be the moment where the room gets quiet, everything gets still, and someone shouts with victory, “THERE IS A HEARTBEAT!”
In reality, the nurse confidently stated the fact through rushing footsteps and various sounds of the room. She looked to my husband and gave him instructions for bringing my son back to life…
Have you ever seen the cartoon 101 Dalmatians? Remember the part where the little baby puppy is born and seems that he won’t survive? The father rubbed the little puppy and tried to bring him back to life. If you’ve seen the movie, you remember that it worked.
That was my husband in the room with our son. The nurse said to flick our son’s feet as hard as he could. My husband, without hesitation, followed her instructions over and over and waited for the next command. The nurse was rubbing my baby’s chest, doing everything she could to stimulate him and get him to breathe.
My son’s existence flashed before my eyes. I thought back to the pregnancy test, the excitement! I thought back to the 14-weeks-mark, when I began to bleed and miscarriage seemed likely, only to find out at the hospital that my baby boy was okay. He was healthy, real…growing the way I wanted him to. I thought back to the amount of times I threw up, the various ways that I was sick, always thinking that it was okay because this pain was worth it. It was worth it for the sake of my child. I angrily asked God why He would bring us this far to have it all end like this.
The harsh blue turned to a soft pink as my son inhaled his first breath over a minute after he was born.
At that very moment, the NICU team rushed in, like the knights in shining armor they are, only to be turned away by many smiling nurses who said that this child was no longer in need of their generous services.
For the first time ever, and with the new knowledge that it would not be the last, my son Elliott was placed in my arms by the father who helped bring him back to life. The tears for this child started the second he was born and continued for many many hours after.
I looked at the midwife who delivered him and asked if she thought he would survive. “Was the worst part over? Was the breathing permanent, or would it stop again? Was it okay to get my hopes up about his chances of survival?”
She said our Elliott was healthy, and there was no longer anything to worry about. So from that moment on, I have never worried about my son. (Obviously anyone who is a mom, or knows a mom, knows that last sentence was a joke)
His breathing was a struggle for the first hour. A nurse from the NICU came in with orders to take Elliott and admit him into the NICU wing. Instead of taking him away, she got permission to let us try skin-to-skin contact for one hour. If his oxygen levels improved, then he would be allowed to stay with me. For one hour, this compassionate nurse, stood within inches of me and my child, monitoring his levels while I poured every ounce of love I had into my innocent Elliott. Like magic, his oxygen improved and the nurses left.
Alone for the first time, and in grateful silence, the three of us breathed deeply and rested.
Blemories 