The pregnacy from hell |
WARNING: This story is not graphic in nature (well, not really) and contains no coarse language. However, it's contents are not suitable for any woman trying to decide if she wants children. It is an unusual birth story, but has a very happy ending.
I was 30 years old, had a wonderful two year old son, a great marriage, super husband. My life was complete, so I thought. Hubby had other ideas. He thought a second child was in order. So, after careful thought, and careless sex, the matter was decided. I was pregnant.
I knew within days. The stomach began to churn, the thought of food was, to say the least, distasteful, and I was moody. Aaaah, the joys of pregnancy. I was not one who glowed with pregnancy, unless you call that luminous shade of green a glow.
For the next three months, I valiantly tried to prepare sumptuous meals for my little family. I would put meat on to cook and rush outside before breathing. This ensured that anything I had managed to get into my stomach that day would stay there. Then, I would take a deep breath, run in and stir or whatever was necessary. My son got a lot of time playing outside on his new swing set while dinner cooked.
Finally, the first trimester had ended. I was blissfully overjoyed. I looked better than I had since my first pregnancy. I had lost 12 pounds, and had not even started to show. Hey, I was actually glowing for a day or two. It was Christmas and all was right with the world.
After the holidays, we decided that our little home wouldn't be big enough for the four of us, so we listed it for sale. Being a stay-at-home-mom, I kept it clean and tidy while visitors came and went. Within a couple weeks, we accepted an offer from a lovely retired couple.
The next day, I went to work (I did holiday relief as a loans officer at a bank) and promptly picked up the worst case of bronchitis I've had in years. I was at home with a two year old and a 104 degree temperature. But, I had to find a house to buy.
My realtor was very obliging. He let me sleep in the car in between looking at 10 houses a day. Finally, we found one, way out of our budget but made an offer anyway. It was accepted that day and life, again, looked grand.
A week later, the man who was purchasing our house died. I truly wanted to feel grief, but all I felt was fear. Now what? To add to it, the mild antibiotic I had been on didn't seem to be working. I had developed pneumonia. The doctor wanted to hospitalize me. I said I couldn't manage it. I have no relatives here and could no way afford day care for my son. I was ordered to stay home and do NOTHING.
My son learned to use the potty completely on his own, because I couldn't even get up to wipe his little bottom. He would bring the milk from the fridge and I would pour it for him. I slept on the couch while he slept on the love seat. He helped me through a very rough time.
I began an intimate relationship with the ultrasound technician. I saw her every two weeks to ensure the baby was still making progress. Eight glasses of water one hour before. I wish male doctors could understand what that does to a pregnant woman.
The pneumonia started to clear up. And, for anyone who has never had that kind of cough, let me just say that bladder control are two words that are not in your vocabulary. There I was, pregnant and wearing maxi pads. Ugh!
I began to get out again. We were still moving into our new home (after borrowing $10,000 from my parents for the down payment) while our existing home was tied up in legal red tape. I began to get excited about the move. I went with the realtor to measure windows so I could sew curtains. On the way out, he slammed my 2-year-old's finger in the door and broke it. My life was just so full of stress.
Moving day was two days away. I was back at work for a couple of weeks and one day nearly fainted. I called my doctor and he said we needed to check blood sugar, something we had neglected during all the pneumonia stuff. Sure enough, I was diabetic. By the time moving day arrived, I had my little kit and had to stick my finger with a sharp object. I tried and tried, but kept jerking my finger away. Finally, I told my husband to do it. He wasn't fast enough to catch the speeding finger either. It took an hour, but eventually, I managed. And then, did it 5 to 7 times a day for the next seven weeks. I avoided insulin, but it wasn't my favourite part of pregnancy.
The move was basically uneventful. We began to settle into the new house and prepare for the baby, who was due in six weeks. But, now, they added a new dimension: non-stress tests. Every Monday I had to haul myself to the maternity ward and get hooked up to a fetal heart monitor for a couple hours. Most women would be only 20 minutes because they would be given a glass of fruit juice which would stimulate the baby. But, diabetics cannot have that. So, if the babe was asleep, we would have to wait for it to wake up. Another new, intimate relationship began to form.
Finally, my OB/GYN decided that, because he would be away on my due date, he would induce labour in two days. I was thrilled, overjoyed, ecstatic! He said, Be here at 7:00 a.m., but the nurse said 8:00 would be fine since the doctor never got to the hospital before 9:00 The next day, all I could do was sing the song from ŒAnnie' with a few lyrical modifications. This kid'll come out tomorrow, Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, She'll be here . . . . I fairly danced around the house. I looked in the mirror, and guess what?? I was glowing!
At the hospital, the doctor was all efficient but chatty. He decided to break my water and was astonished to find I was already 5 cm. dilated but had experienced no contractions. He popped the needle in anyway, just to make sure. I told him to be back by lunch time cuz I would have the baby then. He laughed and said it would be a little longer than that.
About 11:30 I told the nurses the baby was coming. They smiled patronizingly and said it would be a while yet. I very assertively told them they should check NOW. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. Seems I was 10 cm and the baby was crowning.
We hit the delivery room and the nurses told me it was okay to push. I said I wanted my doctor there, right now. They said again that it would still be a while and that they were both qualified midwives. I said I didn't care, get a doctor, any doctor, right now. Mine walked in at that moment, threw a gown over his clothes and started to check. I was tearing badly so he said to hold on one second while he cut. Two pushes later, my beautiful baby girl, Danica Leigh was born. I cried so hard. I hadn't known how much I wanted a girl until that moment. Her APGAR was right at the top. Things looked rosy again. Wrong!
After 29 stitches, they wheeled me back into the case room, brought her to me so I could nurse her and then, finally, I was allowed to eat. I chowed down a really bad hospital hamburger ravenously. And, then, promptly went to sleep. This is where the trouble started.
I was sleeping so soundly that they just left me in peace. Then, when I woke up, a student nurse came in to get me cleaned up and take me to my room. When she pulled back the blanket, her face went white and she stammered, "I'll be right back" and quickly replaced the blanket. I sneaked a peek. I was covered in blood from my bust to my knees. A small pool had dripped onto the floor.
A second nurse came in and said, "Oh, you've had quite a bit of bleeding. Didn't you massage your uterus? You were supposed to do that!"
I told her I had been asleep the whole time, and was there a problem. She said everything was fine, just to let her wash me up and slip into a new gown.
In my room later, I wondered if this was normal. I had heard that bleeding was sometimes heavier with a second child, as were the post delivery contractions. I gave it no more thought until the doctors came in the next morning with the results of my blood work. They asked if I had haemorrhaged. I asked them if it would be on the chart if I had. They looked and said nothing was written about it. I explained what happened and their faces looked stern but they said nothing. I never really gave it another thought.
One week later, at home, enjoying my expanded family, I began to have cramps and a slight fever. I thought I had a touch of the flu. Over the next two days, the cramping got worse, the discharge changed colour to a dark, almost black, and the fever was up to 105 degrees. I went to the urgent care clinic where the doctor on call wanted to admit me again. He said I had a massive infection in my uterus. That hospital was the last place I was going. I said no, just give me some antibiotics and I'll stay at home.
To make a very long story boring, after that infection, I had two bouts of mastitis for which I was treated with antibiotics. This caused a secondary infection in my bowel, which, if left untreated, could have ruptured and left me dead in just days.
I am fine, now, but the recovery time was gruelling. I suffered a major depression a couple years afterwards which I swear was all related.
I told my husband, after the infection, that the only way he was ever going to touch me again was if I was fixed, he was fixed, I was on the pill AND he used a condom. Not just one of them, but all of them. I love my kids, but, enough is enough.
