My gosh, the recovery . . .
I think it's the recovery, in the end, that nearly killed me.
And that's not an exaggeration.
The first night, I cared about three things:
- Getting a shower
- Getting my second emergency IV out from inside my elbow (it hurt like the dickens every time I bent my arm)
- Getting the flippin' catheter out.
Yes, I understood it was a necessary evil--that they had me on diuretics to help decrease the swelling and, in that case, I wouldn't be able to get up quickly enough or frequently enough to pee--and that it made it easier for them to check my kidney recovery.
But, my gosh. I hated that thing.
When they finally allowed me out of bed and wheeled me to Ronan's corner of the NICU, I had to carry that thing hooked to my wheelchair like my own little urine purse.
Tackiest accessory EVER.
But, oh my goodness, holding Ronan.
He was so tiny and soft, and all he did was sleep, but he huddled up against my chest, skin-to-skin, and it was like everything would be all right. I didn't mind that I was exhausted or that my second IV was throbbing. I was FINALLY able to hold my baby boy.
So everything was good.
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| This was actually from my SECOND time holding Ronan two days after his birth. My mom and I didn't have a camera for the first time. I honestly don't know if they would have let us use it in the first level of the NICU. |
I dozed off holding him, and, all too soon, they had to put him back in his incubator. I was only allowed to hold him for an hour or so, anyways, because they needed to maintain his temperature in his islet or else he could burn too many calories trying to stay warm.
Lactation also visited and got me hooked up to a breastpump.
Oh, lactation . . . . such a love-hate relationship we had.
The relationship with my breast pump wasn't much better.
Every three hours, they told me, and I could have a five hour stretch at night if I was diligent about that three hour schedule.
So, every three hours, I hooked my boobs up to that apparatus and waited, waited, waited for milk to come.
That night, they gave me the heavy pain and nausea meds because I was achy.
I blame the catheter.
It was the most uncomfortable thing ever and I kept feeling like I had to pee.
The nurse told me that was impossible.
After my second catheter experience, I think it had a kink in it.
All night, I shook uncontrollably and couldn't sleep because I was so uncomfortable and so afraid of throwing up.
But I woke up, and out came the catheter, and I was a new woman. I actually shuffled down the hall to see Ronan in the second NICU level (he had done so well they moved him from the crisis ward to the middle ward--not a crisis but not ready to go home). That evening, Chris got to hold Ronan skin-to-skin, and my heart exploded.
And they told me I could FINALLY have real food.
That was the mistake.
What they don't tell you about C-Sections is that it is VITAL that you actually pass gas or have a bowel movement.
But, seriously, you need to fart.
Your insides are all tied up with gas, and the gas wants to escape, but it all goes out the front door instead of the back.
And, honey, you want that back door WIDE open.
Mine wouldn't.
I mean, just wouldn't.
So I thought some fiber would help move things along.
Do you know what fiber did?
It left me dry heaving for the rest of the day, clutching a pillow to my incision because I thought I was going to burst open, intestines all over the maternity ward. And I couldn't stop. All day long, with that little square, pink tub on my beside table, trying simultaneously to hurl and not hurl, my core throbbing.
The only thing that stopped it was when they knocked me out with heavy meds.
I woke up feeling refreshed, like a new woman.
Ten minutes later, I was heaving again.
The night nurse came in, and saw my wilted, gagging form, hunched over in bed, pathetic beyond reason, and said, "Has anyone given you a suppository, honey?"
"N-no."
"Would you be okay trying one? They can be little miracle workers."
"Yes, I'll try anything."
Let me tell you: having a nurse stick a suppository up your bum with your MIL in the room?
I sat there and thought, "Welp . . . there goes modesty. There's nothing more humbling than someone else trying to help you poop."
But, let me tell you: it worked.
I have never been more grateful.
I woke up the next day a brand new woman.
An intenstines-cleared new woman.
And Ronan was getting his own abdominal work-over. They had tried feeding him through a tube, but his stomach had grown distended, so they did X-Rays and put a tube in to help empty his stomach.
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| This picture breaks my heart, but they took SUCH good care of him |
He actually got to spend some time without the tube down his throat, and he loved that.
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| The IV had been moved from his head to his arm, and the tape was stained with blood because it hadn't clotted properly when it was inserted. He was fine, afterwards, but the sight of it was heartbreaking. |
Ronan was recovering with flying colors. The staff was hopeful that he might be home in time for Christmas.
Me? I was doing pretty darn well, too. The nurses were super impressed that I only requested Tylenol for pain and that I insisted on walking as much as I could. I was pumping through the night, and was getting just enough colostrum to send to Ronan once he could start feeding. It broke my heart those first three days when he would root around my chest and cry because he was hungry but his stomach couldn't take food. He was so tiny and helpless.
And sweet. My gosh, that tiny boy was sweet.
Then my arm stopped working.
Sort of.
My left shoulder ached so badly that I had to use my right hand to life my dead-weight left arm to do anything. The doctor ordered an ultrasound to make sure it wasn't a blood clot, and, the next day at 5:00 AM it was finally my turn.
Not that that particular fact registered as I came out of a deep sleep to this nurse wheeling equipment into my room in the middle of the night. But we had a lovely conversation as she scanned me, and, yay! no clots! It turns out that, sometimes, spinal taps cause shakes, and, in turn, those shakes can lead to pulled shoulder muscles since they have you strapped down in the crucifix position. But, hey, it wasn't a clot. Good news, right?
My legs and feet were not so swollen that I couldn't even wiggle my toes, but my kidney levels, blood pressure, and clotting factors were looking better, so the doctors told me I could go home if I wanted or I could stay ONE more night for observation. I didn't trust my body, not any more, so I asked to stay one more night.
I should have asked to stay for two.
The next night, I went home, and I felt somewhere between happy and torn to pieces--I got to go home, be with my husband, eat my own food, but my baby wasn't with me.
After dinner, I couldn't catch my breath simply hobbling the twelve feet from my washing machine to my bathtub where I tried soaking my feet in epsom salts to bring down the swelling. It didn't work.
My chest felt weird.
I could hear and feel this dampness, this wet bubbling like I had a bad cough. But I couldn't remember ever HEARING that sound before.Like, I knew what it meant, but I'd never had a cold I could feel AND hear.
I didn't just feel like I needed to cough--that odd tickle--I could HEAR it.
I didn't want to cough though.
My incision hurt. I ached all over, really, and I was so, so tired.
But my heart wouldn't stop racing and, no matter how many deep yoga breaths I took. My heart thought I was running in terror. My brain and body were exhausted going, "WHAT THE CRAP, DUDE?? SLOW THE CRAP DOWN. IT'S FLIPPIN' BEDTIME."
And my chest . . . why did I feel wet inside? Was it because, in the five days I was in the hospital, I had gotten used to the dry air? And now I was in normal, humid air, and my lungs needed to adjust? Yeah, yeah, that had to be it.
I tried little coughs, just clearing my throat, but no, no that didn't do it. All night, I tried to sleep, tried to catch my breath, and I couldn't.
So I braced myself.
I hobbled to the bathroom, chest heaving (why was this so hard?), grabbed some tissue paper, sat back down on the bed, clutched a pillow to my middle, and braced myself.
And I coughed.
Hard.
I felt some relief, but then the wet feeling was back again.
And I looked at the tissue.
Bright orange red. Like blood. Was it blood? Oh my gosh . . .
I hadn't hacked up mucus.
I had coughed up blood . . . almost blood? To this day, I don't know. But it was close enough.
"Chris? Chris, wake up. Please. I coughed up blood. There's blood."
He was up like a shot. We called my OBGYN (this time she gave us the emergency contact info--just hit 0 for the operator). Uh, yeah, she sent us back to the ER.
You know, the one we had been to two weeks ago for my "flu"?
"Sarah, hurry, get ready, get dressed."
I tried, I really did. I was practically laying on the counter to brush my teeth. I had to sit down between putting on my bra and tee shirt.
I could barely fit into anything. I was mismatched, giant tee shirt and sweatpants. My feet were so swollen, they barely fit into the ginormous hospital socks and my husband's flip-flops. I shuffled, leaning on Chris, gasping for breath. No matter how deeply I inhaled, I felt like there was never enough air. Like I was a kid who had wandered too far out to sea and, every time I swam to the surface, a wave hit me in the face. Just enough air to survive, but not enough to feel right, safe. It was very, very wrong.
This time, the ER took me seriously. This wasn't some crazy pregnant lady puking. This was someone recovering from surgery who was coughing up blood. That wasn't okay.
They ordered a CAT scan. Oh, thank goodness it wasn't an MRI. I wouldn't have been able to handle it. I'm already a little claustrophobic--a tiny space? failing lungs? I would have freaked. But I made it. By the grace of God, CAT scans are fast and I made it. It was afterwards . . . The nurse pulled me out of the scan and began wheeling me for the door on that metal cart, and then it got worse.
"I . . . I feel bubbles. Right here." I tapped my chest, halfway between my breasts and my collarbone. I felt like a gradeschool volcano experiment--baking soda and vinegar. Bubbling, crackling, wet. So very, very wet. "Please. I feel bubbles."
"We need to get the results from the scan before the doctor can do anything. We'll have results, soon."
"But, please, help. It's bubbling right here."
This is not okay, this is not okay, something is so wrong. "Please."
"We need the results first."
I don't know what I expected her to do. I think it was somewhere along the lines of trach or something--I'd watched way too many medical or crime shows where they just randomly slice open people's throats--anything to help me breath. I was gasping.
They finally had me back in a room with Chris, and all I could do was keep talking about bubbles and coughing more blood into the wet washcloth they had given me.
An older nurse stood there and said, firmly, "Honey, you gotta stop gasping, you're going to hyperventilate." She sounded exasperated with me, but I suppose she'd been there a long time, had seen a lot, and this was all very old news. If I couldn't breathe, it was my own fault I suppose. Or maybe she was keeping a cool head, because, for the first time, I almost couldn't keep mine.
I couldn't breathe.
But I tried to slow my panicked gasping down to controlled, deep breaths but they still weren't enough.
The waves of my imaginary sea were pounding hard and fast, choking me.
A younger nurse came in, and starting poking around at my veins for an IV. "No, no, they took too my blood, my veins are blown," I managed. It was true. For the last six days, hospital staff had taken my blood taken multiple times. My big veins that every nurse loved? Smashed and bled to smithereens. They couldn't get a decent draw.
But that was the last thing I said.
Or I thought I said.
I don't know, maybe I just gasped and coughed, and Chris said everything.
Because, now, I was clutching the side of the little metal bed, twisted onto my side. I didn't care about my incision anymore--I didn't feel it. I just coughed and pleaded with any nurse nearby, "Please please please please please please."
The bubbles were worse, now. I kept hacking, but nothing helped.
"We're going to give you a nebulizer, now," young nurse said, and fitted a mask over my face.
I hate oxygen masks, but I was so grateful. Air, yes, this would give me air, this would make it all okay . . . but then I couldn't stop coughing. I ripped the mask off and hacked. Hard. Uncontrollably. Over and over. For one second there was glorious relief, and then I was gasping again. The mask went back on, and was immediately removed because another coughing fit struck.
The previously spotted washcloth was now soaked red and orange.
And it wasn't getting better.
"Can't you help her, please? Please, can't you give her the meds?" Chris was begging. He told me later that he thought he was watching me die. Right there. That I was gone. That it was all over and he couldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't. No. No. No. No.
"We can't give her any antibiotics until the tests come back," the nurse insisted.
"But she's getting worse!"
"That's what the nebulizer does--it has medicine to help clear her lungs. This is what it's supposed to do."
That calmed us both down, just a little bit.
A second nurse had come in and started poking around for a vein in my other arm. Two at once, searching desperately for a vein that wasn't blown.
Grumpy nurse returned with a catheter.
"No, no, no, please."
"Honey, you can't get up to go to the bathroom. You need it. Just take it."
And, with that, she inserted the bugger.
Well, it felt like she shoved it, but I'm sure she didn't.
Hurts like crap anyways. That space was not meant to be invade EVER by ANYTHING.
But thank God for catheters.
But they found the vein, just barely, and hooked me up to a bag of IV meds.
At the time, I couldn't pay attention to what they were. I was too busy coughing.
But they were diuretics. Meds to suck you dry.
It wasn't until much later that I put two and two together.
The diuretics entered my system.
Within minutes, I didn't have to hack as hard. I could gasp and get oxygen. I released the rails of the cot. I let myself lay down. I inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. I fought the urge to sleep. I couldn't go to sleep, I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't.Something told me sleep was bad. I had to hang on.
And I slept.
I crept in and out of consciousness. I knew enough that my in-laws had arrived. That the ER was trying to transfer me to a hospital. The one I had just come from.
But I could breathe, so I didn't care.
Chris filled me in later that we were at the ER from roughly 8:00 AM to 3:00 PM.
In that time, the combination of diuretics and catheter had drained me of three liters of fluid. The said that the moment they put the meds in my system, the catheter bag had filled. FAST. And then it was emptied and filled again. Three times.
I was on a catheter for two and a half days during my ICU stay.
I hated that thing.
HATED it.
But I'm grateful. They drained me and drained me. By the time I was released back into the maternity ward, I had lost over twenty pounds.
That was JUST fluid. Twenty pounds of water.
We were later told that, even though it had originally appeared that my kidney functions were back to normal, I had swollen to such an extreme that my kidneys and heart were failing--they couldn't pump out the fluid fast enough.
And so the fluid had gone into my lungs.
I was drowning in my own juices.
But I was breathing, now.
I felt world's better, but they wouldn't let me out of bed. I had to bathe by wiping myself down with hospital-grade wet wipes. Shaving was not remotely an option.
They put oxygen tubes in my nose and hooked me up to all manner of monitors. They gave me the TV remote and told me I could order anything on the hospital menu (yay? um, no). I didn't really have an appetite, though. So my mom and Chris set up a visitation schedule (Mom wanted to make sure that Ronan and I both had someone with us during all daylight hours).
The nurses were lovely, though they confessed that they weren't use to having an ICU patient who could talk back. I didn't understand what they meant until they transferred me back to maternity.
Chris brought me my pillow so I could TRY to get comfortable (not happening).
That first night, I woke up and found Chris sitting next to me, head in his hands, and, when he saw me awake, he gave me the saddest expression I had ever seen.
"Sarah, I will never, ever ask you to do this again. Ever. Ever. Ever. I mean, you'll have to convince me that you really, really want another baby. And then like compromise the contraceptives. Because I won't do this to you again."
I patted his hand, smiled, closed my eyes, and whispered. "I told you so."
The entire pregnancy, I had said over and over again, "I can't do it a second or third time, Chris. Not this sick. Not with a toddler. I am too sick. I don't think I can. Really."
And Chris had replied, "We want more kids--we always have. We loved kids. You love kids. You'll want another."
And I did--I do.
But I knew my body's limit. Unless a miracle occurred, I don't think I could handle it. Pregnancy broke me.
"I told you so."
"Yes, yes you did."
The next day was Thanksgiving.
The nice thing about being in the hospital is that people you don't usually get to see come to visit. The bad thing is that, at least in my case, they don't let you shower, so you look and smell homeless, but, hey, they love you, it's all right.
So my godparents came and brought us a legit and delicious Thanksgiving dinner. We hadn't seen each other since shortly after my wedding five years previous. That was awesome.
I said I felt great and I didn't know why they were keeping me in the ICU, and couldn't I please get rid of the darn catheter already?
That night, Chris stayed to say goodbye and goodnight. We talked a bit until I started drifting off to sleep. Every inch of me was heavy with exhaustion. I was so tired. So very, very tired. When your body is trying to put itself back together again, it sucks the life right out of you. And so I told Chris how much I loved him, goodbye, and then I fell asleep. My last conscious thought was, "I am too tired. Maybe this is what it's like to die in your sleep. I think I'm just too tired."
But no such luck. I woke up.
The following day, I had feet and legs again.
The swelling had nearly vanished, and I felt like the little mermaid trading her fins for feet.
Except mine was more like swapping waterlogged sausages for human appendages. For the first time in my life, I looked down that bed at my unshaven legs and went, "Huh. I really do have nice legs. I'll never complain about them again, ever. Seriously, look at those things!"
Yeah, that lasted until I put on a pair of jeans a week later.
The nurse said that today we would try standing up.
Big whoop, right? I could TOTALLY stand up. I was good as new. Come on! Serious--ooooh, I think I'd better sit down.
That was when I understood how sick I really was.
I could only stand for about two minutes before the wooziness took over.
Holy crap.
What had happened.
I had three specialists and their two assistants working my case: a blood specialist, a heart specialist, and a high risk pregnancy doctor (mine and her partner--the one who told me I would need a C-Section).
They eventually all came to the same conclusion: the preeclampsia had caused such severe swelling that my heart and kidneys couldn't cope any longer and I had suffered congestive heart failure. They thought I might have had pneumonia (which I told them was bizarre because I had had absolutely NO cold symptoms whatsoever), and later concluded that it was possible they had misread the scan and MAYBE I had tiny little clots in my lungs. They had no idea. But they agreed I needed treatment. What treatment--well they just couldn't agree on that one.
They wanted me to continue blood thinners. This had always been the plan even before the crisis--for six weeks postpartum, I would continue my lovenox injections. Ah, but did they want me on a QUADRUPLE dose of lovenox or put me on Warfarin? Who wants to give themselves a shot every day, right? Why not a take a pill! So much easier! Who wants to stay in the hospital while they try to get her body adjusted to the perfect dosage of Warfarin? So much easier to just keep taking the lovenox shots! And what about breastmilk?? Does anything get into the breastmilk.
Round and round they went for three days.
I suddenly understood what a bill must feel like in Congress.
One doctor or his assistant would come in and explain the situation and the treatment that had been decided upon.
Perfect, let's move forward.
Doctor Number Two or HIS assistant would arrive and say almost the same thing but a different treatment.
Then my high risk OBGYN arrived and said almost the exact same thing but was on page with the first treatment not the second and was going to have to double check on the whole breastmilk thing.
It was maddening.
Especially when Doctor Two arrived in his hipster-cowboy get up (boots, necktie thing, and large belt buckle with a black vest, crisp white shirt, and square glasses) and his wheeling podium, laptop, and microphone. He'd talk to me, and then narrate EVERYTHING (including his observation of me, "the patient") into his laptop's mic in a heavy Indian accent. It was all Chris and I could do not to burst out in laughter. Seriously?? I mean, I get not wanting to type, but seriously?
Maybe it's a doctor thing that we patients just don't get.
But it would seem talking ABOUT someone like a test subject right in front of her would be rather rude and insensitive.
Maybe I was just loopy.
Eventually, Chris and I said we wanted the quadruple dose of lovenox because it wasn't a breastmilk concern and we already knew those meds, thank you very much.
Besides, it didn't matter which med I took, if I were in any sort of accident, I'd bleed out. They wanted me "fully coagulated" to make sure any MAYBE clots were completely wiped out.
My regular OBGYN sent a liver-doctor friend of hers to relay her regards and didn't come to see me until I was transfered.
I was also on two blood pressure meds, oral diuretics, and iron supplements for six weeks.
I don't know if you've ever had to try blood pressure meds, but they wipe you OUT. In the weeks to come, it took all of my strength and determination to walk from the parking garage to Ronan's NICU room. I'd huff and puff like I was finishing a marathon, but, nope, just a ten minute walk. Eventually, I was cleared to half my dosage, and that helped worlds, but I was still woozy. I wasn't allowed to drive or walk the dog, either.
Not that I could have even if I wanted to.
While in the ICU, I couldn't even have a bowel movement without a nurse helping me get to the little cabinet toilet in my room.
Yeah, you read that right.
I'm sitting on that little metal thing, all dignity gone.
I mean, just gone--no modesty, no pride, no nothing. Nothing humbles you like a bowel movement in ICU. And I thought the suppository in the maternity ward was bad.
Nope.
I'm sitting there, and the nurse starts talking to me about old movies (I had the TV on Turner Classic) and, yeah, taking a dump talking about Cary Grant. We were classy.
Dignity.
I don't have it any more.
By day three in the ICU, a nurse named Rose was determined to get me--smelly, dirty, exhausted, sickly me--to the NICU to see Ronan. And to get that blasted catheter out because we were coming up REAL close on the "catheter has been in long enough to encourage infection" expiration date. She accidentally squirted some on my leg as she pulled that rubber tube out, but, golly, I was so relieved I didn't care. They have wipes for that, anyways. And she finally got a wheelchair and wheeled me out.
That was when I understood what the nurses meant about patients not talking back. The doors to the next rooms were open.
Old men were hooked up to so many tubes and wires, the machines beeping, breathing, beating. Their bodies seemed withered husks. Death was in the hallway.
And I looked away and didn't want to look again. This was where they had me. This was what they were prepared to do for me. What they thought I might become. Something like dread settled over me and I felt that Rose couldn't wheel me quickly enough.
I reach maternity, and finally, finally, FINALLY I can shower. Bathing after days without feels like shedding pounds of grease. I'm like a reptile wiggling out of old skin. I am a new creature, and it is glorious. I begin my strict meds schedule, but they hook it all up so I can have both an IV AND go see Ronan.
I was so very. very tired in those days.
I felt awful because I was only able to visit Ronan about once a day due to the med schedule, trying to breast pump (I hadn't stopped even in the ICU), and exhaustion.
Some thought it was that I was indifferent.
That wasn't the case. I was too sick and tired. I tried not to act like it, but my bones were weary. Everything exhausted me. And still I made sure I could get down the hall to see him until I was too tired or they sent me away.
Maybe I didn't care enough.
I don't know.
I didn't know what to think or feel. I could barely think.
I missed my son. When I held him, everything was okay. The world felt right again.
But then came the meds, and that stupid IV pump that never worked and only beeped incessantly.
Then my limbs ached and my eyelids fell and my head felt light and off kilter.
I moved day through day perky but in a fog.
An emotional, mental, physical fog.
Day by day.
Until they sent me home with a booklet on all the meds I had to take and the instructions for the next six weeks of my life.
I was not happy that night.
The first time I was sent home, I was thrilled--I couldn't leave fast enough.
Now . . . now . . . I had felt nothing but dread. I was leaving my baby, and that was not okay. He was all alone in that little islet and that was not okay. Not okay at all. Can't he come home? Wasn't he allowed to come home?
I asked Chris if there were any cookies or cupcakes at home because, for some reason, I wanted one. I guess, for the first time, I was going to be an emotional eater. There were pumpkin "muffins" with cream cheese icing in the kitchen. My MIL was there making sure stuff was clean for us.
I took my muffin and a mug of milk and went to my bedroom with hardly a word. I sat on the edge of my bed, and I cried and I cried until Chris came home with all of my filled prescriptions. I was so tired but I didn't want to sleep because that's when it had happened. What if I tried to sleep and everything happened again? My heart stops working and I have to go back? I have to do it all again? I don't want to go back, I don't, I don't want to do it again.
And where's my son? Why couldn't I have my son? Why did I have to go home without him? Why didn't I get to go home with my baby in my arms like every other young mother. I had abandoned him in that place and couldn't have him. Why, why, why? It wasn't fair. Nothing was fair.
And it was all my stupid body's fault with my stupid blood condition and it just couldn't handle growing a baby. It was broken. I don't work. And I cried and I cried.
Eventually, I pulled myself together just enough to type something out.
Because I can't process until I write it out.
And all of our FB friends had been following my progress and praying. I wanted to be honest. So I posted this, because it was the only way I knew how to explain my feelings even to myself.
Released from the hospital tonight with six different medications for a month.
As awesome as this is, I'm not nearly as exuberant as I thought I would be. Instead my mind is filled with checklists I can't complete and the fear that something else will go wrong and I'll be back in the ER, still broken. That something will happen to Ronan in the NICU, all alone, and we won't be there.
I am well but not well.
I am a parent but not a parent.
I am home but not at home.
It's going to be a very strange existence this month.
And God is good. All the time.
And I set my phone aside, breathed deeply, and wiped away a tear.
I was not okay.
This whole thing was not okay.
And that was okay.
Because, one day, we could be okay.
And, really, we are.
Ronan has been home for four months and is positively thriving. I went off my meds at the six week mark with a clean bill of health.
But the doctors tell me I have a 50% chance of the same pregnancy experience--the preeclampsia, the early C-Section, the NICU, the swelling. All of it. Of course, they'd handle it differently the next time around. And, of course, that means there's a 50% chance of it NOT happening--I could have a normal delivery and hold my baby the moment it's born and breastfeed and be right, be normal. Be together. Have that feeling of first look and first embrace and first nurse. All the things we missed.
It's a lot of maybes.
Maybes we still don't have answers for.
But that's okay.
