A Life Changing Day

I'd like to say that it was the day that changed my life because in so many ways it was. For one, nothing, absolutely nothing would ever be as it was before that day. Not the person I was inside, not the way I lived my life, nor the way I saw people or people saw me. Not the way I made decisions or felt about anything. My entire being was about to be completely altered.

Then why, you may ask, do I say that it was not the day that changed my life? Simple really, to do that would be to downplay all the days of prolific importance that had gone before. The days that had changed my very being up until that day. There was the day I was born. That was pretty damn mind blowing right there. The day I learnt I was getting a baby brother, the day my grandmother passed away, the day I learnt I had passed Matric, the day I graduated, the day I was admitted to Tara and the day I was diagnosed with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy and later Bipolar Disorder, the day I got married, the day I slipped into a coma and the day I decided to live and the day that it finally sunk in that I was never going to be a Mom, that I couldn't have children and I would spend the rest of my days being godmother to children who held a special place in my heart. Each and every one of these days changed my life forever but more about some of them in later posts.

I quickly got over the absolute shock of falling pregnant after spending years thinking it was a no-go area because of all the medication I was on for my Bipolar and Epilepsy. After seeing about 15 doctors that I either didn't like or were not even prepared to see me on all my meds, J and I had finally found a doctor who was quite positive we could have a healthy baby. Only for us to discover, after testing, that we were both infertile. As is so often the case in these instances, it was after we had stopped trying that I learnt I was almost 7 weeks pregnant.

Now let me tell you, pregnancy is not for sissies. My pregnancy was classified as high risk because of my BPD,epilepsy and all the meds I was on and extra doctors visits were scheduled. That's right, give me all the tests. All of them! Forget morning sickness. I had after 5pm sickness until 17 weeks. With a week's hospitalisation at around 15 weeks. By 12 weeks I was already huge. I looked like I'd swallowed a beach ball and was drinking 6-7 litres of fluid a day. My gestational diabetes tests were fine. We were having the hottest Summer in 50 years. By 30 weeks I looked like I was going to drop the baby on the spot. Now I no longer looked cute. I looked huge. I had an ass on me that you could spot from a mile off and my mom refused to go shopping with me because I had to go to the toilet after every second shop visit. The weekend before Christmas we moved into our new home and after Christmas lunch I was admitted to the labour ward for observation with suspected encephalitis. I was home by New Year.

Early in January my worst nightmare started. My previously busy baby boy would suddenly stop moving. For a full day. We would rush the 45 minute drive to Sandton for a Non Stress Test to find elevations in his heartbeat but nothing to be concerned about. On 18 January at 35 weeks I saw my doctor. Peanut had the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck and was apparently bored since he was playing with the cord and causing extreme elevations. I could be booked in or drive the 45 minutes each way for the next 3 weeks until we hit 38 weeks, which was the minimum my doctor wanted me to carry to. Every day, with my heart in my throat, I went for my NSTs.

The following Monday I went up to labour ward as I had been doing for weeks and then hobbled down to the doctor's consulting rooms. I absentmindedly handed the filmy printout to the midwife while chatting to my mom and waited for her to go in to show the doctor and come out and tell me to come back and do it all over again tomorrow. When she returned she asked me to take a seat. My blood ran cold. I did the math in my head. I was 36 weeks. Exactly. Not yet considered "full term" and weeks away from my due date. Two weeks still from where my doctor wanted me to be. What did he want? I will never forget his words, "Sam, I don't like what your baby is doing. He's putting himself at risk. So, we take him out. To...day."

I was admitted to the maternity ward and given steroids to strengthen Peanut's lungs. The big fear at this stage was if his lungs would be strong enough at 35 weeks gestation for us to avoid having him go into NNICU. Phone calls were made. J had to leave work and go home and fetch my bag, which had been packed since 25 weeks as per instruction due to my high risk pregnancy. His mom had to change her flight to Joburg, which was booked for two weeks time. My mom was pacing the room. I was feeling surprisingly calm considering that in a few short hours, I was going to give birth. Outside a gorgeous double rainbow was in the sky. This had to be a sign of good things to come.

Later, as I was wheeled into a theatre full of strangers: anaesthetist, paediatrician, assistants and nurses. Fear and nerves sauntered in and adrenalin came galloping through on a majestic black stallion. I knew exactly what to expect. Exactly. I was one of the last of my friends to have a baby, so I practically had an honorary degree in giving birth. The spinal block would be painful. I must insist that they put the catheter in after the spinal block or it would hurt like hell. They would put a screen up and I would see nothing and feel no pain but I would feel the the pulling and tugging as they pulled Peanut out and stitched me up. It would be over quickly and then I would be surrounded in a warm fuzzy glow and joy. This is the same thing I tell nervous expectant mothers-to-be. It's so very much how I wanted it to be. It's damn far from my reality.

The spinal block was almost painless, nothing but a tiny pin prick in my lower back and then the tingling sensation in my legs as it started to take effect. I remember thinking to myself that this may just be easier than I thought. I don't even remember the stupid bloody catheter that I had been worrying about because I remembered it being so awful from when I had one when I was briefly bedridden. There was no screen. Nothing. Nada. If I had pushed myself up I would have been able to see everything. I felt barely anything as they used the scalpel to cut through me and J looked at me and said, "Shit just got real." He was quite correct because at that very moment shit was about to get very real. Both physically and emotionally. The small c-section incision they usually make became the size of a hysterectomy cut because they couldn't pull Peanut out without wrapping the cord tighter around his neck. The initial annoying tugging and pulling sensation turned into actual excruciating pain until I actually started crying out. The anaesthetist kept promising that they were nearly done and that he would be able to give me something to take away the pain soon. J's eyes were darting from my face to where the doctor was wrestling with my insides. Suddenly Peanut was out. There was an actual loud "popping" sound as they flipped the umbilical cord over his head and the paediatrician congratulated my OB/GYN on making a good call to remove him that day. I sighed with relief as the morphine began to flood into my veins and ease the pain. It was all over...

Only it wasn't. It was far from over. I looked to the tiny surgical table on my left where they were suctioning Peanut. J was there now and I could tell from the look on his face and the paediatrician's furrowed brow that something wasn't right. They were battling to get him to breathe normally. The pain was back. Twice as bad as it had been, only this time it was in my chest. My heart was literally breaking. As I lay there on the operating table with tears pouring down my face silently willing my newborn baby boy to breathe on his own and bargaining with God, the Universe and any Heavenly being that may exist, I knew for certain that dying of a broken heart was an actual possible physical thing. It went on for twelve minutes. J got them all on tape, though heaven knows why because to this day I can't bring myself to watch them. Finally, our miracle baby was breathing on his own and crying. Surely now, this terrible nightmare of a day was over? They would bring me my precious baby to hold, wouldn't they? I could stop crying tears of fear and start crying tears of joy, couldn't I?

Not even close. I heard the paediatrician mutter some technical terms and him and my doctor started talking in concerned tones. The anaesthetist's assistant, who had been great throughout, came and told me that there was a problem with my baby and they were just checking him out. Finally the paediatrician came over and told me that he had a very rare disorder and that his bladder was exposed through a whole in his skin. I would not even be allowed to touch him for fear of causing infection. What the actual f*#k?

They brought him to me and held him up to me so that I could see him and kiss him on the forehead. It wasn't only 36 weeks that I had been waiting to meet him. It had been my whole life. I had always wanted to a Mom and here He was and now they were taking Him away from me. Taking him to NNICU. Taking him to run all sorts of tests and discuss amongst other doctors what his fate would be and I didn't have a damn say in the matter. I had done my best to nurture and protect and grow him for 36 weeks and I had promised to love and protect him his whole life and now I didn't even know how long that would be. I'd like to say my heart was breaking on that table as they wheeled him away but my entire spirit was destroyed.

They wheeled me to my suite in the maternity ward. My mom was there. I was incapable of rejoicing. I just broke down with my mom and J at my side. I always thought that us, Catholics, owned the right to guilt. I was wrong. Catholics are beginners. It's us, Moms. I blamed my medication, the odd cup of 'real' coffee I had had during my pregnancy, doing too much, doing too little, stress and just not being good enough.

Later that night, when our entire immediate families were gathered in the room, my OB/GYN and a paediatric surgeon arrived to explain how bladder exstrophy is a rare congenital anomaly affecting about 1 in 50 000. Children are usually born with the bladder outside of the body and there are abnormalities of the urinary tract and pelvic area. It can be linked with problems with other organs. Even if other areas aren't affected, children with bladder exstrophy often face multiple surgeries into their late teens or early twenties just to make them continent. We would have to wait until all the tests had been run to discover the fate of our child. I was then wheeled to NNICU to look, but just look, at my precious baby boy. He looked like a giant at 3kg compared to all the premature babies but his life hung just as much in the balance..

As I lay in bed that night, pumped full of drugs to help me sleep and calm me down, the tears ran down my face. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I was supposed to be cradling a
tiny, pink, squealing bundle. Instead I was lying alone in my hospital bed facing the toughest journey of my life and I was not equipped with any of the tools that I needed to fight the battle. I didn't know how to be a mom and I most certainly didn't know how to be a mom to a very sick little boy who needed a very strong mom to fight for him. I was about to find out that both that tiny little baby and I were a lot stronger than I gave us credit for.