August 17, 2004
LDS Hospital
Approximately 3 hours after checking in
The lights in my room had been dimmed
creating a soft, warm glow. I lay there soaking up the wonder of all that lay
ahead. The familiar rhythm of Rob’s snoring kept me company. It was 2 a.m. and I
occupied a unit on the Labor and Delivery Ward in LDS Hospital. The room was
larger than I’d expected and felt comfortable. It had hardwood floors, a couch,
TV, rocking chair, fold-out bed and private bathroom.
With Rob
asleep, I fixed my eyes on the monitor positioned at my right. Its bright
screen was alive with information. It depicted two moving graphs, one measured
my baby’s heartbeat, the other my contractions. I was captivated by this data.
Each time my abdomen tightened, I waited with an eager sense of anticipation
for a small peak to crawl its way onto the lower half of the screen.
We’d already
been there three hours and according to the nurse’s prediction, we had several
more to go. I was grateful to have Rob at my side. Earlier he’d read to me from
The Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency.
Although I enjoyed listening to him read, I suggested he get some sleep as I’d
need his support in the morning. I also tried to rest, as much as possible,
amidst the energy of my swirling emotions—I was about to have my first baby!
My arms
ached with excited anticipation—at last, I was going to hold him! I couldn’t
wait to see his face. Who would he look like? Would he have blue eyes and
blonde hair like me or brown hair and eyes like Rob? How big was he going to
be? How much would he weigh?
Amidst the thrill of knowing I would
soon get to embrace the baby I planned to call David Robert, I worried about the
hardships of childbirth. Just how difficult was it going to be? When should I
request an epidural? Would there be any complications? What if there were?
I reminded
myself of the many prayers I’d said and the calm assurance I’d received from
the Spirit. I decided to have faith. Things were progressing smoothly and there
wasn’t any reason for concern. The contractions didn’t even feel painful yet. I
needed to relax and wait and enjoy the relief of knowing the pregnancy would
soon be over.
As my
contractions gradually got stronger, I noticed the peaks on the monitor’s
screen get bigger. Somewhere in the midst of watching those peaks rise and
fall, my nurse entered the room. “I’m not sure if I should be concerned. Your
baby’s heart rate dropped with the past two contractions, but then quickly
returned,” she informed me.
“Is that a
problem?” I asked.
"Let’s try
moving you onto your left side and giving you oxygen. Sometimes that helps.”
The nurse
helped me roll over. Then she placed an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose.
“Let’s see if this makes a difference,” she said. After typing some information
into the computer, she left.
I was left alone with my thoughts
again. How should I interpret this information? Should I be concerned? What did
a drop in heart rate mean? How was oxygen going to help?
Maybe I should’ve asked these
questions when the nurse was still in the room, but she handled the situation
in such a calm, efficient manner. Because she didn’t appear to be concerned, I
decided not to worry.
Now that I was lying on my left side
I could no longer see the monitor’s screen, so I closed my eyes. “Relax and
wait,” I told myself.
Suddenly an acute bolt of pain
wrapped itself around my abdomen and reverberated through my pelvis. A large,
warm gush of fluid rushed out of me. What was that? Something didn’t feel
right.
I reached my hand down and brought it
back up. It was covered with a vivid, deep red—blood—an alarmingly large
amount!
I fumbled around the bed linen, my
heart pounding as I searched for the buzzer. As soon as I grasped its cold,
hard contours I pushed my thumb firmly against the red button. “Can you call my
nurse, I’m bleeding!” I exclaimed.
“It’s normal to bleed a little during
labor,” replied the voice at the other end.
I was surprised. How could they be so
casual? I’d begun to hemorrhage and needed help. “It’s not a little, it’s a
lot!” I urgently asserted.
“OK, we’ll send someone over.”
It didn’t take long for the nurse to
arrive. After one quick glance at the soiled sheet beneath me, she left in
search of a resident doctor.
“Rob you need to wake up,” I called
out to the darkened corner of the room, “I’m going to have an emergency
C-section.” Instinctively I knew this, even before the doctor’s verdict.
The resident arrived within minutes. After
a brief introduction he asked, “Do you know if you have a low-lying placenta?”
“I did. After the third ultrasound I
was told it had resolved.”
“I’m going to need to check your
ultrasound records.”
Why waste time looking at records? I
was bleeding heavily—something needed to be done! I wanted my doctor, not this young resident who was unfamiliar with my case.
Right then a high pitched beep
pierced the air. It sounded the alarm—my baby’s heart rate had plummeted.
Within an
instant the resident’s demeanor changed as he took charge of the emergency.
Glancing in my direction he announced, “We’re going to get this baby out of
you!” Then he turned to the nurse, “Get Dr. S. on the phone and notify
him.” This command was followed by a rapid string of medical orders.
With a hurried pace he stripped the
band attached to the monitor from my belly and removed the oxygen mask. Then he
rushed my bed out of the room and down the hallway. As I left, I heard Rob
speaking to his parents on the phone, informing them of the situation.
It was a
short distance to the operating room. I was surprised to see people already
there when I arrived. A slender operating table occupied the center of the
room. My bed was pushed up against it. The nurse grabbed my ankles and lifted
my legs, while the doctor took hold of my shoulders. In one swift movement they
lifted my body from the bed and onto the operating table.
Directly above me, my eyes met with
the glare of a bright light. Its intensity made the edges of the room look
dark. To the left of the operating table a counter boasted an impressive
display of shiny instruments carefully laid out on a blue cloth. Several
figures in blue scrubs moved quickly about. I searched for Dr. S.,
but none of my attendants wore his familiar face.
I felt another warm wave of blood
gush out of me. And another. My heart raced so fast I struggled to breathe.
Quick, short, choppy breaths were all I could manage. My arms and legs shook
uncontrollably. A sick, nauseous feeling churned inside my stomach. I felt
dizzy. “You need to relax and breathe deeply,” the nurse ordered.
“Is, is my baby going to be OK?” I stammered.
My voice sounded feeble amidst the urgent activity around me.
A new pair of eyes greeted mine as a
figure in blue leaned over me. It was the anesthetist. White hair protruded
from the sides of his surgical cap and his face bore the lines of a seasoned practitioner.
“We’re prepping you for general anesthesia,” he explained. With quick,
well-trained movements he injected something into the IV in my hand. Next an
oxygen mask glided over my face—it covered my mouth and nose.
With the
mask came a smothering sensation. I couldn’t breathe. I needed to suck air in
through my nose or mouth, but I couldn’t. A stifling pressure built up in my
lungs. I was going to explode. I needed air! I ripped the mask away from my
face. Immediately it was replaced and held down by a firm hand.
A peculiar,
sick sensation crept over my body. I was slipping away. I wanted to fight to
stay present. But against my best determination, I soon found myself enveloped
in quiet darkness. No longer aware of the medical proceedings. No longer afraid
and panic-stricken. All around me was now calm and still.
