The first memory I have of coming out of the anesthesia is of two nurses turning me over to clean me up. "Her husband is a fainter!" one commented. "We need to get this blood off of her." I quickly lost consciousness again but I remember thinking, "He sure is. There better not be one drop of blood on me when he sees me."
Two months earlier my husband and I had had a big meeting with what felt like half the doctors in the hospital. The meeting was set up so that my husband and I could be informed about my very high risk pregnancy and the complications that would or could be associated with giving birth. We sat around a very large oval table, my husband and I on one side and the rest of the medical staff on the other. In attendance was the high-risk OBGYN, my OBGYN, a urologist, an anesthesologist, social worker, a bladder specialist, OBGYN operating room nurses, and a plethera of residents and med students. I was the woman with the accreta. Accreta's don't happen very often; in only 2% of pregnancies. It was like being on an episode of Grey's Anatomy only this time I was not sitting on my couch watching. I was the poor soul in the story and I knew for ratings sake there was going to be blood and terror and more blood.
Blood is exactly what these doctors talked about. How much might be lost. How many transfusions might need to be used. How damage could occur to my bladder and other internal organs. The doctors had no way of knowing just how far the placenta could grow into and consequently outside of my uterus. I sat there and didn't move. I thought, "If I don't move it won't actually be happening to me." It was working until a resident in the back of the room stood up and said, "Mr. Cameron are you okay because you look grey." I had been looking straight ahead the whole time, not at my husband. One look told the whole story. My husband was grey like the ugly walls in the conference room we were sitting in. He was going to faint and faint fast.
The doctors in the room acted fast. He was lifted to the floor, someone was sent to get linens to prop up his legs, another med student was sent to get crackers and juice. After some time the color returned to my husband's face and he was allowed to sit up. The meeting continued and concluded shortly after that. It was in that moment that I realized how serious the situation really was. I had a team of 10 or more doctors on my case. Who has that? I was carrying this baby boy and we both could die. My husband and I left that day in a complete daze. For me it was the end of sleeping for any length of time, eating became something I should do, not what I wanted to do and the worry took over my life.
When I came out of the anesthesia in the ICU that day two months ago seemed a lifetime away. I do remember having the thought, "It really happened. All those bad things the doctor's talked about really happened. Holy Shit!"
I woke up in pain. Not just a little pain that some Tylenol would take care of, oh no. I was in pain like my insides had just been ripped out. There was this funny thing in my throat so I couldn't talk. I quickly realized I was still intubated. OH MY GOD I AM STILL INTUBATED!!! I fought the tube down my throat. Wanted to talk. I wanted to scream that I was in pain. There were all these people around my bed, my husband, my OB, a nurse and a few other doctors but no one knew and I couldn't tell them. So then I tried with my hand. But I could not move it. I tried the other and the same. Over and over again I tried to free my wrists but it was pointless. I was tied to the bed. In a last ditch effort I made the sign for writing over and over again hoping some would see. I had to let someone, know I was in withing, seething pain. Finally my OB saw what I was doing and put a pen in my hand. I then very crudely wrote on a piece of paper, PAIN. And then it happened. Salt was added to the wound. As if the pain I was in was not enough I started to throw up. Intubated and all I threw up over and over. The nurses rolled me to one side which was an excruciating experience just in itself.
Finally morphine was given which didn't help. Another dose and nothing. I was in my own private hell intubated, tied to the bed and no relief was in sight. There was but one guardian angel with me there that night; My sister-in-law. She was an ICU nurse for a period of time and knew her way around. She pulled aside my OB and the ICU nurse and said, "Look. She is fighting the tube and she is in pain. Either sedate her or take the tube out." My doctor listened. The tube came out, my hands were freed from the bed and a pain pump was hooked up. For the first time in my life I came to love narcotics. Dilaudid was my best friend.
Despite massive amounts of drugs and having had a major surgery I could not sleep. I asked for an ambien and still I was not able to shut off my brain. It was as if it was wired and millions and millions of synapses were going off at the same time. My thoughts were with my baby. Was he okay? What did he look like? When could I see him? When could I hold him? I was desperate for information. Finally at three in the morning I couldn't take it anymore. I needed to know for myself how my baby was doing, not second hand through the nurses. I asked for the extension and the phone. The NICU nurse on the other end of the line was shocked I was calling. The tone of her voice was all shaky. She made me think she thought she was talking to a corpse instead of this living, breathing mother in the ICU. The status update I got was not all happy and roses. David had to have a blood transfusion, he was intubated and had to have a chest tube because one lung had collapsed. Scary as it all sounded the nurse made it seem like David was doing okay. He was stable and that was a good sign.
I never slept that first night. There were two big f**king parties going on, one in the ICU and one in the NICU. (My own private one :) Couldn't sleep and miss something. Plus there are too many beeping noises to even think about sleeping in that place. When the hospital started the wake up and doctors started making their rounds, now that is when the party really started to begin. I immediately asked for a breast pump (because I was crazy from the start) and as far as I was concerned I was a celebrity. Every doctor that walked into my room that morning (and there were a lot of them) looked at me with shock and awe.
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