Year to the date

Easter, April 12, 2009 I write this for me. To capture the moments that seem so surreal to me. To document our families history. One year ago our families journey took a different path and changed our lives forever. I do believe we have been changed for the better.

April 13, 2009. One year ago to the day. My world changed. I changed. My marriage changed. The doctor told me my blood pressure was dangerously high. He talked about pre- eclampsia, strokes, death for me and my baby. Go straight to the hospital. Get tested. Wait. I called Ben and he came. For 6 days I lay in the hospital bed with the lights off. Nurses came and went, whispered instructions, administered medication. Doctors came and went. It is too soon for the baby. We will try to keep her in for as long as we can, as long as you are healthy. Be prepared for what ever comes. Breathe deeply. Move your legs, lay on your side. The steady heartbeat of my baby filled the room until I couldn’t even stand the noise of that. A blanket was placed over the monitor so I didn’t watch it. The blood pressure cuff went off again. I relaxed, waiting for the unbearable squeezing to begin. Praying that it would show the numbers I wanted. My arm was bruised from the incessant squeezing. The nurse switched arms every few hours. Pleading to go outside I was granted a wheel chair ride into the sunshine. I soaked in the fresh air and squeezed the new grass between my toes. My senses were acutely aware of every sign of spring. My heart was grateful to experience it. Back to the room, exhausted buoyed up. Everything was going to be fine. I could stay here for three more months, for as long as I needed to. Tiny tapping shoes racing down the hall. Four children dressed in their Easter best tiptoe into my room. Stop, and gradually warm up to me again. I pull out the rice crispy I had kept for lunch and bribed them to my bed with it. How was church? How did the kids do? Who will watch them tomorrow? Ben looking exhausted steadily answered “fine, we were late. We missed the sacrament. Your mom.” I need to be home. I need to help my family. I am in charge. I know where everything is at. Hugs and kisses and the visit is over. I am physically and emotionally exhausted. My prayer, “please bless my family. Please keep them safe. Give me strength to do this.” Ben arrives with Sunday dinner from my mom. I can’t eat it I am too sick. Something is wrong, my head hurts so badly. I can do this, my pain is nothing. Ben goes home my dad comes to keep watch. He reads. I lay still in a dark quiet room. He taps his leg against the bed. The movement sends shock waves through my body. Something is changing. Hold on the pain will go away. Nurses bring icepacks and administer more medication, high blood pressure, pain. Nothing seems to be helping. It is getting worse. Ice packs are wrapped around my neck. Surely this will help. The doctor comes and watches my blood pressure reading. It is high too high. IV drugs are administered while he watches. Nothing works. I cry for Ben to come. Dad holds the icepacks on my neck and head. I can’t see anything. Where is Ben, I need him, make him come. I can feel him enter the room and take over my dads place. People whisper. It is not working. We can’t give her any more medication. The doctor explains that Ben would be dead on the amount of medication they have given me. Phone calls are made to doctors in Salt Lake. We can’t wait any longer. The baby has to come now. My brain is swelling. Please, I beg. Please stop. It is too early I can hold out. No. We have to decide now. The room breaks apart. Bright lights are turned on. Nurses and doctors hurry in. My clothes are gone. My body is being shaved. This isn’t happening. I already decided that I could do this. I could keep my baby where she needs to be. This isn’t happening. A bitter liquid is forced through my lips, a catheter is inserted. I am completely in the control of other people. Sign here. Are you allergic to anesthetic? Ben yells from the corner of the room “she wants her tubes tied.” Sign here. This can’t be real. I am going to die. What will happen to my family? The gurney moves. People shout. Get the OR ready. I am so sick. I can’t move my head I think it will explode. Please give me something for the pain. Just take the part away that is hurting. The OR looks like an unorganized closet. It is so bright. I ask for sunglasses. The light hurts my eyes. My body is shaking, bouncing off the table. Finally a nurse brings a warm blanket and wraps it around my head. Thank you. Turn over. Place the spinal. Pain rockets through my body and I yell out. I am so scared. Try again. The pain soars through my legs, my body shudders. Can my family hear me screaming in the hall? Sit up. Try again. I gripped the nurse until it was done sobbing the whole time. Andrea, we are sorry we have to start. You might feel something. Pain, searing, pain and then blessed numbness. Stay with us. How is your head? Is the pain going away? We are almost there. Quiet. Quiet. One faint kitten cry. She’s beautiful. We will take her to the other room. She will be fine. What’s her name? Grace. Fitting. Please make my head stop hurting. Make it stop. We are done. I look over and see the blood soaked table. What happened?
Recovery. New medication for the pain, stern reminders from the nurse, breathe Andrea breathe. Slipping into unconsciousness.
Awake, watching the IV. This will make you feel very sick. You will want to crawl out of your skin. It will help your blood pressure. I am burning from the inside out. My nose and throat are on fire. I need a fan. I can’t stand it. I can’t move. I cry. The nurse asks what she can do for me. The anesthesiologist comes. What can he do? They bring me diet coke. Fluid pours off my body. All of my organs are finally releasing it; they don’t need to be protected anymore. 2, 5, 10, pounds and more of fluid.
It is time. Time to see Grace. I can go for a little bit, and then rest. Surreal. We enter the dark room. In an incubator are wires and wires and tubes and things and a tiny bird like baby. My heart leaps into my throat as I cry out. My body retches and pulls at my incision. She was ripped from my body. Oh my baby. My baby. I can see her ribs. Her skin is transparent. Her head is so tiny. Her feet are so huge. She moves like she did when she was in me. That’s what she was doing. It is time to give her a bath. Here is the cloth. It is so rough. I think it will hurt her. Pick up her head. It fit into the palm of my hand, the size of a mandarin orange. I cried. I am so sorry, so sorry that I failed you that I didn’t keep you in longer. What will your life be like? Hold her. Placed on my chest. Relaxing into the sheer joy and pain. Leaning into Ben. We can do this, together.