Life on a Tightrope

June 1, 2008

One year ago today, I found myself in the emergency room of a city Hospital.  Nothing had yet been done to stop the bleeding from my uterus.  Fortunately, it was minimal as long as I stayed in a horizontal position.  Jeremy sat me up every few hours so that he could pump my breast milk for Blythe.  I was too weak to do it for myself, so he stayed by my side around the clock and learned more than he ever wanted to know about the intricacies of Breasts At Work.  Our friends and family took turns making the hour drive to pick up the milk.  I know it went through more than a few people’s minds to suggest that I cave in and let them feed Blythe formula.  But I was determined, and they love me so they kept their opinions to themselves.

Eventually it was decided that it would be unsafe to try a D&C in the emergency room, as they would have done with most women who had retained particles of the placenta after birth.  There was not a doctor on staff who had ever performed the procedure on a woman with a funny bicornuate uterus, which made the situation rather precarious.  The obstetrician in charge of my case begged the staff to let us slip into the operating room between surgeries, so that I wouldn’t be waiting all day.  Since it was typically a 20 minute procedure, tops, they let us go right in. 

They prepped me and promised that they were administering medication that would be out of my system in a few short hours, so that I could continue to pump.  Little did we know that I would end up pumped so full of stuff that my milk would be tainted for days.  Four OB’s were going to be collaborating on the procedure, and one of them was going to be operating an ultrasound machine so that they could clearly see what they were doing.  I told Jeremy I’d see him in half an hour, and that I loved him.  As I was being wheeled away, I tried to be strong and not show him how terrified I was.  But once he was out of my line of vision, I began to sob uncontrollably.  Within minutes, though, I was completely unaware of anything but deep, dreamless sleep.

As Jeremy waited anxiously in the waiting room, watching the clock and expecting someone to come and tell him everything was alright, nothing at all was going right behind the OR doors.  The OB’s were able to dislodge the piece of placenta from my uterine wall, but it had grown into the septum that separates the two lobes of my funny bicornuate uterus.  As they dug it out, I began to bleed in earnest.  I lost an entire liter of blood before they were able to stop the hemorrhage.  Three hours later, Jeremy was a complete wreck when someone finally came out to tell him what had happened.  They were able to save my life, they told him, and time would tell if they saved my uterus, but if I were to become pregnant again it would most likely kill me. 

I spent two days in the intensive care unit, and another day in the mother-baby unit of the city Hospital.  Jeremy had a little fold out chair next to my bed where he slept and spent his birthday.  Any visitors were roped into pumping for me, and thus was the beginning of my breasts becoming completely de-sexualized.  I think the only person we let slide was my dad, because that would just be weird.  The day before I was released, Jeremy and my sister, Sheila, surprised me with a visit from Alison and Blythe. 

After they left, I was overcome with so many emotions.  I was grateful to the blood donors whose selfless gift gave me what I needed to live; indebted to the doctors and nurses who saved my life and took care of me; blown away by the sacrifices our family and friends made to take care of our kids.  Most of all, I felt loved beyond measure by my husband, who faced countless worries as he waited, helpless, to know that I was going to be alright. 

I know that life is sweet.  Even as I battled months of painfully slow recovery made worse by post partum depression, I had a million things to be thankful for.  This past year has been… the worst and the best I’ve ever known.  But looking back I can say that I’ve come through a stronger, softer, gentler person who doesn’t take even a single moment for granted. 

May 31, 2008

One year ago today, my life changed. 

Blythe was two weeks old, and we had left the house alone together for the first time, to go to the pediatrician’s office for a check up.  I remember feeling like I was finally starting to recover from her birth and the hemorrhage that had immediately followed.  I was tired, sure, but wasn’t that normal?  We had a good time, and it was the first day since her birth that I didn’t take a nap.  I was so proud of myself for that.

I had just fallen asleep that night when a funny sensation roused me.  I went to the bathroom and passed a softball-sized clot (sorry if you’re squeamish).  I know this sounds like the absolute wrong thing to do, but I didn’t see anymore blood so I went back to bed.  I mean, I had given birth not all that long ago.  A few minutes later, I heard Blythe cry so I got her out of her crib.  As I was picking her up, I felt a gush that felt just like my water breaking.  Only, obviously I wasn’t about to go into labor.  I woke Jeremy, gave Blythe over to him, and went back into the bathroom.  This time, there was no denying it: I was losing blood, and fast.  I called the midwife while Jeremy called my parents to stay with the kids.  Ever the multitasker, I nursed Blythe as I sat there on the toilet, bleeding and waiting for my parents to come so Jeremy could take me to the emergency room. 

My dad helped me walk to the front of the house while Jeremy pulled the car around.  We didn’t get far before I started feeling woozy.  Jeremy caught me as I collapsed onto the kitchen floor.  I’m not sure if you want to, but try putting yourself inside his mind at that moment: he had watched his wife lose what looked like gallons of blood, had been present as she hemorrhaged after two births and knew how urgent the situation had been both times, with medical professionals in the room.  To top it all off, his wife had just looked him in the eyes, said she didn’t think she was going to make it, and lost consciousness.  What I meant was I didn’t think I could make it to the car, but he had no way of knowing that.  Fortunately, he brought me around in mere seconds.  He may have even slapped me a few times, but the details are kind of fuzzy.  I had passed out just long enough to be annoyed that he interrupted what had promised to be the best sleep I’d had in months.  Don’t go toward the light, my butt, the light feels like the best Sunday afternoon nap you ever had.

Needless to say, my dad called 911 while Jeremy kept me awake.  The EMT who rode in the back of the ambulance with me had mad skills – he was able to put in an IV line on the first try as we went over the crazy bumps on our long, gravel driveway.  The emergency room was something straight out of a movie.  An old lady was moaning and screaming; a legless lady was lying on a gurney in the hallway, her prosthetics a few feet away; a guy was gushing blood out of a huge gash in his leg.  They parked me in the hallway, as well, and we waited our turn.

Eventually, it was determined that my uterus had retained some of the placenta.  My labs came back, also, and I was strongly encouraged to accept two pints of blood while I waited for the ambulance to take me to a hospital in The City.  I did take the donor blood – and it’s a good thing.  If I hadn’t, I would have lost my life the following day…