When I was growing up I always dreamed of meeting the right guy, getting married and having kids. I would lay under the big trees in my parents backyard and have everything planned out down to the name of our children, only girls of course. They were to be named Cosette and Felicia. It all seemed so simple, so wonderful. I couldn't wait to grow up. I was one of those kids that yearned to be an adult. I wanted to drive a car, go to parties and go to college.
In a lot of ways my dreams came true. I drove on my 16th birthday. It was to get my brother from soccer practice but I didn't care. I went to college, The University of Michigan to be exact and met the man of my dreams. We had a fairy tale wedding in the most beautiful chapel complete with a honeymoon to Hawaii. I taught as a teacher for ten years. We bought a small house that we painted and re roofed and gutted the kitchen and refinished the wood floors until it was finally time to have a baby. A boy of course and then another and then another. Three boys! We were having the time of our lives. We were blessed beyond measure. The funny thing is that while the party was going on around me I was not in it.
After our first son was born there were whispers that something was not right. Jonah cried incessantly. No one slept and the only one to get him to be quiet was Grandpa. By the end of the day I was standing at the back door holding out Jonah to my husband. "Take him. Change your clothes, do what ever you need to do. We are going to your parents house." At least there I knew I would get a reprieve from the crying. I wasn't happy. I would call Greg at work and bed him to come home. When school started back up in the fall I was happier than a pig in shit to be returning to work. I didn't know how I was going to make it work, pumping and all but I was going back to work dammit!
As soon as the school year ended I was pregnant again by mid-July. My husband and I were elated until the morning sickness kicked in. Let me correct myself, all-day sickness. I puked from sun up to sun down and felt like I was going to die in between. Zofran was my best friend and the only thing that kept me out of the hospital. After Caleb was born I knew right away that things were not right. I would go into crying spells over a piece of thread on the floor. I was sad that Caleb was our last baby. I cried and cried and cried. But, don't all new mother's cry? Don't all new mother's have more hormones than they know what to do with? Slowly things got worse until all I could think about was killing myself over and over again.
Unfortunately, as with a lot of doctors when I presented with such symptoms I was given a script for Zoloft and a referral for a therapist in my area. Problem solved. Story over. I went back to work to start another school year and life was supposed to get back to my dream that had been interrupted. Except that didn't happen. Unexpectedly, we got pregnant a third time and lost a baby girl. The experience was so heartbreaking for my husband and I that we both knew we had to try again. Five months later I was calling my husband with the good news. We were going to be parents again!
I was ecstatic for the 20 week ultrasound. Had the date marked on the calendar and we were even bringing our two older boys so we could all find out together whether they were going to have a baby brother or sister. As soon as that wand started to glide across my belly I could tell by the look on the technicians face that things were not good. She kept scanning and scanning and never smiled. "What's wrong? I kept thinking?" She never did tell us the sex of the baby until I asked, "So are we having a boy or a girl?" By that time the news was not even exciting. "It's a boy!" she said. I'm going to go and get the doctor to come in and talk to you.
That was a defining moment in my life. It was and/or is the moment that changed my life. My dream was gone. My dream had to be reworked, retooled. My dream just turned into a nightmare and I had no idea just how bad it was going to get. Our 20 week old fetus looked wonderful. He was beautiful in every way. My placenta on the other hand was the worry. I had a placenta accreta, which means that my placenta was growing into my uterus. To make matters worse I also had a placenta previa. My placenta was completely covering my cervix making both conditions very dangerous.
The weeks that followed were a myraid of doctor's appointments, modified bed rest with two young boys at home, sleepless nights, not eating and worry, worry and worry. Then one day I went to the hospital for a routine ultrasound and they had a wheelchair waiting for me outside of the ultrasound room. "You are not going home," I was told. Instead I was wheeled into the family waiting room so that I could make a few phone calls and then taken to labor and delivery. I was given steroids, and magnesium sulfate over the next 24hrs and then was taken to the antipartum unit where I spent the next 4 weeks waiting for our third son to arrive. My doctor told me, "You must be here. If you start to bleed you could die and your son will die. You are here so we can keep both of you alive."
I cried and cried and cried day and night. I didn't sleep and wouldn't eat. My first week in the hospital I lost five pounds. I was a hot mess. My doctors were concerned, prescribed zoloft and said I would feel better in a few days. I did actually feel a little better. I was not crying nearly as much and I ate a little. There was just this nagging problem that would not go away. I wanted desperately to jump off of the roof. I cannot tell count how many times I thanked God that the windows were locked in my room because I just wanted to jump. I wanted to end my suffering. I wanted to end every one's worrying about me and I just wanted everything to be over. One day the hospital psychiatrist stopped by to see how I was doing. "Fine," I told him. Then he asked, "Any suicidal thoughts?" "No." I told him.
And that is how it went for the next four weeks. I never told a sole how badly I wanted my life to end. I didn't think anyone would understand and really didn't know who to trust. So I was quiet. I watched TV, emailed friends and family and prayed for the time to move quickly, really quickly.
I had 3 weeks left to wait in the hospital. My husband was visiting, watching Michigan football and I was taking a nap but not for long. I felt a pop and then gushing blood. Blood that was coming from a fire hose fast and furious. By the time people started arriving in my room I was losing consiousness. I was being slapped in the face to stay away. I remember that slap and the plop of my bloody pants going into a garbage bag. I remember the doctor telling everyone it was time to go. The speed at which we were moving down the hallway was so fast that I was cold from the air on my skin. I felt the jab of a needle in my arm and then the cold sterile operating room. Everyone was in such a rush that I was not even put on the table correctly. I yelled out, "I'm falling off the table! I'm falling off the table!" Twice before anyone did anything about it. I felt another jab in another arm. Another IV. I turned my head to the man doing my IV and said, "THAT SUCKS!" Another jab. This time the cathether. It hurt. Then there was the cold betadine dumped on my belly. All this confusion. All this hurry. I started to wonder if they had forgotten about me. I turned to my nurse who had blood stains all over her t-shirt and was holding an IV bag. "I'm sorry," I said. I felt awful for causing such a commontion. Then I said, "Is someone going to put me out before they deliver the baby?" Just then a nurse came and sat next to my head and didn't leave. "They are almost ready. I'll stay here and tell you when it is time." When the mask was finally put over my face I breathed in the deepest breaths I could. I wanted out of my hell. I didn't want to remember one single second more.
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