Today we welcome our guest contributor, Carrie, finalist for Alamo City’s Amazing Mom and sister to ACMB contributor Kelly. Carrie was born and raised in San Marcos. After college and law school, she moved to San Antonio, where she met and married her husband, Jim. Carrie spends most of her time practicing law and chasing after her sons, Dawson (3) and Wyatt (10 months).
My son was almost born one year ago.
In the early hours of May 18, 2013, I awoke in a puddle of blood. At 25 weeks pregnant, I knew this was bad and immediately phoned the doctor on call. She directed me to go to the hospital.
My husband Jim and I had recently sold our house and were temporarily living in an apartment with our 2 year old son Dawson, awaiting closing on our new, bigger home. We put Dawson in his carseat and drove him to Jim’s parents’ house at 2 in the morning. Dawson’s chatter in the backseat helped to ease the tension while I was busy on my phone doing all kinds of scary Google searches.
At the hospital, the triage nurses ran tests and discovered that my water had broken and I was in labor. I was admitted to Labor and Delivery, and they immediately gave me steroid shots to boost the baby’s lungs and magnesium through an IV to try to stop the contractions. While I was only in some pain, the monitors showed that my contractions were 2 minutes apart. The L&D nurses were clearly concerned.
I never expected to be one of those women who had difficulty conceiving or carrying a child. I thought I would just decide to have a baby and then have a baby. Unfortunately, that just isn’t how it works out sometimes. I had miscarriages both before and after Dawson that were sad and stressful and changed me as a person. Thankfully, my pregnancy with Dawson was pretty uneventful once it stuck. He was full term and healthy.
With this latest pregnancy we were fortunate to qualify for a special blood test to check for chromosomal abnormalities. At just 10 weeks I knew that our baby had typical chromosomes and was a boy. We planned on a late August birth and did not anticipate any problems once I successfully got past the first trimester milestone.
The weeks progressed, but I just didn’t feel well. I thought I was tired from our move or from chasing around a 2 year old. It was hard to take it easy with everything going on in our lives, so I just continued with my normal routine.
As it turned out, my placenta had partially torn from the wall of my uterus, creating an 8-centimeter blood clot. The pressure of this large blood clot caused my water to break. From what I understand, if your water breaks, there are two options—you deliver the baby immediately, or if you’re less than 34 weeks pregnant, you go on hospital bed rest until you deliver the baby.
The plan was to give me magnesium for the first 48 hours until the steroids could have their effect on the baby’s lungs, and if they could stave off labor, I might be able to hold out for a few more days or weeks. When we pressed for information on how long we could stay, the doctor told me they would let me stay until 34 weeks, but they would go ahead and deliver me if I lasted that long. That was 9 weeks away. Jim and I looked at each other and said, “Well, we can do that!” The nurses and doctors would all look at us with these “Aw, that’s really sweet” looks, but it was clear that no one thought that would really be possible. I would later chat with a NICU nurse who remembered this night. They were expecting a 25 week baby and were preparing for him over in the NICU. MY baby.
My parents had been down at the coast that weekend. Jim waited until 6:00 a.m. to call them, and they drove straight to us. They walked into my hospital room just as Jim and I were having a consult with a NICU doctor about what to expect if we had the baby in the next few days. While our chance for survival was about 75%, our odds of having significant long-term problems were very high. It was scary.
I texted with my sister Kelly and with friends to let them know what was going on. Kelly came with magazines and treats in hand. I knew she didn’t know what else to do—she was clearly upset and rattled. Two of my law school friends hopped on a plane from Dallas to come to my bedside. Seeing them was comforting and worrisome at the same time. Both were familiar with the NICU and with high risk births. I knew they wouldn’t have come if they didn’t know this was very serious.
The magnesium made me feel so terrible—like having the flu. I stayed in that bed hooked up to the IV for the next two days, in and out of sleep. My contractions slowed and then stopped. It worked. I had steroids on board and the baby’s lungs had received the maximum benefit.
Once we passed the magic 48-hour mark, they moved me out of L&D and into a private room in the “antepartum ward”. This was to be my home until the baby arrived—days or weeks. After we settled into the room, we also settled on a name: Wyatt.
The days that followed were a blur. There were doctors and nurses. Hospital food. Blood tests. Flowers. Visitors. Jim stayed with me and worked from my room. Our parents traded off keeping Dawson. My mother brought fresh pajamas and organized my new home, as if it was my college dorm room.
I kept repeating the same things: I want to be here. I am fortunate to have such great care. I will stay as long as they will let me.
It was hard to be negative about any of it, because we knew that every day I could stick it out equaled about 3 days that Wyatt would not have to spend in the NICU. He needed to stay on the inside for as long as possible. I felt empowered.
The second week, however, was much harder. I failed the gestational diabetes test. My nurses were convinced that it had to do with the steroids I was given and that I wasn’t truly gestational diabetic, but it didn’t matter. I had to follow the special diet (on hospital food) and have my fingers pricked 4 times a day. It was a challenge.
I became acutely aware that I was completely out of control of my life. Jim had to close on our new house using a power of attorney because I could not be there to sign. I couldn’t eat what I wanted. I couldn’t shower when I wanted. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t go outside. I had bathroom privileges, but that was it. I could go into labor again at any moment and deliver a baby that weighed about one pound. It was stressful.
I still had bleeding and was hooked up to a monitor day and night to check for contractions and the baby’s heartbeat. Occasionally, they would see contractions that would require an IV to give me proper fluid and sedation. I cried a lot.
But then I got into my groove. After a few weeks in the hospital, my parents brought me a new iPad. I started binge watching shows like “Friday Night Lights” and “Arrested Development”. Jim began staying at home instead of on my couch. At four weeks in the hospital, Jim brought me a mini-fridge so I wouldn’t have to rely on hospital food. He and Dawson came almost every night and brought me dinner. I had sweet friends organize fun dinner parties in my room. My mother came most weekdays, and she and Dad would come on the weekends for long visits. Jim’s parents came all the time too, bringing food and pictures that Dawson had painted.
And while all of this was going on, Jim was moving us from the temporary apartment and into our new house, picking out paint colors and organizing repairs. It was pretty incredible.
My days became routine. The doctors visited every morning. I chatted with my nurses several times a day during vital checks or finger pricks. I got hooked up to a baby monitor once per nurse shift. They did blood work when I needed it. I would check emails, play some Candy Crush, watch some TV, do a little online shopping for the baby. On days that I was feeling good and could concentrate, I could work from my bed or write thank you notes.
Twice a week, a nurse would come pick me up in a wheelchair for short excursions within the building. One trip would be for my weekly sonogram to check on Wyatt’s growth, and one trip would be to the scales to weigh in to check my weight.
Before I knew it, I was almost to the goal. I had another consult with the NICU doctors and this was a completely different conversation. Everyone was so positive—we were talking about weeks in the NICU rather than months.
I was ready. The doctors and nurses all seemed so pleased to have gotten this far. My case was exceptional. We scheduled my c-section for July 17—the day I would reach the 34 week milestone. I had one more round of steroids to boost Wyatt’s lungs.
I don’t remember much about Wyatt’s actual birthday, but the things I do recall are burned in my brain.
I remember praying with one of my sweet antepartum nurses and truly feeling the presence of God in the room.
I remember surrendering to my wonderful doctors and being so very grateful to have such smart, calm, funny and kind women caring for me.
I remember holding my breath during the c-section, waiting to hear Wyatt cry.
I remember looking up at Jim and seeing tears of relief and joy in his eyes when our baby did announce that he was here.
I remember a nurse practitioner bringing this tiny little 4 pound, 3 ounce bundle over to me to see and kiss before he was whisked away.
And I remember just wanting my own mother to hold my hand, and being so thankful that she was with me in recovery so Jim could be with our baby.
In total, I spent 9 weeks in the hospital. Wyatt would spend another 3, only having to fatten up so he could maintain his temperature before we could bring him home. He was a miracle.
I learned a lot about myself during this ordeal. I knew my family was wonderful and would do anything for me, but to be in a situation where they actually did everything for me took that to a whole different level. My parents and sister, Jim’s parents and brother, our aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews… they were all there. They were patient and kind and generous in a way that I could never have imagined.
I have fabulous, thoughtful, creative, and amazing friends. These are people who would take hours out of their day to come check in and bring me a salad or crafting supplies, or make sure my toes were painted pretty. There were also friends of friends I didn’t even know who added us to their prayer lists and chains and took the time to lift us up. These caring gestures overwhelmed me.
And my sweet Jim and Dawson… I can’t even put into words what they mean to me. We were living apart, but I have never felt closer. They are special people, and I am the luckiest girl in the world to have them in my life.
Without all of this support, I would not have made it 9 weeks.
Happy almost birthday, Wyatt. Thanks for waiting it out with me.
What a heart warming event….Thank you for sharing with us..
This was wonderful Carrie! Thanks for sharing with us.