HEADING INTO THE O.R./DELIVERY
I remember as the nurse technicians and nurses walking quickly beside my bed. I remember looking around, seeing baby posters and medical charts on the walls that we passed. I remember Tim trying to encourage me that soon we would see our baby girl. But still, what I remember most from this point, is how I felt. I kept trying to take a deep breath to steady myself, but it seemed like it didn't fill my lungs... not that I was breathing shallow, but that my lungs were a bottomless pit that refused to be filled. Just breath.... Dear God, please be with me. I'm scared. Keep her safe. Please. Keep her safe. Help her. My prayers for Lierre's safety became sort of a mantra that repeated over and over in my mind as we made our way to the operating room.
No one could really pull a full sentence out of me. The slightest hint that anything could happen to Lierre was enough to make me lose focus on all else in the world--she was my goal and every ounce of my thoughts, my heart, my fight were ready in case she needed me.
Still, everyone kept telling me how I would be holding my baby girl soon, that I would get to eat whatever I wanted afterwards (my parents already had Subway waiting for me--my true craving through pregnancy that I never gave in to).
No one told me that Tim would not be allowed in right away, so when they made him wait in the hallway while they transferred me onto the table and got me hooked up to various IVs, I could feel my heart rate shoot up even higher (if that was possible). I don't know if you know this, but Operating Rooms are freezing. So much colder than anywhere else in the hospital, and when you have a fever (at this point they tell me it is 102 point something) it is that much worse. I felt like my joints were on fire and that I had been stuck in a tub of cold water--which was made that much more bizarre by the fact that I couldn't feel much below my neck because of the epidural. My shaking from earlier in the labor had become alarmingly worse.... They kept assuring me how much I was shaking was normal, but then I would see them shoot covert looks at one another and then tightening the bands holding my arms down a little more. Where is Tim? I need him. What are they thinking, making him stay apart from me for even a second? Don't they know how much of a team we are? Don't they realize I am about two seconds from losing it? Finally, fiiiinnally they let Tim in.
I guess I expected some sort of announcement that they were going to start, some kind of fan fare..... nope. As I'm lying there with my ice cold hands and vibrating body (at this point I'm not kidding... if someone told me I was having a seizure I would have believed them), I hear them talking about what they are doing to one another. I guess they started...huh. How about that. Just breath. Do NOT pay attention, just let go, just space out. God keep us safe. I remember snapping at Tim more than once that he better not look at what they were doing and I needed him to just look at me. I kept my ears open though, waiting to hear her sweet cry. Waiting and waiting.... waiting.... wait a second, this seems to go a lot quicker on television. Is television wrong? I thought they could get a baby out in like 60 seconds in an emergency if they needed to.... so why is this taking so long? "Is everything ok?" I wasn't quite sure if I voiced this question aloud or just thought it. Either way, there was no real response. At this point I remember Tim being very still, his eyes kind of darting around the room. Why isn't he looking at me? What's going on? I hear some hushed voices and hear the breath of the doctor kick up a notch, almost panting. This is so strange. Where is she? Why haven't I heard her cry? What is taking so long? Another doctor or two come bustling into the room and behind the curtain they go. It was so frustrating that I couldn't see them and read their facial expressions.
[Let me pause here and explain for those of you who don't know, when you have a c-section, someone is pushing down slightly underneath your ribs towards your feet... something about it opening up the area or making it easier to grab the baby or something.]
Again I hear how hard the doctors are breathing and take note that there are at least like seven or more people in the room. Someone, the doctor I think, finally pushes down extremely hard on my stomach--so hard that even with the epidural, even with my fever that is steadily climbing, I feel it and I cry out. It felt like someone was trying to crack my ribs they pushed so hard. Lierre had moved down so much in that hour of waiting that she was stuck. Try as they might they could not get her out. That is why the extra doctors had come in.... someone apparently was pushing up, while someone else pushed down, and someone else was trying to pull her out--- no one ever bothered to tell me this, not during the c-section, and not at any time at our hospital stay. I had to find out all the details at my post-partum doctor appointment.... So angry.
Anyways....
I wait and wait and then I hear their voices--this time they sound happy. I couldn't tell you what they said, but then Tim told me that she was there! Where is her cry? I can't see her. Why won't they hold her up or something? Finally I heard her sweet cry.... not too high pitched, not annoying, not anything that I had feared in the months leading up to her birth.... just a cry that I will remember forever. They lay her down on a table to the left of me and tell Tim to go over. At this point, I am so so happy.... but I am also beyond irritated. No one was showing her to me and I was out of patience. I heard Tim saying "She's so beautiful!" and my heart swelling with pride, while a fiery anger boiled just below the surface. Finally, I think it was my nurse from earlier, says for them to bring her over to me.
And then, in a moment that I will remember as clear as day, Tim holds Lierre's face close to mine and we locked eyes. Every single thing about her was intensely familiar even though I had never seen her. I don't remember crying, but I remember having to ask for someone, anyone, to wipe the tears off my face and out of my eyes so that I could see her better (why didn't they undo my arms?).
My first words to her were something like this: "I love you so much.... I am so proud of you. I love you, Lierre. I am going to take such good care of you, I promise. I promise. I love you. You did it... I'm so proud of you." Over and over, that's all I could say, all I could think.
Everyone laughed at this point because even when pulled away a tiny bit, Lierre would turn her head to where my voice was and stare at me. While our eyes were connected, all else faded away. Every single time.
Tim looked so happy, even with his mask on. His eyes were glowing with happiness, and once again I found it hard to catch my breath--this time out of sheer joy. I was so thankful we were together and well. To God be the glory forever and ever.
WHAT CAME NEXT...
What happened next and for the rest of the stay were pretty much one bad experience after another. They did NOT let me hold Lierre. They took me to recovery and refused to let Tim back there. I lay alone for a little over 3 hours. Completely alone. No one could tell me anything about Lierre. No one would tell me where they were. I am not going to get into that (at least this post, maybe ever). I also had an allergic reaction that resulted in my body looking like this:
The nurses reaction to this? One. Benadryl. ONE. I take 2 for a cold. IV's eventually had to be called in (once my hearing started going and my ears were itching), were inserted incorrectly, and hurt pretty bad.
I did not get to HOLD MY OWN BABY or nurse her until almost FOUR HOURS later.
LAST THOUGHTS
I could go on and on about some of the bad things that happened there....but I am choosing to stop. My dear sweet daughter was born, and healthy (minus some jaundice). Regardless of the journey, the greatest gift of my life was placed in my arms on August 16, 2012. I am beyond humbled that I have been entrusted with such a huge job--raising a daughter. Each day that passes I feel another steel cable wrap itself around us in an unbreakable bond, pulling us closer. Every day I know her a little better.
There will be no greater gift than seeing my daughter smiling in my sweet, strong husband's arms.
To God be the glory... forever, and ever, and ever.
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