Pearl
by Erin
Morrison-Fortunato
Copyright © 2010
She has always been slow to move,
languidly flipping and lazily splashing in her warm pool. Today, she’s given me a few quiet indications
of her presence, but nothing definitive.
Busy with my students, I push any worry into the back of my mind. Jeyna,
my perky and blindly enthusiastic student teacher, chirps away about her plans
for teaching Hamlet. I half
listen, smiling and throwing in an “uh-huh” or a “sure” at what I hope are
appropriate moments. This is, after all,
the third time we’ve reviewed her unit plan and, although I am in awe of her
endless energy, there are only so many times I can differentiate theme verses
motif for her.
As the bell to begin 4th
block rings, I feel a twitch, but I am distracted by the blinding light of the
overhead projector, currently shining directly into my eyes. I am almost sure that she’s there. Once class is in full swing, I’m so engaged in
the process of explaining John Proctor’s martyrdom that I can’t concentrate
fully on her. Once the students are
safely occupied in groups, many of them giggling over Giles Corey’s threat to
“fart on” his accusers, I am able to sit down at my desk for a moment. Quieting my mind, I wait, expectant. Nothing.
I will it. Nothing. The worry is beginning to surface.
***
Leafing through the “Hottest Beach
Bodies” issue of People magazine from 2003, I wonder if these stars still sport
their tone figures all these years later?
I certainly won’t be wearing a bikini anytime in the near future. Let’s be completely honest, I’m fat. Always have been and probably always will
be. But, everything on my body works in
the way it’s supposed to, so what’s the use in comparing myself to the
unattainable? Even before my first
pregnancy, in my early twenties, I was rockin’ the skirted swim dress. Okay, I looked like granny at the pool, but
my cottage cheese thighs were duly camouflaged.
***
August 15th, 2007 – Edward
Thomas Ciravola was due eight full days ago.
Eight full days! Perhaps eight full days seems like an infinitesimal
amount of time in the span of human existence, but when a miniature human being
is riding shotgun on your bladder, eight full days feels like a lifetime.
I was supposed to have gone into the
hospital to be induced on August 13th, but all those women who were
able to naturally go into labor – la dee frickin’ da – were filling the rooms
on the damn maternity floor. Instead, I
had to wait until morning.
After hours of “labor” (no
contractions worse than a mild menstrual cramp), the OB on duty decided it was
time to break my water. Unfortunately,
our birthing classes hadn’t warned that my uterus was going to be attacked with
a crochet hook. When the discomfort of
being covered in a warm and sticky bath of amniotic fluid was over, I was
looking forward to the speedy delivery of my precious baby boy. Unfortunately, Eddie was stubborn even before
birth. Instead of heading towards the
light, Eddie climbed the umbilical cord like a jock in gym class.
Meanwhile, my hubby leisurely
munched on trail mix and nectarines while I looked on enviously, having been
forbidden from eating during “labor.” I
was still pregnant and hadn’t had a bite to eat since 7:30 that morning. I would have killed for a Snickers, but,
instead, I continued my endless games of solitaire, rocking myself numb in the
“birthing suite’s” vinyl covered glider and dreaming that the spades were
transforming into chocolate kisses.
I was still endlessly rocking, playing
solitaire, and willing my son to make his grand entrance into the world at nine
p.m., twelve hours after my induction began.
Dr. Sena peeked her head in to check on my progress. “You’re far too comfortable,” she commented.
“Great,” I thought. “This kid is
staying in forever.” But, I was
wrong.
At 11:30 p.m., an alarming beeping
noise started ringing out from the machine monitoring my belly. We weren’t worried. The belt strapped tightly around my bulging
waist had probably slipped out of alignment.
A friendly nurse immediately arrived, a smile plastered across her
face. Reassuring. What wasn’t reassuring was when that smile
quickly flattened and her brow furrowed deeply.
“Get in bed,” she ordered.
As I hefted my enormous girth onto
the bed, I was growing anxious. Dr. Sena
rushed into the room, moving immediately to the beeping monitor. “Don’t worry…” she said. I immediately begin to relax. “We can have him out in five minutes. He’ll
be okay.” Never mind.
My body immediately began to
convulse with panic. And, of course,
with panic comes the urge to pee. Ten
months. Ten months he’s made his cozy
home inside of me: nauseating me, prodding my ribs, constricting my diaphragm, kicking
me awake in the middle of the night, amazing me. And, this is the conclusion of our journey
together? Me, strapped to a gurney,
being rushed towards the OR, quaking with fear and twisting my legs together in
the hope of stopping myself from pissing all over.
The nurse disentangled my fingers
from those of my husband, to whom I’ve been clinging for dear life. Apparently, it was incredibly important that
he don little paper booties over his shoes while the anesthesiologist jammed a
six-inch-long needle directly into my spine.
When the cutting actually began, I
was out of my mind with worry. Too bad I
hadn’t taken the time to notice that no one else in the room seemed
worried. It was a bit after midnight and
the OR radio was blaring the worst possible music to be born to: The Black Eyed
Peas “Don’t Phunk with my Heart” and Gwen Stefani’s “Hollaback Girl”. The nurses were giggling and chatting in the
background, and the atmosphere was laid back.
But, I was completely in my head, desperate to hear that first cry.
My husband had finally been allowed
into the room and was sitting by my head, attempting to hold one of my hands
that had been strapped down to the operating table.
“You’re going to feel some
pressure,” Dr. Sena informed me in her soothing Cajun accent. Understatement of the year. Dr. Sena pressed all of her weight directly
onto my sternum, apparently pushing baby Eddie off of the cord he’d been clinging
to for the past few weeks. Just when I
thought I would pass out from lack of oxygen, Dr. Sena called my hubby’s
attention, “You’re about to meet your baby.”
Bill stood up to see our son, comfortingly screaming, arrive into the
world.
As they whisked Eddie away to be
assessed and cleaned, Bill sat down next to me, looked lovingly into my eyes,
and revealed, “I just saw all sorts of your guts.”
Meanwhile, I had yet to see my
handsome boy. As Dr. Sena was sewing me
closed, she reassured me, “You have a healthy baby boy. And, your incision is very low. When it
heals, you will be able to wear a bikini.”
Seriously? This coming from a
woman who, at forty, weighs all of 120 pounds, has skin like the smoothest
caramel, and appears to have been a runner up in the Miss America pageant.
“Doc, I wasn’t wearing a bikini
before I was pregnant, and I’m definitely not going to be wearing one now.”
Called over to the bassinet, Bill
had just been handed a squirming bundle of blankets. He carried Eddie towards
me for my first glimpse at my son. There
he was: beautiful, perfect, dozing, and rooting like a champ. As my nose nuzzled into his downy soft skin,
I knew that I was a mother.
***
My mother pokes me to gain my
attention. While I’ve been lost in
thought, we’ve been summoned. Standing
is going to take a concerted effort on my part.
Turning my body to the right, I brace myself against the wooden arm of
the chair, lean my torso forward, and perform an extremely awkward mock push
up. As I perform this ungraceful
maneuver, I notice the lovely rolls of bloated ankle fat hanging over the top
of my Duck boots. I suppose Duck boots
are appropriate footwear, as I am certainly waddling with great aplomb. As Mom and I follow the nurse through the
maze of hallways towards the “pee-in-a-cup, blood pressure, and weight check”
room, I feel something. It’s the tiniest
of hellos, but it’s something.
“How you feeling?” Nurse Ramos asks
with a sincere smile.
“Decent, besides the constant
urination – I’d say I’m up four to five times a night fumbling around in the
dark looking for the toilet – and the cankles, of course. Oh, I’m also
strangely addicted to eating fresh strawberries. Unfortunately, it’s the end of
February, so they’re not entirely easy to find. And, I’m also suffering from
some horrendous heartburn. I’ve had a few bouts of gas which have left me
completely incapacitated, rolling around on my bed in agony for several hours
at a time. Other than that, fine. Yeah, fine,” I summarize.
“Alright, then. Your urine dip looks
good and your blood pressure is normal. Perhaps the weight is a bit on the high
side?” she questions, as if my chubbiness is something that has alluded my
attention all these years. For the love
of all that is holy, I have a mirror and a scale! I try not to use them too often, but I have
them.
“Well…If I’m being honest, I have
been indulging in a brownie sundae every day. But, the baby wants it. She loves
it,” I profess. I’m blaming the baby.
Okay, that’s not too horrible. She’ll
never know, right?
I’m pregnant. This is supposed to be the only time in my
life when I can eat whatever I want and not be judged for it. Jesus, for the first four months of this
pregnancy I threw up at least once a day.
Couldn’t eat anything but dry Cheerios (not even Honey Nut) and plain
mashed potatoes. Don’t I deserve to have
a little dessert without being chastised?
“No. I don’t think that is so wise.
Maybe you should cut down a bit. How about, instead of a whole brownie, you
have an eighth of a brownie?” suggests Nurse Ramos. While I would like to viciously slap the smile
off that judgmental little face of hers, I resist. Who the hell eats 1/8th of a
brownie? That’s not even a bite! Oh right, skinny bitches eat 1/8th
of a brownie. I will see her smile and raise
her two brownie sundaes when I get home today.
Who
makes these tiny paper medical gowns?
This “sheet” barely covers my lap and makes absolutely no progress in
covering my enormous behind. Maybe if I shift it to the left? Nope, right cheek totally exposed. Okay, maybe I’ll tuck it beneath my beach ball
of a belly to cover the bits and pieces.
But, what’s the use? As I learned during my first pregnancy, there
is absolutely no use in having any dignity when it comes to the lady
parts. Everyone and the nurse down the
hall is gonna have a looksee, so get over it, Liz.
“Want to go to Wendy’s after the
appointment to grab a salad? They have these delicious grilled chicken salads
with dried cranberries,” Mom questions.
I see she has quickly found her angle in on the weight issue. Get Liz to eat a salad, that’ll solve
everything.
“Sure, Mom. Wendy’s sounds great,” I
concede. Followed by a delectable syrup covered brownie sundae. Hooray!
Just as I plot my delicious scheme for
the evening, Dr. Trey enters. After my
somewhat traumatic birthing experience with Eddie, I left Dr. Sena’s corporate
practice for a smaller, more personal OBGYN.
The nail in the coffin of my treatment with Dr. Sena came when, during
my first appointment immediately after the positive test for this pregnancy,
she encouraged me to schedule a Cesarean.
She didn’t even want to discuss the possibility of me delivering this
baby vaginally. Well, excuse me for
wanting to avoid having another gaping wound cut into my abdomen, but I believe
babies used to be born without an operating room.
Dr. Trey is a full on Birkenstock-sporting,
“Don’t call me doctor, call me Stacey” saying, non-make up wearing,
sending-the-baby-good-vibes-through-the laying-on-of-hands hippie. It’s just her, two nurse practitioner
midwives, two nurses, an ultrasound tech, and a receptionist. She doesn’t seem quite as on top of things as
did Dr. Sena, but she remembers my name every time I come in for an
appointment.
“How are we all today?” she sings.
“Hi, Dr. Trey. I’m wondering…”
“Oh, no. Stacey.”
“Okay, Stacey. I’m wondering if we can
talk about VBAC today? I really don’t want to be strapped down to a table this
time around. I want to do it the old fashioned way.”
“So, you want to attempt a VBAC without
any epidural or anesthesia. Sounds like a wonderfully natural…”
“Oh, hell no, Doc! Drug me up. I’ll take
the epidural now if you’ve got one hanging around.”
“You’re so funny, Liz. Let’s have you
lie back and have a listen to your baby girl,” she says as she beckons me to scoot
forward.
Squeezing a giant dollop of jelly onto
the top of the Doppler wand, Dr. Trey simultaneously adjusts the volume on the
device. Being that I’m thirty weeks
along, I’ve been hearing baby’s heartbeat for eighteen weeks. This is nothing new to me, but it is Grammy’s
(my mom’s preferred moniker since Eddie’s birth) first time hearing the
heartbeat of her only granddaughter.
***
At eighteen weeks along, Bill and I met Janice,
the office ultrasound tech. She was a
bit brusk, but I was too excited about seeing our little one dancing on the
high def to care about her attitude. As
long as she does her job and shows me my babe, I don’t care if she’s
Stalin.
Uncovering my swollen belly, I wonder
what we’ll discover. If I could have
taken a pregnancy test that would have turned either blue or pink to
immediately relieve my curiosity, there’s no question that I would have done
so. But, since that doesn’t exist, I’d
been waiting anxiously for this day.
We’d been preparing Eddie for the
arrival of his sibling. Following the
advice of several parenting books, we bought him a doll. He immediately proceeded to play “crusher,”
using the doll’s solid plastic skull to whack piles of Matchbox cars. Many of the books suggested we bring him along
to the ultrasound. But, we figured that,
because he was just two at the time, Eddie wouldn’t appreciate the pictures,
which tend to look like poorly done spin art.
So, he stayed at home with Grammy, eating Goldfish crackers and watching
“Curious George”.
Billy was sitting on a stool next to me
in the darkened room. We attempted to
differentiate between a spleen and a liver or was it an arm and a liver? Who can tell?
All of it looks like an ink blot test.
“Do you want to know the gender?” Janice
asked in a bored tone.
I desperately wanted a daughter and, when
we were told that Eddie was a boy, I had had a mild panic attack. I am an only child, which means no
brothers. What the hell do I know about
raising a boy? The first time I opened
my newborn’s diaper to discover an erection, I nearly had a coronary. “My baby is a pervert!” I despaired. I ran to my bible, What to Expect the
First Year, and was thrilled to discover that my two-week-old was not, in
fact, a pervert, but perfectly normal.
Hey, we figured it out as we went along.
“YES!!!!!!” I reply, a little less than
bored.
“It’s a girl,” she informs us, still
bored.
Bill and I looked at each other, astonished.
I began to celebrate, but quickly
stopped myself. “Wait!” I startled even
myself. “How sure are you? ‘Cause I had a friend who was told she was having a
girl and decorated the nursery in pink and bought a whole bunch of frilly
little lacy outfits. Then, guess what? Baby girl is born with a penis.”
“I’m about 100% sure that your daughter
has a vagina,” Janice responds, still bored.
I had almost forgotten that there was
any other purpose to this ultrasound than determining gender, but Janice
continued covering my belly with warm jelly, swooping the wand around my
stomach and clicking pictures.
“Everything looks good,” Janice said. “Dr. Trey will contact you if she
sees anything of concern.”
When a week went by without a phone
call, my fears were allayed.
***
“Okay, loud and clear. A strong 140
beats per…” Dr. Trey stops in the middle of her thought and her smiley, happy
demeanor turns suddenly serious.
“Is something wrong…”
“Shhhh…” Dr. Trey demands sharply. “I
need to listen.” Even to my completely
untrained ear, I realize that something is wrong. Baby girl’s heart rate is dropping
significantly. I hold my breath and stay
as still as possible, hoping that I can will baby girl to wake up from her
obvious slumber and quiet Dr. Trey’s concerns.
She just needs to wake up and move around so that her heart rate will
return to normal, then all of this will be a silly memory and we can begin making
serious plans for a VBAC.
Removing the Doppler from my belly, Dr.
Trey has made a decision. “Okay, I’m a
little concerned about the baby’s heart rate. In-utero, the baby should have a
heart rate around 140 beats per minute. That is what I heard when I first
placed the Doppler. However, your baby seems to be having trouble maintaining
this rate. Her rate is dropping down to eighty-five. I’m going to go ahead and
send you to General for some further tests. It’s probably nothing. Ninety-five
percent of the time, we send someone over to the hospital just to be told that
we were worried over nothing…”
It’s right after she says the word
“worried” that I stop hearing. I’m
trying to listen, but I can’t hear. The
blood is pounding in my ears. My breath
quickens, and I can’t seem to swallow the giant lump in my throat. I attempt to calm myself by repeating
“ninety-five percent of the time it’s nothing”, but it doesn’t seem to be
working. Perhaps because something else
is screaming in my head, and it isn’t a voice I can silence. It’s my mother’s intuition.
It’s just my luck that one of my former
students is working the counter at the lobby café, and I have been instructed
to “eat a sugary snack” to give baby girl an energy boost. And, once again, it’s just my luck that I
don’t have the faintest clue as to this kid’s name. I recognize the face, which is wearing a big
ol’ “I recognize you, Mrs. Ciravola, and I’m gonna want to talk to you all
about my post high school adventures in food service” smile. Most days I would love to hear all about what
night school my former student is attending while making Panini sandwiches during
the day, but this isn’t one of them.
Hence…
“Hi, I used to be your teacher, right?
Is that a blueberry muffin? I’ll take it and a bottle of apple juice,” I
snap. The poor kid’s face drops as he
grabs the order and rings me up. “Great
to see you, kid. Hope everything is going well,” I rush through the
transaction. I need to get to the OB
triage and find out what is happening.
Mom in tow, I’m shoveling the muffin and
guzzling the juice in the desperate hope that this will be the solution to the
problem. My fellow elevator travelers
are eyeing me as if I am a binge eater unashamed to gorge myself in front of
complete strangers. I wonder if my shaming
“teacher look” will work on them?
As the bell tolls (alright, the noise
that indicates that the elevator door is about to open), I start to shake. Wobbling through reception, I’m directed down
the hall to the right.
Entering triage, a bleach blond nurse
with unattended roots welcomes us with a dour grimace. “Name? Age? Insurance ID? Social Security
number? OB’s name? Height? Weight? Number of pregnancies? Number of living children? Complete sexual history?”
she peppers me.
Damn.
I can barely remember my name between my frayed nerves, shaking hands,
and the baby dancing joyfully on my apple juice-full bladder. By the way, the sugar boost has done the
trick. Baby girl is flipping somersaults
and turning cartwheels, using my bladder as a trampoline. “Can I use the bathroom before I get naked
for you?” I attempt some humor after being grilled relentlessly.
“Please make it quick. We need to get you
hooked up,” she replies, not even a hint of a smile.
Hovering (the last thing I need right
now is to worry about catching something from the triage bathroom, despite what
my 8th grade Health teacher assured us about toilet seats and STDs),
I’m hoping that the Doppler heart rate at the OB’s office was a freak
occurrence. Based on baby girl’s current
aerobic routine, she must have been sleeping at the doctor’s office. What
should I make for dinner tonight? I live
only five minutes from the hospital, so if I can get this done quickly, I could
walk in the door by 5:30 and get dinner on the table by six. Something easy. Pasta?
After a quick flush and wash, I am
ushered into a cordoned off bed area and thrown an oversized gown. “Please remove all of your clothes, and
notify us when you are ready.”
No underwear is a weird feeling for me.
I know that with pregnancy related medical care, waist down nudity is usually
required, but I am still freaked out by inviting complete strangers to inspect
my business.
“I’m all set,” I call. A young, attractive nurse enters the room. Thin, tall, flawless, I’d go so far as to
classify her as “lithe.” Alright, she’s
definitely going to judge my lumpy thighs and less than manicured body
hair. Awesome. Let’s get this over with.
As Nurse Eden straps the monitor belts
across my mountainous exposed belly, the curtain that is offering me some
semblance of privacy is pulled aside. In
strides the most adorable, seemingly teenage boy. “This is Brad, our nurse intern. He’ll be
observing us today. This is a teaching hospital,” Eden sheepishly grins. Double awesome! Now Brad will be observing the svelte mass of
baby and chub that is my body. Not only
am I in the middle of a potential medical nightmare, but I have a kid who looks
like he could be one of my students checking out the complete package.
As I’m pondering if Brad has ever seen a
vagina before and if I’m somehow traumatizing him for all future sexual
encounters, Eden is having trouble placing the monitor discs. Okay, my attention is now drawn. Why is Eden having so much trouble?
“I’m having some difficulty finding the
baby’s heartbeat. Just give me a minute. Don’t panic,” Eden says.
“Don’t panic” means “panic” right? Because, I’m panicking! Why can’t she find baby’s heartbeat? What if there isn’t a heartbeat?
“I can feel her moving,” I cry. “I know
she’s in there!” I feel that I might be
screaming this to reassure myself rather than inform the nurse and her teeny
bopper sidekick.
Then it hits me. What if I’m not really feeling her? What if, like a soldier who feels shooting
pains in an amputated limb, I am feeling the movements of my ghost baby?
“Excuse me for just a moment,” Eden says
as she sprints from my bedside.
And…awkward. Me, mom, and Brad. Just hanging.
Silence. “So, Brad, what school
are you attending?” I ask, searching for conversation to fill the void. But, before Brad can answer, Eden has
returned carrying some sort of medical contraption.
“We’re just going to insert a quick
catheter,” Eden informs me matter-of-factly.
“If you could just spread your legs so that I can clean you.”
I am so overwhelmed by this rush of
strange information that I almost follow her request without question. Then my eye catches Brad’s innocent face, and
everything pops. “Wait!” I demand. “First, Brad, no offense, but I need you to
step out of the room for this part.”
Brad acquiesces. “Second, why do
I need a catheter? If I have to go to the bathroom, I am perfectly capable of
walking over the toilet to do it.”
“It’s standard procedure,” replies Eden,
confidently. Okay, standard procedure.
I begin to reason with myself. Perhaps
this will somehow help Eden to find baby’s heart rate on the monitors. She must need to drain something in order to
move the baby? What do I know? This
is where I should have asked these questions, but, instead, I grab hold of my
mother’s hand and allow Eden to do what she needs to do. My,
this is both incredibly awkward and thoroughly uncomfortable. There are so few times in my life when pain
and embarrassment have combined so seamlessly into a whirling dervish of
humiliation.
Soon after Eden has finished her
procedure, the OBGYN on duty arrives, dragging an ultrasound machine that has
been labeled with my name.
“Hello, my name is Dr. Immaculae.” A baby-faced doctor in his late twenties
shakes my hand as an afterthought while starting the ultrasound machine. “Let’s find out what is going on with your
baby,” he says, still facing the booting device. I finally get a peek into his eyes via the
reflection of the screen.
Once again my mountainous belly is
smothered in cold jelly, and I am asked to twist my stomach towards the
doctor. Immaculae sweeps my belly with
the ultrasound wand, searching for baby’s elusive heartbeat. After a breath-holding couple of moments, the
image on the screen comes to life, filled with a squirming little person. And there, beating away in the middle of it
all, is her heart, thumping proudly as if to say, “What, Mom? I’m here.”
Dr. Immaculae continues to push into my
stomach with the wand, searching for better vantage points, clicking pictures
and having a hushed discussion with Nurse Eden.
From my perspective (just the mom over here), I can feel her moving, I
can see her moving, everything is ok. Right? Right?
My stomach is beginning to churn with nerves and the strain of
attempting to hold absolutely still in a very awkward position.
“Is everything okay?” I request. “Doctor? Is everything looking okay?”
“Weeelllllll…” responds Immaculae, still
refusing to make any eye contact.
Okay,
Lizzie. Breathe. Give the doc a few minutes to figure it
out. Be patient.
More poking, prodding, and sweeping of
the wand. More clicking and hushed
conversation, still none of it directed at me.
What the hell is happening? I look over at my mom, hoping that her
medical background may have helped her to better understand all of this. Maybe
she could be my guide, my translator for this foreign medical garble.
“Mom, do you understand any of this?” I
ask with hope.
“No. I’m scared,” she replies. Way to
comfort me, Mom. To be fair, thirty-five years of working as a nurse in an
elementary school probably didn’t prepare her to understand the goings on of an
obstetrical emergency room.
Let’s give this another go. “Doctor, is
everything okay?
“Uuuuummmmmmmm…” wavers the doctor. Still not even a glance.
At this point, I should have started to
make demands. I am educated, thirty years
old, and a person who can effectively wield authority over thirty-two teenagers
at a time. I should be able to draw the
attention of this pipsqueak with a God complex.
Come on, Liz! Bunk up!
Get your answers.
I open my mouth to begin my lecture, but
before even a syllable can escape my throat, people scatter. Eden is running. Brad is standing just outside the perimeter
that, just moments ago, was protected by the curtain, but that, in the twirl of
tense excitement, has been tossed aside.
“Pop the locks on that bed,” Eden
demands of Brad as she grabs a stack of papers off of a shelf. Brad begins to move. Dr. Immaculae is ordering one nurse to start
an IV, another to notify my personal OB, another to call Faith Memorial
Hospital to check on transport options, and another to “get anesthesiology down
here STAT!”
At this point, I think I’m yelling,
“What’s happening? What’s going
on?” But, it is entirely possible that I
am sitting dumbstruck in my bed choking on my own fear.
Eden returns with the stack of papers
attached to a clipboard. “Alright, Hon,
we’re gonna need you to sign these right away,” she informs me.
“What are they?”
“They’re standard forms releasing the
hospital from any responsibility in the event that something goes wrong with
your Caesarean today.”
“Wait. What?”
“You had a Cesarean previously, correct?
These are those same standard forms that we need you to sign in order to
perform your emergency Cesarean.”
“Wait. What?”
Eden stares back at me, searching her
brain for a new way to explain what these papers signify. “These are forms…”
“Nurse,” my mom squeaks, “she knows what
a release form is.”
“Oh, yes,” says Eden. “Dr. Immaculae
feels that the baby is in jeopardy. We need to get her out quickly. You’ll be
under completely. It’s likely that the baby will be transferred immediately,
before you wake, to the NICU at Faith Memorial.”
“Wait. What?”
Brad has finally figured out how to unlock
the wheels on the bed, and is attempting to maneuver the bulky mass out of the
doors of the triage. I sign the stack of
papers without even a glance. What
choice do I have?
I’m looking around wildly, hoping to
communicate my concerns to one of the people who are currently in my growing posse. “But, my husband isn’t here! Mom, call Bill.
Tell him to get a babysitter and get over here. Call Jeyna, tell her what’s
happening and have her put lesson plans together.”
Jesus! Seriously? I’m thinking about lesson plans right
now? I am just thirty weeks pregnant
today. That is a full ten weeks
early. All of those “Jon and Kate Plus
8” kids were born at thirty weeks, and they’re relatively healthy. If you consider being raised by an
egomaniacal, fame-hungry mother and an allegedly cheating, immature, pot-smoking
lout of a father healthy.
My mind flips through the “what if”
section of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. If given the best of neo-natal intensive care
services and an otherwise normal presentation, babies born as early as twenty-four
weeks can survive. My baby is thirty weeks. But, my baby isn’t normal. My baby’s heart isn’t normal.
The last thing I see before I am pushed
through the swinging doors of the OR is my mother, weeping, my cell phone
clutched against her head.
I am asked to slide from my bed to the
operating table. The intensity of my
shaking causes my jaws to slam tight. I’m
staring up into the bright florescent lights, while my body uncontrollably
lurches and twists. Where is my husband? I hear
the nurses read off a checklist as metal instruments are placed firmly against
a tray. Above me, the anesthesiologist sticks
cannulas into my nose, pumping oxygen into my constricted lungs.
“You have to stop shaking. It’s very
difficult for me to get a clear reading of your vitals,” orders Dr. X, the
anesthesiologist so absorbed in his work that he has failed to even introduce
himself to his quaking patient.
“I can’t stop,” I plead. “I can’t make
myself.”
A crew of at least ten people are
swarming around the table. I feel as if
I’m underwater, able to see and hear them, but not to understand what they’re
saying. What the hell is going on? Why
isn’t anyone explaining anything to me?
They’re all attending to me, but ignoring me completely.
“Please, somebody, I need to see my baby
before she goes. I need to see her before…” I gulp back a sob.
It’s then, when I’m feeling most alone,
that my unexpected white knight enters the room. Genuinely looking me in the eye, a naive
smile spread across his face, Brad walks towards me. He sits down next to the table. “So, what are
you going to name your daughter?”
Immediately, a tear spills down my
cheek. My daughter is going to be born today.
She’s going to be here.
“Pearl. I’m going to name her Pearl.”
Within moments I hear her in the
hallway. There is a new direction to her
voice, a stern, take-charge attitude that I’ve never before experienced: “I
want an ultrasound brought in immediately. We’re not cutting until I get a look
at this baby.”
Determinedly giving orders, her voice is
imbued with confidence. Dr. Trey pushes
through the doors of the OR and, before addressing anyone else in the room, she
grabs my hand. In a calm, quiet voice,
she takes care of me, “Try to stay calm. I’m going to take a look at this
little one and find out what is troubling her. They’re bringing in the
ultrasound now. Your husband is out in the hall dressing in scrubs. Do you want
me to have him brought in?”
This is a new side of Dr. Trey, one I
haven’t seen before. “Yes, please,” I
whimper.
She turns to retrieve my worried hubby
from the hallway. Before she exits,
however, she turns back to face me once more: “I’m a Perinatologist, you know?
It must have been something in the universe that brought you to me, a
specialist, for this high risk pregnancy.”
Oh, there she is, return of the hippie.
My husband, clothed in tight blue scrubs
from head to toe, rushes into the OR.
Maybe I should rephrase. My
husband is a big guy, so even the XXL scrubs are stretching at the seams to
compensate for his girth. Makes it
challenging to run, per say. But, he’s
doing his best to get to me a quickly as possible.
“Are you okay?” he sincerely questions.
“No. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m gonna go with ‘been better’.”
Wheeling my personalized ultrasound
machine behind her, Dr. Trey reenters the OR.
Brad moves aside so that Dr. Trey can, once again, expose my enormous
belly and smother it with ultrasound goo.
And, within moments, Dr. Trey’s steady hand has guided the wand to my
little girl. Baby’s heart chugs along
like the rhythm of a Johnny Cash song, slow and steady, but with drive and
determination. Baby girl dances about,
not a care in the world, completely unaware of the drama that is taking place
around her and about her.
“Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like
this before,” confesses Dr. Trey. “Probably not what you want to hear, but
there it is. She doesn’t seem at all bothered by whatever it is that is slowing
her heart rate. You see, when a fetus is truly in jeopardy, she will stop
moving to conserve all of her energy to stay alive. Your daughter is moving and
grooving. Could be heart block? In any case, she’s not coming out today. We’re
going to send you over to see the experts at Faith, the pediatric
cardiologists. Let’s get her unhooked, people,” instructs Dr. Trey.
And, just like that, I’m
de-catheterized, un-IV’d, and signing release papers. Surreal.
“This baby can’t seem to maintain the
heart rate for a fetus at her developmental stage. Her heartbeat is very slow, bradycardic. But,
again, we seem to be much more bothered by it than she does. I think we’ve made
the right decision, leaving her in. Nothing is certain. I mean, I think she’s
going to be okay ‘til tomorrow, but, if I’m being honest, it’s possible I
should have pulled her already. All we can do is plan for the worst and pray
for the best,” explains Dr. Trey.
As we stand in the hallway outside the
triage center, Dr. Trey’s hand holds warmly to my arm. “Try to rest,” she advises. “Keep track of
baby’s kicks each hour. If the patterns change or slow down, call me
immediately.”
Rest,
but count her kicks every hour? Sounds a
bit contradictory.
“Trust your instinct. I very much
believe in mother’s intuition. You’re going to know if there is something truly
wrong,” Dr. Trey comforts me. Or,
attempts to comfort me.
After repeatedly kissing Eddie’s
cherubic little cheeks, I tuck him in and move down the hall to the unfinished
nursery. The brand new crib sits
unassumingly against the wall, an undressed mattress inside. My grandmother’s bedroom set, now my
daughter’s, stands empty in the darkened room.
I step silently backwards out of the door and shut it firmly.
Slipping into bed next to a snoring
husband (it is seriously amazing how soundly he can sleep after the trauma of
the day), I settle in and begin to count: one…two…three……four……..
five…………….six. I drift into a light, dreamful sleep and wake
with a start two hours later. Can I feel her? Is she with me? Has my need for sleep allowed me to lose her? I silence myself, waiting. Waiting.
Waiting. Nothing. I poke my belly and speak to her, “Come on,
baby girl. Wake up. Say ‘hello’ to mommy.”
Waiting. Nothing. I grab hold of my belly and shake it, swaying
baby girl from side-to-side. “Come on,
baby girl. Let me know you’re there.”
Waiting. Waiting. Nothing.
Bill’s light snoring reminds me that I
am alone in this journey. As much as he
might like to take the burden from me for a few hours, to monitor movements, to
be responsible, he cannot. It’s not
possible. It’s all on me.
As suddenly as this terrifying thought
strikes me, I am struck with an idea. I
run quickly and quietly down the hallway and the stairs. Once in the kitchen, I rummage through the
cupboards to find that bag of festively wrapped Hershey’s Kisses left over from
Christmas. Once I have those neatly
tucked into my arm, I pull open the fridge to retrieve Eddie’s juice
boxes. I settle into the couch and begin
to gorge. I pack at least five Kisses
into my gullet and attempt to chew. I
jam a miniature straw into the juice box and slurp down the apple juice. A few more Kisses, and my mission is complete. Now, the most difficult part begins, waiting.
“Come
on, baby,” I plead. Ten minutes pass and
nothing from the baby. Still
nothing. “This is it,” I whisper to
myself. “This is the night when I will deliver a stillborn.”
As this terrible thought devastates me,
I feel a whisper, a tiny communication from below. I hesitate to take a breath of relief, attempting
to determine if this is my imagination or the blessing I’ve been praying
for?
Within moments, baby girl is gyrating
and thrashing, whooping it up, high on sugar.
Tears of relief stream down my face as I hug my belly tight.
This becomes my
nightly routine for the next eight weeks.
I’m fairly sure that
I am training the world’s worst sleeper. When she does arrive, if, she will wake up every midnight jonesing for a chocolate fix.
I am training the world’s worst sleeper. When she does arrive, if, she will wake up every midnight jonesing for a chocolate fix.
I’ve been pulled
from work, so I spend my days anxiously pacing the living room floor when I’m
not at one of my many medical appointments: two to three ultrasounds weekly,
pre-natal counseling at the Faith Children’s Heart Center, and one very disturbing
introductory visit to the Faith NICU. It
was intended to comfort me, to show me the stunning technological advances that
will keep my baby alive. But, all I can
think is “My baby won’t be born into my arms, but into an incubator.”
There will be no
VBAC. The Faith cardiologists are
worried that my baby’s heart couldn’t survive her journey through the birth
canal. It will be a c-section, and baby
girl will be taken immediately to the NICU.
The day after Easter, I finally open the
door to the nursery. We’ve made it this
far, thirty-eight weeks, and she’s still cooking. It’s time to face my fear: to dress the bed,
set up the diaper changing table, and hang the tiny outfits. I’ve avoided this room in the hopes that I
wouldn’t look at that empty crib and see just that, an empty crib that would
never be filled.
Unwrapping the flowered sheets, I feel a
twinge. Pulling the cover over the
convex changing pad, it’s become a consistent cramp. By the time I’ve hung the final pair of
ruffle butt pantaloons in her closet, I’m out of breath and doubled over.
Having called both hubby and Trey, I am
waiting on the front stoop when Bill pulls into the driveway. I did
it. I kept you safe ‘til full term.
The panic starts to set in as I sit atop
the OR table waiting for the anesthesiologist to administer the spinal. Billy is out in the hallway wriggling into
the double XL scrubs once more. The
sounds of preparation for this Cesarean are eerily similar to those that
plagued me eight weeks ago to the day.
But, this time, Dr. Trey is with me from the start.
As this anesthesiologist, who has
politely introduced himself as Dr. Arnold, begins to numb my back, Dr. Trey
smooths my shoulders over into the correct c-shaped arch and grabs both of my
hands. “I’m with you,” she reminds me.
“It’s going to be different this time. We’re at Faith. We will have the
pediatric cardiology team in the delivery room. We have the NICU right here.
You are in the best possible place that you can be. She is in the best possible
place that she can be.”
The room is swarming with people: at
least six pediatricians, two OBGYNs, two anesthesiologists, and four
nurses. Oh yeah, Bill and I are here as
well. The room buzzes with medical
jargon and anticipation. I feel some
tugging and pulling, but no pain. I can
feel the shaking starting in the feeling half of my body. Closing my eyes, I take deep, slow
breaths. All I want, all I could wish
for in the world at this moment, is to hear her cry: a bellowing wail would be
preferable.
“Okay, Liz, you’re going to feel some
pressure, then we’re going to meet your baby girl,” Dr. Trey warns.
“Okay, baby. Okay. One more time for
mama,” I pray.
“And, here she…is,” announces Dr. Trey. I wait.
Nothing. I hear a sucking noise,
liquid moving through a tube. I wait. The seconds sluggishly tick by.
Then, finally, a scream pierces the
air. The unmistakable sound of a
newborn’s first breath forcefully breaks, expelled from her lungs. It’s beautiful. Before I can truly revel in the joy, she is
swept away to the bassinet. A throng
gathers around her, backs block my view.
“Go! Go to her,” I order Bill. “Dr.
Trey, is everything okay?”
“She certainly didn’t seem bothered.
That was quite the scream. We’re going to get you sewn up here and into
recovery. We want to get you to your little one as soon as possible,” she says.
It’s official, everyone in the room,
besides me of course, has seen my little wonder. As quickly as she entered the room, baby girl
exits to the NICU. And, after a bit more
doctoring, Mommy exits to recovery.
While Bill stays in the NICU with baby
girl, I work desperately to move my legs and feet, knowing that the sooner I am
able to leave recovery, the sooner I will be able to get to my baby. “Mom, poke my toe,” I request.
“Lizzie, it’s not going to wear off any
more quickly if I poke your toe.”
“Ma, I know. I’m just hoping that I’ll
be able to feel it.”
“Why don’t you read one of these Living magazines. It’ll keep your mind
off things. That Martha Stewart has some lovely ideas for entertaining,” she
helpfully suggests. Her bravado cannot
hide the wink of a tear slipping from her eye.
“No
thanks, Ma,” I continue to focus on wiggling my pinkie toe in order to distract
myself from the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What’s
happening to my baby?
“Mrs. Ciravola?” the nurse inquires. “If
you’re ready, we can wheel you into the NICU to meet your daughter.”
“Yes, yes. Definitely. How is she?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot of
information. But, we want to get you down there as quickly as possible.”
The
NICU is a disorienting maze of beeping machinery, glowing blue lights, and the most
fragile of miniature children. I travel
slowly past an incubator which holds a baby the size of a kitten. His skin is transparent, his arms the size of
green twigs. He squirms beneath the blue
lights, appearing alien. My God, is this the struggle my baby faces? Or, is it worse?
Around another corner, at the end of a
dark hallway, I can see Bill sitting in a rocking chair, his head in his hands. My heart throbs against my chest. I shut my eyes tightly, attempting to control
the panic. We continue to move.
Through the slits of my eyelids, I can
see that we have arrived in the light.
“Lizzie,” Bill’s
voice reaches out to me. “Open your eyes.”
There she is, the queen of the
NICU. Her small body covered in
monitoring discs, an IV placed in her tiny arm, she is sleeping soundly under
the warming lights. I place the palm of
my hand on her chest, feeling the heat of her skin as her chest rises and
falls. The EKG beeps consistently, her
heart rate bradycardic, but reliable. She’s
pink and perfect, her soft breath falling from her mouth.
“Are you ready
to feed her, Mama?” her nurse scoops her up, expertly navigating the tubes and
wires sprouting from her little body.
I open my arms
to embrace her, pulling her into the curve of my neck. I breathe in her smell, and instantly
recognize her as my own. “My Pearl,” I
smile. Gently, I move her into the crook
of my arm, cradling her head in the palm of my hand. She opens her eyes, sensing that I’m near,
recognizing my voice as it coos softly to her.
I bring her to my breast, and, as she is nourished, my intuition begins
to sing.
Copyright © 2010
Copyright © 2010
