The Birth of TJ GRAPHIC NON-SUGAR COATED VERSION.

Laboring on the ball.

Two years.  Two years and I can look at all the pictures and speak about it without having heart palpitations and feeling the utter fear and terror grip my very soul.  I am talking about the birth of my son, TJ.  I have spoken about this subject before, albeit briefly.  We very nearly lost our son when he was born due to "respiratory distress" as was deemed in the medical records...it should have read "due to an overdose of medication and too many unnecessary interventions and stresses on the mother."  Throughout the delivery I was on pins and needles because I was losing control of the situation and I was allowing fear to take over my emotions.  I had read every book on this subject, I had prepared a playlist to labor to, I had a great support system in place, but it did not prepare me.  The day started out with a "hollywood gush" of my waters breaking at home, where I called the hospital and told them I would be laboring at home because I didn't want to be forced to lie down and be refused food or drink.  I labored at home for a few hours and when the contractions really started to become closer together and regular, I told T it was time to go!  I had a very precise birth plan (which I realize now means diddly squat in the hospital, particularly a military hospital) and I was very clear that I didn't want to be hooked up to anything.  They were accommodating at first, allowing me to labor on the birthing ball and receive monitoring with the wireless tocometer.  It was shortly after a nurse came in telling me they weren't getting accurate readings and that I needed to be checked again, that my body started to stop labor.  I should have stood up for myself and refused to be bedded down.  I should have, but hindsight is 20/20 right?  After that, things got worse.  The pressure for pitocin was on because of "failure to progress."  I know now that this is a common phrase that is used when a woman isn't dilating one centimeter per hour (who says that's the standard anyway?).  This is where things are a bit foggy for me, and I want you to experience what was going through my mind at the time, so please bear with me.  I was given the wrong dosage of one medication and far too much of another (later reports confirmed this).  Things kept beeping at random intervals, alarms screaming at the nurses for one thing or another....and all I could think about was how this was not how I wanted it to go.  I looked at my husband, and I could see in his eyes that he was scared.  I remember being very mad, but not allowing myself to express that emotion because I didn't want to hurt anyone feelings.   I remember feeling smothered by the staff, asking me questions that I knew if they just looked at my birth plan or asked my husband or doulas, they would have the answer.  The epidural was put into place after some nurse had the bright idea to turn me on my left side (even though I could FEEL that something wasn't right and it was extremely painful) and I couldn't take the constant contractions anymore.  At this point I conceded to the epidural, in hopes of relief from the staff and to just be able to get a moment to regroup my mind and the pain was nearly unbearable (my boy was sunny side up).  Needless to say the epi didn't last but 20 minutes and it was a bit of a job getting it into place as my contractions at this point were nearly on top of one another.  A second epidural (in addition to the first one) numbed my entire body from my armpits to my toes...all except for a band about 6 inches wide that included, you got it, my lady bits.  The one place a woman wants relief in labor and I didn't get it.  God wanted to me to experience the pain, no matter what. This is what I had wanted originally, so who was I to complain?  The rest is really a blur of being told to breathe, coaching from my husband and doulas, getting checked by the nurses, the alarms ringing, and the stupid blood pressure cuff that served to only raise my blood pressure.  I knew when I was going through transition because I could feel my son descending into the birth canal.  I felt him squirming and rotating, attempting to correct his position.  I knew the moment I was ready to push because the urge to bear down and push was irresistable.  Having the feeling "down there" that I did, I felt my body start to bear down on its own.  I voiced this concern and was told it was too early.  All I could think to myself was, "if I know when to poop by myself...shouldn't my body know how to push out a baby?"  After a bit of back and forth with the staff, who insisted I was not fully effaced or dilated, a much older nurse came in and took one look at me and told me if I needed to push, then push!  I don't think I have ever been happier.  I asked for the mirror and then the pain really started.  Being tired, stressed, hungry, thirsty, sad, angry, and just plain scared...at this point I was freaking out at every contraction because the monitors were indicating that TJ wasn't handling them very well.  After pushing for nearly 2 hours, I decided that I was taking control and I had had enough of everyone telling me to breathe and to keep calm.  I said a prayer of thanks and for help, looked into that mirror and saw the crown of my sons head.  I don't know how I did it, but I lifted my butt and my hips off that bed and pushed until I saw stars.  FINALLY!  I was hearing positive words of encouragement and it was so great!  Until the catheter that had been placed, somehow hindered my pushing and it had to be moved...not a pleasant feeling I can assure you.  A nurse who had been one of the biggest supporters for me assisted me in my pushing my stretching out my perineum and even though it hurt it was very effective.  I was willing to do what it took to get this baby out.  Cue the doctor and I was pushing and pushing, feeling like it would never end.  I kept my gaze on that mirror and I could see his head, but something wasn't right.  He was an odd color, not the typical pinkish/grey that you see in newborn babies.  In that moment I knew I had to push him out because there was something off.  I lifted my hips and butt one good time and pushed with all my might.  After two hours and fifty minutes of pushing he was born!  He had a nuchal cord, stretched tight.  They immediately placed him on my belly and I knew to rub him, stimulate him.  I think my brain knew before my body because even before the staff realized something was wrong, I remember rubbing him down and saying, "come on baby, breathe for mama."  After about 30 seconds of nothing, he was ripped from my arms and before I could blink the room was filled with every available neonatalogist and  nurse and they were bagging him.  He was a sickly blueish/grey color and was not moving or breathing.  At this time the doctor attempted to pull the placenta out, instead of just letting me birth it, and was literally elbows deep in my uterus.  She pulled the cord and it detached from the placenta.  Medical records called it "medial cord attachement" or "marginal cord insertion" which basically means there was a weak connection between the two.  I would find out all this cord stuff after the fact.  I watched, with baited breath, as it took a team of nurses and doctors two minutes...TWO MINUTES to resuscitate him with that little blue bag.  I would soon find out that the only indication he lived was his somewhat low heart rate.  As I am laying on that bed, completely helpless and witnessing my small just-born son struggle for his life....all I can do is pray.  Every prayer I have ever uttered in my entire existence doesn't even begin to compare to the prayers I sent up to God above.  In those two minutes I was both angered with and in awe of God.  I remember saying, "Don't you dare bring us this far just to take our son.  I am NOT leaving here without my son healthy."  Almost immediately followed by, "I love you Lord, only You can help him now."  I briefly glanced at my husband, who was standing by my son, and my best friend and doula, who was standing right beside me...holding my hand.  I don't think I have ever seen two people look more afraid in my life.  You know how people say life flashes before your eyes just before you're about to die?  Well, I had every single scenario, good and bad, play out in my mind in what must have been mere seconds.  How will we bring him home to be buried?  I wonder what he will look like sleeping in his crib at home?  How long will they let me hold him until they take him away for good?  He looks just like his daddy, I cannot wait to show him off.  As you can see, my mind went in about a million different directions at once.  All the while I am praying out loud to God and I don't care if I offend anyone with my prayers at this point.  All I know is that my son needed to breathe and he needed to live.  It seemed to take forever and no sooner did I say my AMEN...did I hear the most ear piercing, ticked off, where-is-my-momma cry I had ever heard.  I could feel the blood returning to my face and I know I praised Jesus out loud.

He wasn't moving or grimacing, the look on my face says it all.

 J had smiled and said, "he's okay Sal, he's okay."  Next thing I know this little bundle is being handed to me and before my mind could register what was happening, I was giving a pseudo-hug to my son (the nurse did not fully let him go) and the first thing I did was smell him.  He smelled so good to me, and I remember a strange feeling of familiarity at his scent and his touch.  I kissed him and hugged him and told him I loved him.  Just as soon as he was put by me, they took him away to the NICU.  The doctor had told me it would be only 15 minutes or so, just for observation and what not.  Again, I should have known better than to believe that.  15 minutes would turn into 15 hours...and 5 hours before I would actually hold my baby without the aid of someone else.  I remember looking at T and telling him to follow them to the NICU and stand beside TJ so he would know that at least one of his parents could be there.  I still could not walk at that point, so I was bed ridden.  Also, my uterus was not contracting the way it should have, so I had to stay lying down longer and endure those very painful pushes on my uterus from the nurses.  It killed me, ripped out my heart, that I could not follow my son into the NICU.  I was told to get some sleep and word of my son would be sent shortly.  Needless to say, the 15 minutes had already come and gone.  Both of my doulas were exhausted and emotionally drained after the entire ordeal...and after making sure I was okay, they went on ahead home.  I was by myself in a birthing room, a bloody mess, missing my baby whom I didn't even really get to hold.  TJ was born at 2:50AM on a Thursday, one week before his due date.  He was 7lbs 15oz and 20.1" long.  His APGAR scores were 2 and 5, most babies score a 9 on average.  A little back history on me:  I had a baby brother who was born prematurely and lived in the NICU for 6 months, until he passed away from respiratory distress.  I was 8 years old when this happened.  For years I could not look at another baby without seeing my dead brother and I had nightmares constantly.  Death to an 8 year old, is a touchy subject and should be treaded upon lightly...not thrown in the childs face...trust me.  I remember visits to my brother in the NICU; hooked up to wires and constant beeping alarms and nurses ushering us around.  I thought I had gotten over that unfortunate incident all those years ago.  Walking into the NICU and seeing my brand new little baby (albeit big for being in the NICU with the preemies) brought me back to that horrible place and I felt my knees buckling under my weight.  All I could see was the sweet face of my angel, who had already struggled in this life, hooked up to wires and monitors and there wasn't anything I could do to bring him comfort.  The midwife, who I had seen my entire pregnancy, was also in there.  She didn't even say anything, she just opened her arms to me and I let it all out.  All she said was, "he is okay, he is going to be okay."  I saw my husband standing there looking at TJ and I smiled at him.  I knew he was worried about me to, but I had told him to stay with TJ.  We stood over the isolette, locked in an embrace...staring at our son and just so thankful that he was alive.  TJ would be in there until much later that evening.  Doctors were worried he wouldn't latch on, but I knew my bubba and he nursed like a champ, impressing even the lactation consultant who said I handled it like a pro.  My son has amazed people every single day since his birth.  He is so smart, and I don't say that just to dote on him....the kid can count backwards.  He listens so well; we get compliments all the time on how well behaved he is.  We just say thank you and giggle to ourselves because we know what kind of tantrums he is capable of.  He has overcome sickness after sickness, he loves people, and he already has a big heart and lots of love to share.  Shortly after TJ was born, I started to become very protective of him, overly so.  I was very cautious about people holding him (so much so, that someone called me on it once), I would check on him every 10 minutes that he wasn't in my arms and I became obsessed with his breathing.  I had a really hard time talking about his birth because my mind would shut down and all I could do was cry and that fear would grip me all over again.  I got tired of reliving it, so I quit talking about it.  After recognizing the symptoms and a year of denial, I came to terms with the fact that I had been suffering from PPD and perhaps a touch of emotional trauma, following his birth.  I was talking with Jen about my concerns one day, and she suggested getting copies of the medical records just to help put things in order.  I also spoke with Sarah, our other doula who has since become a part of our family through TJ's birth experience, and she asked me something that I had never considered.  "Do you think most of the problems could have stemmed from too much intervention?"  At that point I had only toyed with the idea.  It wasn't until I had done some research that I knew, in my heart, that some of what had happened was indeed preventable.  It makes me sad that things could have ended differently, but at the same time I am thankful that everything worked out the way it did because I will be better prepared in the future births of our children and I appreciate my little boy that much more.

As I said at the beginning, it has taken me this long to be able to speak about the events leading up to and following the birth of my son.  I was afraid when I started writing this, that I would have to stop and take a break or get a migraine from the stress...but it didn't happen.  This is one more step in the healing process for me.  I know someone will read this and think I overreacted in the situation, because I have heard it before.  "At least he is alive!  At least he didn't stay in the NICU for weeks..at least he wasn't deformed."  Yes, I have heard all these things.  Yes, TJ is alive...but that doesn't negate the sheer terror I felt when he wasn't breathing and was limp as a noodle at birth.  No, he didn't stay in the NICU for weeks, but any time a baby has to spend in the NICU is heart wrenching for the parents.  I do have several friends who have had babies stay for weeks in the NICU for one or another, and they have my complete adoration and admiration because somehow, they made it through.  My son was blessed not to suffer any type of neurological issues from his not breathing, all I can attest that to is God Himself.  You don't know how a situation will affect you, until you are in the thick of it.  You can say that you will act one way or believe a certain way, but when the rubber meets the road you really don't know.  Any parent who has had to stand by helplessly and watch their child suffer, will tell you it is the worst feeling in the world.  I am very well aware that I could have lost my son and I do not ever forget that.  I am thankful that God gave the doctors and nurses wisdom to save his life.  I am also thankful for those present at his birth; what would I have done without you?  Jen and Sarah, you two made a horrific situation so much easier to bear...just because you were there with me.  Forever, I love you both forever.  Travis, my brave husband...I could not have asked for a better husband or father to our children.  You are such a great daddy and everything you did that day was right.  I love you always.  To the doctors and nurses, I wish you would have listened to me and respected my wants.  I wish you could have let my body do what it was designed to do, instead of pumping me full of drugs to make me run on "your time."  However, I thank you that you had the knowledge and desire to save my sons life.  To me, that means everything. 

I WANT MY MOMMY!

It has taken me this long to be able to speak about it, without my mind going back to that terrible place, where I can hear the beeps, I can hear the doctors trying to make my son breathe, I can see the sheer terror on the face of both my doulas ( I remember one of them walking out)...my body doesn't react anymore either with the rush of adrenaline that makes my head hurt and my entire body ache, I don't feel an overwhelming urge to run to my son to make sure he is still breathing even if I can see him playing.  I can speak about it without crying, I am at peace with our birth experience.  I am just go glad that I can finally let go and God have this situation.  Thanks for reading!

God Bless,

Sally