(Posted every June 8th - originally written 6 years prior . . . )
Do you believe in second chances? At one time, I just wasn't so sure.
I thought I had life all figured out. I knew who I was and what I
wanted, and I was well on my way to what I had always dreamed of. What
did I need a second chance for, anyway?
But sometimes?
Well, sometimes life just happens. You aren't expecting it. You have all
these plans. You know that this plus this will equal that and that is
what you feel will bring fulfillment. Yet, then ~ then life takes a
turn. And you find yourself in a situation you never imagined ~ one you
could never have dreamed. And this event? It changes who you are, what
you value, and what you hold dear.
Life for me began with
the birth of my son ~ an event that came with joy, with heartache, with
trials, and with several ups and downs that we personally never saw
coming. But isn't that how life works?
Eli was born June
8th, 2004 via c-section at 2:27 a.m. after my laboring for forty
forevers I swear. He had traumatic birth injuries, which included a
battered and bruised up head and a broken nose. That dream I had just
weeks before where Eli told me he was stuck? By gosh he sure was.
He
wasn't exactly that little pink bundle of baby that some are, but he
was ours, and we were smitten. David especially. His first child ~ his
son. All those insecurities he had about being a father? Went straight
out the window the first time he held him. It was as though David had
been a father all his life, so easily did he take up the role.
It
wasn't all happily-ever-after just yet for my family, though. We did
not do the stay a few nights, put on the going-home outfit, take tons of
pictures, and then go home. I have no clue what my son wore home, and
there are no pictures of that event. There were so many things that I
missed ~ so many firsts I never had with my baby. For instead of doing
all things mommy, I was full-force into the greatest challenge I have
ever faced ~ and hope I never face the likes of which again.
I
stared death in the face Friday, June 11th, 2004. That night, my heart
rate registered close to 200. My oxygen level dropped to a registered
40. With my husband on my left pleading me to breathe, a nurse on my
right staring at the numbers on the machine not really knowing just what
to do, and my mother standing in the corner holding my son who cringed
with each cry I had in pain, I left myself for a brief moment. I stood
there looking in from the doorway. I saw it all happening before me. It
was odd, me standing there, but I only had one thought: "God don't take
me yet. Please." My intentions were purely selfish ~ I knew my husband
needed me to help raise our son.
I was transferred to ICU
that night, where I would remain for nearly a week. I would sit in my
ICU room, waiting for the brief ten-minute sessions my husband could
come visit every two hours. I did not speak much. I never asked of my
son. Truth be told, I rarely gave him a second thought. I had no idea
what my baby looked like, who was taking care of him, where he was ~
nothing. I only knew that the doctors really had no clue what was wrong
with me. And that I would give anything for something to drink ~ more
specifically grape juice or a coke from Sonic. I went for nearly two
weeks with nothing by mouth. Nothing meant I could not swallow ice
chips. I could not brush my teeth. Eating was out of the question. Yet,
every single thought was clouded by just how much I wished for an
ice-cold glass of grape juice. My husband would come, sit, hold my hand
& tell me of how he wished we could trade places ~ of how sorry he
was I was experiencing this. And I would stare at him thinking "well by
God if I was standing here visiting you, I would leave after my ten
minutes and go sit out in the waiting room drinking me a huge glass of
grape juice. Then I would go to Sonic and get that Coke. And I would
drink the entire time I was out there". That, my friends, is what I was
consumed with.
Guilt? Yes, I still to this day have the
guilt. I wonder how I could possibly care so much for grape juice and
not give one lick about my son and his well being.
What I
have come understand? I couldn't let myself care. I did not want to see
my son. I did not want to see that face - to hold him - if he was going
to be taken away again. It was too much hurt to let myself get close
only to know that it wouldn't last.
Meanwhile, I was in a
daily fight against something unknown. My doctors had test after test
after test performed, never really finding an answer. Maybe we should
check your kidneys? Yes, we'll do a dye test on your kidneys. Well, that
wasn't it so maybe we should try another CT scan with contrast. Nope,
nothing there. Meanwhile my daily chest x-rays are looking worse and
worse. I remember telling my nurse "what they are doing just isn't
working". Yet each day, I was pushed in my bed down to x-ray, the rows
of lights passing and passing as I look up. And the smells of the back
halls. The stares from people as I am pushed past. Where's David? And
then there he is, sitting holding my hand. My NG tube unplugged.
Transferred to the tank of oxygen. Having to maneuver from bed to hard
x-ray mat, and requiring the help of three persons to do so with all
attached. And still nothing.
I'm finally transferred back
to a regular room. I have had two units of someone's blood transfused in
my body. My belly has swollen to two times the size of me at 9 months
with Eli. I'm still not allowed to drink anything. There are photos that
show I held my son - briefly for I stayed in pain - but I have no
recollection. I opt for a central-line to be placed in my neck, as the
nurses have blown every single vein in both my arms. By far this was the
best decision we made during my 25 days.
And then
Saturday, June 19th comes along and with it an angel - Nurse Gloria. She
comes in that Saturday morning and doesn't say much to me, even though
my back is in spasms and I'm begging for something for pain. She tells
me "just a minute sweetie". And she goes out to call the surgeon and the
OB. The surgeon? He doesn't think he's needed; yet she insists and
prevails. The surgeon comes, and she has my chart flagged with all the
places he needs to consider. After looking it over, I meet him only to
find that in two hours I will have emergency surgery.
It
isn't known for a fact and written down for all to see, but I can tell
you that Gloria saved my life that day. My surgery took over an hour.
What we now know? During my c/s I tore. Pretty bad. Two of my arteries
in my uterus were cauterized. Every time they would get one area of
bleeding stopped, another would start. I was open for some time during
all this, putting me at risk for infection. During that emergency
surgery, the surgeon found over a liter of infection between my pelvis
and uterus. I had a partial bowel obstruction. My lungs were filling up
with nearly 2L of fluid.
I must tell you, I have no known
greater fear than that day. When my husband stood by my side with tears
in his eyes, I was afraid. I did not think I was strong enough for this
surgery. I did not think I would live to see myself open my eyes. My
husband was going to have to plan my funeral, my son grow up without a
mother. I wanted this whole experience to just be over. I didn't want to
do this anymore. I was tired of being poked, prodded. I wanted to go
home.
I woke up in ICU on a ventilator the next day. I am
told I received two more units of blood (God bless those angels that
donated). There is a piece of paper I still have where I wrote to my
nurse. This paper includes things like "where is my husband“ I want my
husband" and "did they find anything". I would signal for someone to
take my mittens off, never opening my eyes. I would write to them and
they would answer. I wrote "Happy Father's Day" to David, for that
Sunday when I woke up was, indeed, his first Father's Day.
I
remember when they took out my ventilator. When my husband came up that
day, I took off my oxygen mask and spoke as quickly as I could before
the machines beeped that my level was too low. I told him this: "He
carried me. David, God carried me" ~ just like in the Footprints poem.
June
23rd I met my son for what I remember as the first time. He did not
care that I had a line in my neck or a mask on my face. He did not care
that my arms were nothing but bruises, and that I had to have help just
to hold him. He did not care that his mommy could only manage to hold
him for a few minutes at the time. It did not matter that I had never
fed him, or changed him, or that I wasn't there at night to put him to
sleep or feed him at 3 AM when he was starving. Nor did it matter that I
missed his first sponge bath and his first real bath. It only mattered
that I was there. You could see in his eyes that even though I hadn't
been there? He knew me. Before I knew him, he knew me. And he loved me.
This,
my friends, is my story. This is my defining moment in life. For this
experience changed me. I found an inner strength I never knew existed. I
found that friends and family and even people I have never met prayed
for me and thought of me during that time. I found that my husband is my
rock and he was there for me when I could do no more than wish for
coke. I found a love inside me bigger than life itself ~ a love for a
little boy with a crooked nose that loved me when I was afraid to love
him.
I had a hard time dealing with this, my 25 days.
There were tears. There was anger. There are still pains and physical
scars that may never go away. I still find my heart in my throat when
the doors to the postpartum floor open and it takes all that is in me to
step off when all I want to do is run. The sight of the x-ray hallway
brings a pain to my heart and I feel I may suffocate. I am terrified of
being stuck for an IV. I fear being put to sleep for surgery. And we now
know that there will be no more babies for my body.
I
still have very little memories of things that happened before all this ~
meaning those memories from childhood are sketchy at best and what was
high school again? I don't remember much about college or the things I
did. I remember very little about dating David, and just a few things
about being pregnant.
I'm making new memories, though.
David, Eli and I ~ we're having our own firsts. Each day is some little
thing - some little moment I treasure. We've moved from cuddling in the
big bed to sleeping in the big boy bed. (
And now we're down the hall with legos on the top bunk, bed on the bottom) We like Elmo, but have a bigger love for
the movie Cars. (
Cars will always have a special place in our heart but Captain America, the Avengers & Lego Ninjago are our loves. We still love playing with friends, love to play baseball and think dangerous animals are awesome) Waffle House beats
out chicken nuggets any day. (
And probably always will!). And I'm mommy ~ I get
the best hugs and mouth sugar (
Yup, I'm still The Best). Memories, my friends, which will be there
for me when I'm old and have great-grandchildren someday.
What
do I hope to teach you be telling you my experience? Well, it's not the
lesson of never let Dr. Eikelberry do your c-section.
No ~
what I learned from this experience is this: You are Strong. Yes, you.
You possess an inner strength the likes of which are unknown. You have a
gift that is so easy to share: your love. Family and friends ~ they are
great treasures. Hold them dear, keep them close. Take the time to
cuddle up. Those times with friends - with family - they will far
outweigh any possession in your hands.
Don't be afraid.
There's something out there bigger than all of us ~ I have experienced
it first hand. You must have faith and hope, along with your courage.
You can count on your friends - family - those you love to be there to
help you make it through even the toughest times. God hears prayers. And
He's there even in the darkest hours. Never lose hope. Even when it
seems like you can't take one more thing, hang on to hope.
And always know that those times you can't take the steps? He'll be there to carry you
