the story of him...

Being pregnant for me was not filled with ice cream and pickles…I was nauseous…for 8 months! While I was excited about having a baby, like most new moms to be, I was terrified. First of the delivery…not sure how I would handle the pain, although I was pretty sure that drugs were in my future. Secondly, what kind of mother would I be. What if I royally screw up this child?! That was a distinct possibility in my mind. But I made it through. Somehow, with the support of my ridiculously patient husband and wonderful Alaska family I trudged through the muck and mire of pregnancy. So, at least for me, when you get past the 20 week mark, the 30 week mark, the 35 week mark…you think you’re home free. I had gone to the doctor at about 37 weeks because I wasn’t feeling right….I was in a lot of pain, especially when he kicked. The lovely nurse told me basically to suck it up and how “some mothers never get to feel their babies kick”. Okay, so I was apparently being a whiner, at least in her eyes. I woke up on the morning of April 25th for my weekly appointment with the midwife there at Bassett Army Medical Center in Fort Wainwright, Alaska. The significance of the appointment is that I NEVER made them for mornings…I was pregnant with no other children…I slept A LOT! But for some reason a morning visit was the only time they had. Jason’s battalion had been deployed to the Sinai for 6 months but thankfully he was tasked with the job of Rear Detachment Commander, leaving him back with me. So I woke up and immediately I did not feel well. Not the same nauseous, crap it’s another one of these kinds of days…but really just not well. I felt as though I was going to pass out when I got up and had a hard time doing so. But we got in the car and drove to the hospital and by the time we got there I told him that I needed to go straight to L&D because something was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew. He questioned me for a second because we already had a scheduled appointment, but at my insistence he grabbed a wheelchair and took me up to L&D. The next set of events almost doesn’t seem real. I was hooked up to machines that monitored me and the baby and possibly the woman next door…I can’t be sure. And remember, I’m at an Army hospital…there are WONDERFUL people that work there, but there are also some very inexperienced ones. So the aides or nurses or whatever were taking my temperature…94, this thermometer must be broken. 94, this one must be broken too. FOUR TIMES! Until...94 again…wait, maybe this is her temperature. Meanwhile the midwife, who was not my usual caretaker, was standing over me saying, “I just don’t understand…I’m not sure what’s going on”. This went on for what seemed like days...obviously it wasn’t, but it was way too long. I found out later that I was in fact in shock. So then an ob/gyn comes in, looks at my chart, me, read outs and leaves. Not 2 minutes later there’s an anesthesiologist talking to Jason and me about what he’s going to do because we’re going in to deliver. WHAT? NOW??? I wasn’t due for another week and a half. I was terrified and I’m sure Jason was as well. They took him away to get him ready for delivery and so I could get my spinal (what fun THAT was…but grateful to have it). Before I knew it, I’m lying on an operating table with Jason sitting at my head and the anesthesiologist nearby as well. “You’re going to feel some pulling.” SOME? Clearly he’d never had this done before. I guess in an effort to expedite the process 2 doctors stood on either side of me pulling back and forth to get through the muscle I assume. All I know is that I can see my body rocking pretty hard side to side. Once they opened me up blood just poured out of me. Apparently I had abrupted (placenta pulled away from the uterus) but instead of the blood coming out to give me a warning, it pooled inside my belly. Jason said that the blood was all over the floor and up to his feet…remember, he was at my head. At one point Jason tried to look over the little curtain to see what was going on, but I think I (not so kindly) told him to sit back down…that there were parts of me that he just didn’t need to see. Yeah, he’ll be sainted one day. Then they pull Lucas out. 38½ weeks and this boy is 8lbs 13oz!!! He was amazingly beautiful. But he didn’t really cry. Why wasn’t he crying? What was wrong? All I know is that there is a lot of scurrying around. When they pulled him out of me, because there was SO much blood around him, his first breath was just that, blood. We learned very quickly that day that blood is toxic to the lungs. He was going downhill fast. They put him in an oxygen “tent” as they’re putting big ole humpty dumpty me back together. I think they showed him to me in the OR, but I never held him. Once I was in recovery they wheeled him in to me in his little isolette and explained that they needed to transport him to the hospital in town (Fairbanks)…again, didn’t get to hold him. Obviously Jason had to go with the baby leaving me back at the hospital on post virtually alone. I had friends that came in to see me and they were wonderful, but they all had this dreadful look on their faces. At this point I didn’t realize the severity of the situation. And being in Alaska, I had no family nearby. No one. A fact that I know killed our families…they so badly wanted to be there. Jason was still at the other hospital and in comes the chaplain to talk to me, see how I’m doing. He says “so I hear it’s touch and go”…this is the first time anyone has said something that clued me in to how dire the situation was. In fact, they weren’t sure that he was going to make it through the night. I cannot explain to you how difficult it was to lay there in the bay of the ob wing and listen to new mothers care for their babies while my sweet little boy was fighting for his life in a completely different hospital (in the Army you don’t get the luxury of your own room, you're in a bay with several other women, separated by curtains). The only thing I had to hold onto was a picture of him that the AMAZING NICU nurses took for me. They were truly phenomenal. I’m not exactly sure how Jason made it through that weekend, running between two hospitals. He was unbelievable. He watched Lucas being intubated and stayed there looking over him, and would also come to care for me. That must have been so trying. Meanwhile our families are light years away and going through their own traumas of sort trying to figure out what to do for us. I spoke with my mother briefly and she already knew what was going on. Actually I don’t think I could speak…it was just too hard. She called me back to tell me that she would be there in 3 days; the quickest she could get out to Alaska…it’s not so easy. I don’t think either of us could speak at that point…the pain of needing my mother there was so great and to know that soon she would be by my side just was just overwhelming. All of this happened on Friday…by Sunday I was leaving my hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore. I had just had major surgery, almost died from the blood loss and was in really rough shape, but I couldn’t do it any longer. I had to see my baby. So, stapled together, I left. When I would go to the NICU, I apparently looked pretty scary because the nurses were constantly telling me to sit down and offering me juice. But I saw him. I’m convinced that he’s the most beautiful baby ever born…I’m sure most mothers will dispute that, but to me, it’s true. I couldn’t hold him that first day because he was still on the ventilator. He looked so little and helpless…until I looked at the other babies in the NICU who were about 6 pounds lighter than him…then he looked like he ate the rest of them ☺. Monday was a fantastic day. He was doing well enough to be taken off the vent, we could actually hold him as long as we held oxygen up to his nose, and my mother arrived. That was the day of relief. Finally I could see things moving in a positive direction. I needed my mom. More than anything, I needed her. I don’t know what that is or why that feeling is so strong, but it was absolute…I had to have my mother there. 3 days on the vent and 10 days in the NICU and finally, my baby came home. We could not have made it through the entire process without the help and prayers of our Army community. They were amazing. Neighbors making us meals, friends visiting, people that we didn’t know praying for us…it was inspiring.

So now, 12 years later, I have a healthy, happy, loving, ornery tweenager…and I couldn’t be more proud or more in love. He is my heart.

Happy Birthday Lucas…