Author: rt@hotmail.com.au

My last pregnancy nearly killed me. I knew from the start there was something very different about this pregnancy. But I never imagined things would play out the way they did. I never associated bleeding with pregnancy, the two just didn’t go together, but this pregnancy I bled the entire time (see my previous blog posts My Precautionary Pregnancy: Praying for Our Happily Ever After and The Top). So much so that at 22 weeks I was taken by ambulance in the dark of night to hospital and that is where I stayed until our beautiful baby girl was born.

Five weeks I spent in my small hospital room, confined to my bed, allowed up only for toileting (although I did experience the bed pan several times) and night time showers where husband would clean me and dress me and put me back in bed. I learnt the hospital by its ceilings as I was wheeled off for various scans, and alien like tests that involved being placed in tiny tubes and injected with dye and laying very still visualizing our family happy, together and complete at the end of all of this. My mornings were filled with medicines, doctors rounds, poking and prodding, canular re-sites every third day and lots of needles. I lived in thick heavy pads that my children called nappies. I became weaker and weaker and my hair grew out of control as I became unkempt, unable to do any self maintenance as my movements were limited to the bare necessities needed to survive. I had a job to do, I had to keep our baby inside me. As the weeks passed the walls of my hospital room filled with artwork from my children. My eldest child’s first day at big school came and went, as did many birthdays and celebrations. I stared at a photo of my children every day and a scan image of our baby growing inside me. They kept me going.

Missing my family terribly I cried, a lot, so much so that social workers and counselors were called in on several occasions.”How can we help you?’ they would ask gently. “You can’t” I would sob loudly. Some days I felt like ending things so I could go home to my kids. I knew if I walked the hallway I would surely bleed enough the doctors would be forced to deliver our baby, but I am her mother, I could never hurt her. So I stayed, in my bed, as still as possible, enduring needle after needle, infusion after infusion, heavy bleeds that left me soaked in blood and clenching to keep our baby inside me, to grow her for longer. I felt fear every night, scared I would wake up in a pool of blood. I had heard the alarms sound several times during my stay on the ward. Running feet followed the alarms and another woman would be rushed into theater. “Please God, don’t let that be me, please let us have a planned delivery at a time safest for baby and me”.

It’s a scary, lonely place when you are told if you deliver early your baby won’t be saved. “But I can feel her kicking inside me, she wants to live!” I would plead with our OB. “All babies want to live” he would solemnly respond. So I made a tally of the days. Each milestone was celebrated quietly. The steroid injections at 24 weeks, the declaration our baby was to be resuscitated at 25 weeks after another bloody scare, her continued weight gain at each growth scan, all celebrated quietly by husband and I as I held on, willing my body to maintain my baby even though the pregnancy was slowly killing me. The uncertainty of our eventual outcome was distressing. One day we would be told we could make it to 32 weeks gestation, the next we were told to prepare for delivery after the next big bleed.

Laying in bed one quiet Sunday in hospital, I listened as my mother discussed outside world events whilst I seethed in pain. After watching me slowly deteriorate my mother’s concern grew. “Call the nurse” she urged. “It’s just back pain from being in bed so long,” I insisted, knowing I already had positional bed sores and joint pain. I had witnessed my youthful fit body become a withered aching mess during my time in hospital. Nearly every movement hurt so I wasn’t surprised by the back pain. But in a blur of a few hours I was in labor ward sobbing, writhing in agony as full blown contractions painfully struck, wave after wave after wave. The contractions had consistently been 2 minutes apart for the better half of the afternoon.

I was given morphine among other narcotics to try and stop the labor. Half an hour of hallucinations later, my husband now at my bedside, the pain returned with full force. Within hours I was pleading for the doctors to deliver my baby. “It’s not a good time, your baby is very small,” they would repeat as if waiting until Monday morning would make the world of difference. Our obstetrician was off duty for the weekend and his stand in was hesitant to deliver. I knew the complexity of our situation, I had regular consults with various doctors about how delivery would take a team of players from different departments and a lot of planning. There was to be interventional radiology, gynecological oncologists, anesthetists, obstetricians, neonatologists, urologists and the list went on. I had been diagnosed with stage 4 placenta previa and placenta increta/percreta with the placenta looking to  invade my bladder. I knew the pressure from laboring would eventually cause me to hemorrhage and jeopardize my life and that of my baby.

I can’t even describe the pain I was in, the fear I felt, the genuine thought I was going to die. I had wanted four kids my entire life, I never imagined my life long dream might cost me my life. At some stage that evening the room filled with doctors. Huddled in small groups they debated my prognosis whilst I begged for them to deliver my baby. Yes I knew she was only 26 weeks gestation, but I am her mum and I also know she is a fighter, and I knew to my core if she wasn’t born that night I would surely die. I heard scary words being tossed about as my temperature continuously rose and my heart rate grew quicker and quicker until my neck veins throbbed and bulged so much the room stopped and stared at me. “Septic”, said one voice, “abrupting” said another as she lay her hand on my contracting belly.

Finally things began moving, I had a catheter inserted with quite the audience to my overgrown nether regions. Arterial lines were put in place and I felt warm blood stream from my wrists as the doctor poked me with needles trying to find veins as I began to hemorrhage. He stitched me like a patchwork bear as he ensured the needle stayed in place. I retched forward and vomited. “As I walk through the shadow of the valley of death I fear no evil” swirled about my head. I looked at my husband now in scrubs. “Tell my kids I love them, tell them every day I love them more than anything. I love you. I love you.” Again I vomited. And with that I was wheeled into theater. I felt a warm pool swell around my crotch and the sensation of water running off the table. I knew if I looked I would see red, I kept focusing on my husband’s worried face. A man in a suit entered the theater and announced he is the gynecological oncologist. I swear I saw a cape flapping in the wind behind him, he would be the man to save my life. Placed onto a cold, hard table, more needles being stabbed into my arms, a face mask held tight against my cheeks, I hear “Rachel, keep your eyes open as long as possible”. I look up at four sets of eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, and then blackness.

Sometime the following day I open my eyes, I see a blurry blue figure approaching me. I can’t move my arms, my hands are strapped to a bed, I can’t talk, I am intubated, I am prisoner in this white sterile room. The figure speaks, “I have seen your baby, she is beautiful”. A tear streams down my cheek and I see darkness once more. In a blur of just over a day I slowly have lines removed. First the intubator is removed, then the arterial lines, next the feeding tube comes out and over the course of just over a week whilst I recover in maternity ward I eventually have my central line and canulars removed and finally the catheter and urine bag is taken away. All the while a small pink stain in the shape of a tiny footprint remains on my right hand. “It’s just some of the antiseptic wash”, nurses tell me. But I like to believe its a sign my baby girl is with me, fighting as I am, so our family can finally be together and complete.

Slowly pieces of the puzzle are handed to me in the week following delivery. The anesthetist visits me, “You are lucky to be alive, you crashed in theater, you had your body’s volume of blood transfusions”. The gynecological oncologist comes to see me, “We removed your uterus, the tubes, your cervix and part of your bladder. The placenta was attached to your bladder but you should be able to wee normally once you are healed. It will take three months before you feel normal again, but many more months to recover”. My mother helps me up for the first time, it is incredibly painful. I look at the wound on my belly, the length of my abdomen is cut, sewn back together and stapled. I can finally see my legs, they are skinny, I have lost most of my muscle mass. But I have not lost my will to live. Clutching my mother and a midwife I stand for the first time post surgery. I am shaky and out of breath. I have had chest pain for weeks now and need follow up with a cardiologist, but I know my heart is strong, it is filled with fear right now but mostly love. I know I need to make it to NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) to meet my baby.

As I see my body, now rearranged, distorted, I cry, “I’m a monster. A patchwork bear monster”. My arms are bruised with puncture marks from the needles, and whilst the swelling has gone from my limbs I see how frail I have become. I have a snake like line down my abdomen and a bandage on my neck from where the central line was removed. Slowly I learn to walk again, my mother washes me, she washes my feet, gently and with the love only a mother can provide. Next she holds my hands and strokes my hair as I have needles removed and bandages taken away. I am urged to go and see my daughter but I am also scared. I held her inside me as long as I could, but I feel guilty.

I am worried I won’t bond with my baby. I hear other babies on the ward scream and their mothers comfort them whilst I pump breast milk into a sterile plastic container. All I hear is the mechanical motion of the breast pump. But the day comes when I have enough strength to be taken in a wheel chair to meet my daughter. As I am pushed towards her humidicrib I am overcome with anxiety. I have washed my hands several times and am fearful I might hurt her. The cover is lifted from her crib and I see my baby for the first time, perfectly formed, tiny and covered in lines connected to large machinery keeping her alive. Then she cries. I didn’t know such a small baby could cry but in that instant I am scrambling to comfort her. My mothering instinct is in gear and I want to hold my baby immediately.

I am allowed to place my hand inside a small window in her crib. It is like placing my hand inside my womb. I touch her tiny hand and she grabs hold. She quickly settles and I watch as her legs stretch out. These are the movements I felt inside me. A few days later and I am allowed to hold her. Nervous at first, I am in pure bliss when she is placed on my naked chest. She snuggles between my breasts and I am in love. All my physical pain slips away and for the first time in months I am calm.

I am now home and on the long road to recovery and husband and I are learning how to be NICU parents. The endless waiting to hold our baby, the process it takes to touch our baby, to cradle her. All the things most parents of newborns take for granted. When I was pregnant I would see other pregnant mothers holding their toddlers, going about their lives as normal,  whilst I was wheeled around in a wheel chair on the few outings I had, my toddler unable to be held by me, my kids not being chased by me. And now as a mother of a newborn, instead of coming home to a bassinet filled with love, I come home to an expressing station and a diary charting my breast milk production, a box filled with medications and a large cut that will take time to heal. Uncertainty looms over our future. Our baby’s early delivery and the circumstances surrounding it and what impact this might have on her can’t be known for months, even years. And any phone call makes us jump. But we are alive, we are alive! My baby is a fighter, and whilst I grapple with the guilt that I could have done more for her, I know I am also a fighter and I did fight for her and for me. We fought and we won!

 

Well we made it. We are officially on top! On top of our OB’s hierarchy of high risk pregnancies. It’s a title I am not happy obtaining but we have been dealt this hand so we must play this game. Our first 19 weeks has been a waiting game interspersed with bed rest, activity restrictions, vertigo, hypermesis, hospital visits and lots of tears as we watched a hematoma grow beside our precious baby. I should have been excited going into our 19 weeks scan, the one where you can find out the sex and get pics of your baby giving perhaps a hint of whom he or she will resemble. But I cried before the scan, during the scan and after the scan. It seems our troubles are only just beginning.

As the sonographer scans my belly I see a huge growth taking up nearly the entire screen. Relieved to hear it isn’t the hematoma I am shocked when I am told its my placenta, occupying the lower third of my uterus and our baby is squished between it and the hematoma that now sits above. “Tell me the sex” I demand between sobs determined to have something positive to take away from this day. Most of the scan is spent looking at the placenta and measuring the hematoma. As we realise the severity of our situation I begin to wail so loudly that the sonographer has to stop scanning.

Two days later we see our OB. He tells me with a straight face that I have complete placenta previa and an extremely rare condition know as placenta accreta. He then tells us I will have a hysterectomy. I begin sobbing loudly. I am aware our OB is a busy man and has other patients waiting but I can’t contain my shock and grief. I am grateful our OB is also a patient and caring man and he waits whilst I wipe away my tears and his face comes back into focus, showing genuine concern. I retain my composure and we discuss the anticipated series of events. We realise our life as we know it will be turned upside down in a matter of a few short months. Our baby will be born any time after 28 weeks depending on how things progress. I will be hospitalised at 32 weeks providing we make it to that point and will then have an MRI and a decision on when to have a cesar will be made. Our OB says he is now more concerned for my life than our baby’s but assures us he will have a team of doctors and specialists ready to ensure things go smoothly.

I leave our appointment feeling relieved in a sense as we are more certain than ever in this pregnancy that we will get our baby at the end of all of this. But at what cost, I now begin to question. Am I going to die? Am I going to have blood transfusions? Am I really losing my uterus at the age of 31? Is this really happening? Determined to look on the bright side I begin chiding husband about baby names. We discuss how we might need to buy tiny prem clothes and how we should research breastfeeding and expressing and all things breast milk, mother natures most powerful source of nutrients, so we can be prepared. But can we ever really prepare for something as dramatic as this?

At the start of our pregnancy I had told husband he was only needed at our first appointment, our 12 week and 19 week scans and our appointment before C-Day (cesarean day). Yet here he was, holding my hand as he has been throughout this journey so far, and as he continues to do, having come to every appointment and every scan. And now looking at coming to numerous more appointments as we edge closer to our goals of making it to 28 weeks, then 32 weeks and hey, 35 weeks would be amazing! I tell him I know he has work, I know he is in negative leave as he has already taken so much time off to look after me and our children, to hold our family together. I tell him I will be okay going it alone for a while. He shakes his head, he won’t have a word of it. He will be there at every scan, at every appointment, on every step of this journey holding my hand. Clearly I have more luck on my side to have him by my side.

Over the coming weeks we are aiming to keep things as normal as possible for our family. Our kids have struggled enough with the changes around our house with me being unable to do so much of what was so normal to us before. We move up our plans to get a larger family car to accommodate another baby. I write lists of what needs to be done to ensure our eldest’s transition into big school runs as smoothly as possible, especially now as we know within her first term of Kindergarten I will be in hospital, possibly for weeks. We discuss with our children how we need to be extra careful around “Mummy’s belly” and how I can hold them once more in my arms and cuddle them tight by the time our eldest turns six. She just turned 5! We make more plans to do a weekly swim together so I can hold my babies, weightless in the water, free of earth’s concerns.

I am scared but I am strong. In all of this we will grow as parents and partners, relying on eachother for emotional strength and support more than ever before. We are being forced to trust more than we have ever trusted, have greater faith than ever before and and be stronger for eachother and our children than we thought we were capable of being.

Its funny how friends, family, the wider community and even strangers can react when you are facing difficult times. During my parenting journey so far there have been countless happy times and mixed in with these have been some challenging hurdles. People generally love to lavish with you in the good times, although not always. But I have found it’s the tough times that really test a relationship.

Thinking back on our parenting journey thus far I can clearly identify a few tumultuous times when I was able to see how strong my relationship with my husband (my parenting partner) is and how little some of the usual suspects seemed to care for us in times of need. When I had my secondary PPH after our first child was born, only three people stood beside my hospital bed as my body fought the infection that could have easily claimed my life; my husband, my mother and my infant daughter. When our middle child fractured her eye socket, again those people stood by supporting our child, yet we also now had grandparents from both sides helping to support us. And now as we tackle me being on bed rest whilst our unborn child fights against a SCH our circle of support has dramatically widened to now also include close friends and members of our local congregation, play morning, preschool and neighbors.

It has been said time and time again that it takes a village to raise a child. Yet it also should be noted it takes a village to raise a family; to support parents growing these families. We are certainly extremely grateful for the frozen and fresh meals, the books and DVD’s lent and given to occupy my mind, the prayers and encouraging phone calls and messages and for our friends that come round simply to check in on us and stay for a chat. We are also so appreciative of our own parents who have cooked, cleaned, babysat and called continuously to ensure we are supported as we play the waiting game, preparing for the worst yet hoping for the best. And I am so incredibly thankful for my husband, who has showered me, dressed me, fed me, brought me my medicines, wiped away my tears and held my hand. We know the journey is long, we know it is hard, and we know we have each other. And my beautiful children, who make me smile every day; my Miss 3 who on the weekend held my hand as I was punctured by needle after needle in emergency, my Miss 5 who gently pats my belly and talks to our baby each night before bed, drawing her pictures and picking her flowers, and our Master 18 months old who distracts me from the reality of what is happening with his cheeky grin and sweet laughter.

Bed rest isn’t quite as endearing as it sounds. Sure for a day it might be okay, to sloth about in your bed, food brought to you by your loved ones. But it gets tired, really fast. By week 2 my bum hurt, as did my back and neck. My legs were hairier than I have ever seen as I couldn’t bend to shave. Husband offers to help me but I refuse, I want to keep our romance alive after all. By week 7 I give in and he shaves my legs, noting himself that he would make a good nurse, and I admit, after weeks of him running our household solo and pandering to my every need he really is a wonderful carer. Week 3 and I start feeling dizzy, look pale as clean snow and have my hair cut short because standing for showers makes me woozy so the less upkeep I have, the better. I up my does of Metamucil, staying still doesn’t do much for your bowels. The orange smell the medicine emits will never be erased from my memory.

Week 5 brings with it vertigo so severe it induces constant vomiting and I am whisked to hospital. The sunlight is so bright yet with the spinning and nausea I am unable to enjoy its warmth. I venture out in week 6 as strict bed rest  is downgraded to modified bed rest with me being “as lazy as possible”. For so long my only outings have been for weekly scans and now my mother drives me and my daughters to a local dance shop to get concert items. I sit as the kind shopkeeper fusses over my girls fetching all the accessories we require. I stand to pay and my heart starts thumping, hard, fast. I feel hot, really hot. My head hurts, did someone wack me with a bat? I see stars, then feel searing pain across my abdomen. It is crippling, I know something is very wrong. I try to sit. My chest tightens. In a blur I arrive at hospital. Swiftly I am on a bed with crisp white sheets. My daughters watch wide eyed as my vision is blurred by tears. Husband is now by my side. Then I feel the familiar and terrifying gush of blood. I am pricked with needles, fluid courses through my veins. I can’t move my head, the vertigo starts if I do. I am told to let whatever will be, be. But I can’t. As long as my baby is okay I can endure anything.

By week 8 husband is being sent back to work. I worry how I will cope. On modified bed rest, my activities limited whilst our baby fights against the SCH, finally she is growing bigger and faster and the hematoma isn’t. My placenta is now low lying. By 20 weeks the hematoma must be gone and my placenta moved upwards. Our baby must stay strong and win this fight. Husband and I put plans in place, our household will be run with military precision to avoid all unnecessary lifting, bending, movements. So shaken by this experience, of a high risk pregnancy, our OB refers me to a psychologist. Clearly he has seen anxiety rise within me, some days rendering me a blubbering mess as I vanish into invisibility as life unfolds around me.

Our children have all reacted differently. Miss 5 years old has coped by ignoring me, only starting to reconnect once I was more accessible on my place on the couch or our outdoor seating. Miss 3 has thrown tantrums daily, sometimes all day. She has relished in snuggling in with me when she is overwhelmed with emotion and despaired when I have been unable to take her to preschool, to sit with her in the sand pit, to play at the park with her. Master 18 months old stopped breastfeeding within the first week of bed rest, pulling my top down and shaking his head. He enjoys his time on my bed, reading books and playing peek a boo. He cried when I couldn’t pick him up, he still does. And I have cried, a lot. I am an observer of my own family, missing so much yet seeing so much.

When I reflect on all the responses, many of which are helpful and thoughtful, some reactions have been both surprising and upsetting. First there are the family members or friends who you would expect would be first to call in times of need, who simply vanish, no word, no nothing. I question why this hurts; because I know I would be there for them. Then there are the mildly spoken responses to our situation, with comments about how we already have three healthy kids so if the worst happens, it should be acceptable to lose a baby, we should be able to cope better, we have more than enough joy already. It is never acceptable. The pain will never be diminished. If anything, we know from the immense love we have for our three walking children, we already love this baby incredibly and unconditionally, deeper than the deepest oceans and further than the moon and back. I understand people, nurses, doctors, friends are all trying to reason a way around this situation, but forgoing our emotions is a mistake. We have watched our baby wave her arms about as if conducting a symphony orchestra during our scans, we have seen her grow bigger and stronger week by week and we have loved her since before she was even conceived. We want her more than anything, she is our missing piece, our finishing touch to our family.

This journey has had its set backs, and we hope we have seen the last of those. We know the road ahead is uncertain and we will need to remain strong. Telling me not to worry, not to fight, is inconceivable. I am this baby’s mother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Nothing! Prayers and positivity, support and love is what our family needs. And we hope that anyone else out there going through a difficult time, or even a joyous chapter, has the unconditional love, support, connection and communication from their family, friends and community, because it takes a village to raise a family, to raise the parents who grow these families.

 

A week ago everything was perfect. Then I go to the toilet and bright red blood streams into the bowl. I yell, “No, no, no, please no!” and clench my legs shut. If I can keep the blood in maybe my baby will be okay? Knowing this precious life inside me is now in jeopardy I race to find the phone. But who do I call first? My Obstetrician? My husband? An ambulance? Tears are streaming down my face and my two daughters follow me asking questions I can’t even hear over my loud sobs. After many frantic calls I collapse to the ground, and feeling my hair wet from tears pressing against my hot cheeks, I anguish over what kind of a world it will be if I lose this life that I love so deeply.

I lay on the grey carpet waiting for help to arrive. Does nobody care that I am losing my baby right now, here on the floor of my home, surrounded by my children yet utterly alone? I think of those women who have lost babies. You know who they are, their sad stories whispered in secret by other mums. You have made eye contact with them knowing what pain they have endured, but until this moment I never fully understood the immense and all consuming loss and grief they had experienced. Finally the ambulance arrives and at that moment  husband and my mother in law walk through the front door. They look at me with concern and sadness, an almost pitting look. I understand why. I am only 9 weeks along in this pregnancy, we all know there is nothing we can do to save this precious life. I continue praying anyway.

After a quick assessment the paramedics agree husband can take me to see our obstetrician. He is the only person I want to see right now and I want to see him, right now! The traffic is awful but we eventually make it to his rooms. I sit legs crossed, tears melting into my cheeks as they flow steadily. I notice the look on our obstetrician’s face before he begins the scan. I haven’t seen this look before and I know it isn’t good. But amazingly as he scans my uterus we see our baby and a heartbeat! Our baby is alive! All praise the Lord, what a blessing! Yet I can’t rejoice quite yet, there is a cause for the heavy bleed. A hematoma sits beside our baby, silently threatening our pregnancy and our baby’s life.

Over the following week whilst on bed rest I google and become familiar with hematomas, and also frequent nightmares that follow such terrifying information. I dream of our baby, I see her, she is perfect, she has green eyes and blonde hair, but there are spirits trying to take her away from us. I won’t let that happen, I hold her tight and tell them, “NO!!!!!”

Today I go to see our obstetrician for a follow up. We hope for good news as the bleeding has stopped. My belly is scanned, our baby has grown, she waves at us. Then beside her we see the hematoma, it too has grown. Our obstetrician tells us he is now anxious and we are not out of the woods, yet. I hold onto that yet. I question him. Many questions. He is surprised by my knowledge of hematomas. I follow his instructions carefully, another week of bed rest, but stricter, no getting up to sit with my children on the floor as we play blocks, no going in the car to watch their swimming lessons, no nothing. I wonder how we will cope with these new restrictions. But I also know we will do anything to keep our baby alive.

Tomorrow husband will cancel our weekend activities; our holiday and our daughters birthday plans will be put on hold. He will assign cake duty to his mother and begin reign as a full time SAHD (Stay At Home Dad). We had so many hopes for this pregnancy given it will be our last. We had organised a special way to announce our happy news to family and friends, we had discussed when to upgrade the car, what to name this baby, how our family will be complete when she is born in May next year. But now, after everything else is stripped away, we see at the root of everything the only thing that matters is that our baby survives. We prayed for this baby, we want her more than anything.  It is going to be a very long week and an even longer 28 weeks as we count down to C-Day (cesarean day) hoping that when it arrives so does our baby, kicking and screaming, healthy and very much alive.