All The Best Things…

Following delivery, I could not sleep. Not that I didn’t want to. Believe me, it was all I wished for. However, for 24 hours afterwards I remained on the magnesium drip to continue to protect my brain. This required neurological checks performed by the nurses every hour. Just as were done with a check and I began to drift off, time rolled around for the next one. No sleep meant that I was forced to face my thoughts. Physically, I felt as if I had been run over by that runaway train I was involuntarily riding earlier. Emotionally, I fell into a dark hole. I had created so many fuzzy scenarios about giving birth in my head – how exciting it would be when my labor would start, how I would labor at home as much as possible before presenting to the hospital, how Vlad would coach me through pushing and how deliriously happy we would be when Zoya was finally out. All of that got ripped away within just a few days time. I could barely comprehend what had happened. To top it off, the NICU team called to say that Zoya developed a bleed in her lung and had to be placed on a ventilator until it (hopefully) resolved. I didn’t even have the capacity to adequately process the emotional blow of that news – I simply said OK and hung up the phone.

My faith in God had never been so tested. In that moment, I needed God’s consistent goodness, sovereignty and faithfulness to be more than just nice words Christians use in hard times. I needed them to be true. I clung on to my faith that God has a good plan to work even the worst of situations for our benefit and ultimately, His glory.

In the days after, the good plan began to be revealed. So many blessings poured out on us from all different directions. It was one of the most awe-inspiring, edifying moments in my faith walk. I want to share with you just some of the main outcomes that resulted due to Zoya’s early appearance in this world.

1) Learning to relinquish control

Thank goodness for technology, right? I spent a lot of time reading the Bible on my phone in order to find peace in the midst of the chaos. One of the verses that stuck out to be was Psalm 100:3 –

Know that the Lord, he is God! It is he who made us, and we are his; we are his people, the sheep of his pasture.

For those that don’t know me, I am a major control freak and have struggled with surrender for a majority of life. This lovely character trait is especially pronounced in times of stress. It seems as if I would rather run myself into the ground trying to find solutions to situations in which not much can be done, rather than be still and patient, knowing God is in control where I am not. With Zoya’s birth, God kinda sorta forced my hand in letting go. Even if there was something I could have done, in the first few days postpartum I was physically and emotionally incapacitated. I had no choice but to trust that God is who he says He is. I reran Psalm 100:3 over and over in my mind. Great comfort was found in the knowledge that God takes ownership of His children. I imagined Him protectively holding me and Zoya by the hand as we walked down a scary path, keeping our steps steady, giving us what we needed to make it through.

In a time when I could have been panicked with fear, accepting that I am powerless while God is all I am not and resting in His promises brought peace I would have otherwise never had. It was a rough, but necessary, learning experience that has since impacted every aspect of my life.

2) A New Bond
Going on seven years of marriage at the time of Zoya’s arrival, I felt like Vlad and I had found a sweet spot in our relationship. We knew each other. We were a true team. With every passing year, we were learning how to love and serve one another on a daily basis. But let me tell you guys, I’ve never felt that my husband truly loved me as much as when he was helping a flabby, leaky and wobbly me shower four days after delivery. It was painful to stand for a long time and just as uncomfortable to have him see me in such a state. I wanted nothing more than to get out of the bathroom. Vlad broke down my insecurities with his unconditional love. He calmed my worried heart as I was recovering. During hospital stay, he woke up with me every 3 hours to help me pump and then would personally walk down my breastmilk to Zoya in the NICU. He was my cheerleader as I shuffled down the hospital hallway despite the c-section incision pain. I’ve never been so dependent on another human being in my adult life. It was scary and humbling and left me breathless every time I thought about it. The experience of becoming parents in such a tumultuous way strengthened our relationship with a bond that could not be created in any other way. Talk about growing pains.

3) Friends in New Places

Following Zoya’s birth, we had a waterfall of texts, calls, messages – you name it – coming to us from all communication platforms. Our friend group surrounded us with love and support in every possible way. We had people bring us coffee and all kinds of delicious treats, call and pray with us, clean our house. My friend, Rita, started a meal train so we wouldn’t have to worry about cooking. It was amazing to know that the friends I considered as close really were that as they served us over the next few months. The best surprise of it all, though, came in the form of people who I was not close with or had lost touch with over time reaching out to us in love. Many shared their own stories of preeclampsia or experiences with having a NICU baby. Many just said words of encouragement. The transparency of these individuals, who were all but strangers, was incredibly uplifting. A particularly sweet girlfriend who I had previously been close with but fell out of touch with, offered to come over after I was home from the hospital and just be with me. She did not seek to be entertained but was simply willing to keep me company as I did whatever mundane things I needed to do that day. Zoya was the catalyst that ended our season of distance and started us on a path to a deeper friendship than we had in the past.

4) Fresh Professional Perspective

I’m a nurse, and nursing is all about empathy. It’s a skill that is actually taught during our education through practicing therapeutic communication, active listening and the like. Of course, the best empathy comes from personal understanding of the patient experience. Up until Zoya, I had very little expertise in being sick. I had never broken a bone. I had never gone to the Emergency Room. My “big story” was getting IV fluids and Toradol (like an ibuprofen, but given intravenously) at an urgent care for a bad UTI. I tried my best to be empathetic and compassionate to my patients, but looking back, I probably failed miserably many times over. I don’t blame myself, because I simply didn’t know what being a patient was like.

Being in the hospital for 6 days left me in awe of how tough the patient life really is. From the vulnerability of wearing a hospital gown instead of regular clothes to the unpleasant taste of saline in my mouth during an IV flush (it’s a weird phenomenon, but so real) to how mind numbing it is to remain in the same room for days on end, I kept thinking to myself, “wow, so this is what it’s really like!”.

It was a deeply personal experience that created a fresh professional perspective. I knew it was going to make me less dismissive, more compassionate and ultimately a better nurse.

These wonderful byproducts of Zoya’s birth story are just some of the ways in which I have felt blessed in those subsequent days.

There is so much more. Every day I would survey my life and find even more good. It was all around me, seeping out of every crack of this situation. It would have been very easy to sink into a dark hole in those days. To be honest, some days I was on the very edge. Relinquishing my personal control and holding on to God’s promises were what pulled me up and out. I did not forget the anger or fear that I felt. Yet simultaneously, my eyes were trained on all the good things, and ultimately, on a good God.

A Love Letter

Dear Zoya,

One more week until I’m back at work.

Until you came along, finishing nursing school and conquering the emergency room had been the most difficult, yet satisfying accomplishment. Now, the stress of exams and learning how to behave in a code seems trivial in comparison to being entirely responsible for nourishing a human life.

We were blessed with the opportunity for me to take four months off work in a country where some women get no time at all. One month of that time was spent sitting by your isolette in the NICU as we eagerly awaited your homecoming. I watched you start your journey from a frail little bird with limbs the size of my fingers.

After you finally joined us home on December 7th, Vlad and I spent the rest of 2018 floating through our house in a sleepless haze common to new parents. Every feed felt like life or death as we learned to care for your needs – fortifying your breastmilk with extra calories, supplementing vitamins, making sure you remembered to breathe while eating – all the while praying for good growth.

It was tough to be cooped up in the house during a long winter, especially after Vlad went back to work. I was equally anxious about flu exposure as I was about just being out with an infant – what if you had a need I could not provide? Then, slowly, we began to brave the outside world together. I remember the elated text I sent Vlad the first time you and I went to Mariano’s. Grocery shopping went from a mundane task to a monumental accomplishment.

Now our time together is getting sweeter by the day. We have learned one another the way mothers and daughters do. I love our early mornings especially. Waking up is still as tough as ever but after the morning bottle, we lay together on the big bed and you give me the best smiles. You’re starting to take in the big world around you. I feel so privileged to shepherd you through it.

In a week I will trade in your soft snuggles for being party to the physical, and often spiritual, ailments of strangers. That is what nursing is, after all. It feels a bit odd to be leaving you. And I must admit, it feels guilty. That mom shame is so, so real.

I keep reminding myself that God made me your mother, but he also made me a nurse. He gave me the mind to pass all those exams, the skills to assess a critically ill patient and the words to comfort a loved one just as he gave me the intuition to know exactly what you need from one cry. Now, again with His help, I have to figure out how to balance the two.

Being a working mom is no walk in the park. Neither is the life of a stay at home mom a permanent vacation. Career choices aside, the pressure is on to make organic baby food, decorate a sparkling home on a penny budget, and to look “I woke up like this” perfect on Instagram. Women are in competition with one another to raise beautiful young prodigies all while looking and being fabulous themselves. Reality is, it currently takes me several days to fold one load of laundry. The amount of dry shampoo I’ve been using on a regular basis is slightly concerning.

I recently listened to a podcast interview of Hannah Anderson, the author of Humble Roots. In it she relates many of our life stresses to pride. She states, “pride is self-reliance and attempting to live beyond the limits that God has placed in our lives.” Baby girl, how badly I needed to hear that! For I am such a limited human being. I know, that try as I might to be a perfect mother, I will inevitably fail in some way. And I’m learning to be OK with that.

My hope is that as you’re growing, you see me as a mother that leans deeply into the grace of God. As you see me going to work, I hope you are inspired by seeing me using the gifts God gave me and consider your own. I pray that you are modeled what humility and forgiveness looks like as I learn what they mean and practice them in the context of motherhood. Instead of trying to be a perfect parent, I want to teach you that God is the most perfect Father any of us could ever have.

I am sure there will be days that I will want nothing to do with getting in the car and driving to work. I am certain there will be at least one instance where I cry because of missing you or not being able to witness a milestone firsthand. But there will also be priceless greetings, bed time stories and lazy Saturday mornings. Our time spent together will be all the more cherished.

We are entering into this new season at full speed. Change is hard, I must admit. But also necessary. We will be in a brand new place, and it will be different. Different is not bad, though, and we mustn’t be afraid. Our love will change too – it will only grow stronger.

We will figure out this new place in life together and find a way to make it even sweeter.

The end of the beginning.

Inducing labor felt like the road of no return. As the ob-gyn resident prepared to begin the process, whatever shreds of hope for miraculous recovery I was holding on to flickered out. The steps for induction were explained; they were less than savory.

Because I was so far away from my due date, my body had not yet started to efface and dilate in preparation for labor. I would have to start from zero. This meant that in addition to medications given for labor induction, pitocin and misoprostol, the doctor would also have to (drumroll here) manually dilate my cervix. A catheter with a balloon would be inflated inside of me as I received IV medication in order to kick start my labor. I was told that there would be a minute of “cramping pain” as the balloon was inflated and was offered dilaudid for relief. Dilaudid is a opioid pain medication that crosses the placenta and can have some effects on a fetus, although it is considered OK to give in certain situations where need outweighs risk. Knowing this, I figured I could handle a minute of discomfort. I didn’t want even a slight chance of Baby Girl being in worse shape than she already was at 8 weeks early.

Once again, the my expectations were off. The process proved to be a little more than uncomfortable before the resident even got around to inflating the balloon. I was trying hard to maintain my composure and relax but failing miserably. Once the resident began to inflate the balloon, I mentally counted sixty seconds to the finish line. The pain did pass and I let out a giant sigh of relief. To my disappointment, the resident said that she was unable to correctly place the balloon and we would need to start from the beginning. I told her to go ahead and try again, hoping to get it over with. The second time around the pain was worse. Tears sprang to my eyes as I was told placement was not achieved once again. On the third round, I am pretty certain I was cutting off the circulation to Vlad’s hand. I could not hold back from screaming out in pain. The resident’s best efforts failed once again, probably in large part to how tensed up I was.

I was done trying to be a hero. No one was going to give me a medal for going through this torture medication free. I consented to dilaudid. The dose I was set to get was one milligram. Morgan, the nurse, only managed to push half of that through my IV when suddenly it hit me. I felt as though I was levitating above the bed while simultaneously being submerged into a hot tub. The air around me felt thin as my eyes widened and rolled back.

“Oh my God!” I remember exclaiming, mouth gaping. I had never had pain medicine this strong before. My body was absolutely reeling. Everyone around me snickered at my reaction. I laughed too. The comic relief in that moment was so, so needed. The resident quickly went back to work. I could feel her hands but was relaxed to the point of not caring. With my discomfort relieved, the catheter was successfully placed with balloon inflated within a minute.

I relaxed in back in bed. Perhaps the worst was behind me. I don’t remember how much time passed by, but it felt as if only minutes. The pain of the induction was replaced by the pain of contractions. I had read that a lot of women start to labor with back pain that gradually moves down and anteriorly. I was mentally prepared prepared for contractions that would slowly build up in intensity, giving me time to get used to the discomfort. Probably because my labor was induced with several methods for sake of speeding up the process, my contraction experience was unlike anything I read about. They came suddenly and from somewhere down below. The pain felt as if someone had cranked the dial from zero to ten. Unlike the beginning stages of a naturally progressing labor in which there are breaks of as many as ten minutes between contractions, I was barely getting seconds of rest. The experience was so completely disorienting that I forgot all about relaxation techniques. All I could do was sit forward and moan, holding Vlad’s hand. It took me a while to realize that I was holding my breath through each one. I forced myself to breathe rhythmically during each new wave, but the relief I got was a drop in the bucket. The epidural was out of the question until I dilated to at least 3 centimeters and was considered in active labor.

After what I felt like an eternity, the nurse got an order for another half milligram of dilaudid. I did not hesitate this time. My strength was diminishing rapidly and I knew I would need it even more after delivery. With the second dose of dilaudid on board, I was elated to find out that I was allowed to order food from the clear liquids menu. Ravenous would have been an understated description of my state. Clear liquids consisted of chicken broth, two different types of jello and popsicles. I ordered all three. I am not kidding when I say that after almost an entire day of not eating, jello and popsicles tasted like a delicacy.

With my clear liquid meal behind me, I rested in bed with my eyes closed. Although sleep was so needed, my thoughts were running a million miles an hour. I ended up pretending to snooze while listening in to my mom and Vlad talk about me.

The time wore on, although I had completely lost track of it. The resident came to check my dilation progress and was happy to report that I had made it to five centimeters. The hard work of the pain was not lost. She took out the balloon catheter and suggested that the epidural would be a great idea before I progressed any further. I consented as it was always part of my labor plan but found myself simultaneously filled with dread. So much had gone wrong and now I irrationally feared that the epidural would be added to that list. Every freak story I read on the internet ran thought my head. What if the anesthesiologist botched the job and I would end up with permanent spinal cord damage?

Thankfully, this was the one part that I did not have to worry over. The anesthesiologist turned out to be reassuring, calm and an excellent practitioner. I locked eyes with Vlad, who was masked for sterility and sitting against the wall. The nurse gave me an intentional hug to steady me as I sat on the edge of the raised bed, feet dangling, back hunched and exposed. The worst part of the whole process was a tiny prick of a needle as the area around the site was being numbed. I did not feel the actual spinal needle whatsoever. My feet began feeling like quicksand within seconds of the medication introduced into my system. The nurse helped me back into bed.

At this point the resident also broke my water – yet another step towards no return in my mind. The nurse placed a Foley catheter to measure my urine output and ultimately, my waning kidney function (I was very thankful for not having to feel this part).

The culmination happened in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. We had been there since Sunday night. The crazy seemed to be winding down. At that point we were in a waiting game for full dilation so that I could deliver. Vlad and I tried our best to rest in the dimly lit labor room. My mom was still seated in the corner and fairly traumatized by everything she had witnessed her only child go through. All three of us were past the breaking point of exhaustion.

For some reason, the nurse would not leave me alone. Every time I would drift off to sleep, she would be adjusting my positioning in bed or the heartbeat monitor on my belly. I was so annoyed. Everyone had told me to try to rest and wait, yet I kept getting bothered every few minutes. I couldn’t even get comfortable because I was only allowed to lay on my left side, propped by pillows. I should have probably realized that any time I built up expectations they would be shattered but I was too tired to think. My mind was so overworked that I failed to clue in that the reason the nurse, and all her nurse friends, kept crowding me and “bothering” me, was because of Baby Girl’s heart rate. It kept falling off the monitor. After a minute of searching, it would be found again but lower than the previous reading. This kept happening over and over for several hours.

One of the lead attending physicians, along with a several wide eyed residents, interrupted our trance-like state. He said that because of the repeated drops in Baby Girl’s heart rate, it was no longer safe for me to progress in labor. The best course of action was now an urgent c-section. His words fell on me like an avalanche. All through the course of my pregnancy, I had always told Vlad that whatever happened, the absolute last thing I wanted was a c-section. Although I worked in the medical field, the idea of personally undergoing surgery always struck a fear cord. Now it was inevitable reality.

I was so caught off guard by this turn of events that I asked the doctors to step out of the room “so I could think about it”…as if I were going to come up with an alternate option. Vlad, my mom and I took a moment to pray. I tried to collect my thoughts. The prospect of c-section had an air of finality about it that was unsettling. My pregnancy was about to abruptly end two months early. The little girl being grown inside of me would be out in the world.

Within five minutes I was being wheeled out of the labor room and towards a surgical suite. My mom was shown to the waiting room while Vlad was led towards a place to change into sterile scrubs so that he could be by my side. I was acutely aware of how alone I felt with no loved ones beside me while the nurses were helping me from the bed onto the surgical table. Thankfully, Dr. H. was smiling down at me – she had left her home at 3am that Tuesday to make it in to perform my c-section even though the attending physician on duty was more than capable. Seeing her familiar face gave me a sliver of peace.

I had been in several c-sections during nursing school. I listened in to the conversations going on around me as I was prepped, trying to pretend I was once again a nurse and not the patient on the table. It was not working to relieve my anxiety. To add to my nerves, Vlad was nowhere to be found. The anesthesia team increased the dose of my epidural until I was completely paralyzed. The curtain blocking the surgical site from view went up and I heard a voice say,

“I’m prepping her belly.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, he’s coming!” The nurses said in response to my frantic repeated questioning of my husband’s whereabouts. This could not be happening without him.

I was told with the epidural I would not feel pain but perhaps some pressure. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I seemingly felt the scalpel glide across my abdomen. Just as the first incision was made, Vlad was allowed to join me at the head of the table. He locked his eyes with my tearful ones.

Dr. H. was excellent at peeking over the curtain and giving encouraging updates as she and her team worked. It was mind blowing to know that on the other side of the partition, the muscles of my abdomen had been cut away and my inner organs exposed. Very quickly, Vlad and I heard the words,

“Her uterus is exposed. Bring in the neonatology team.”

A whole team of specialists just for Baby Girl rushed in, bringing the total headcount in the room to about 15-20 people. The anesthesiologist, sitting by me opposite of Vlad, looked at me.

“They are about to take her out.” He said. “You will feel some pressure in your chest and it will be over.”

I held my breath as all my emotions were squeezing together. It happened exactly as the anesthesiologist had described. The pressure was there and just as suddenly it was gone. The time was 3:30 am.

There was a split second pause followed by a giant wail from our two pound thirteen ounce little human.

Hearing that cry opened a floodgate of relief unlike anything else. Vlad and I put our heads together, letting out a simultaneous sigh as we both broke into tears.

“Zoya!” I exclaimed. That was the first time we openly said her name in front of others, although we had been calling her by it for months.

The moments after that one are truly a blur. Vlad was allowed to cut the cord as the neonatal team evaluated her under the infant warmer. She was wrapped up in the classic white-blue-pink hospital baby blanket. One of the nurses put her head up to mine so I could kiss her forehead before she was taken to the NICU. Vlad followed her infant warmer out of the surgical room as Dr. H. was already working on repairing my incision. When I first got pregnant, Vlad and I somehow thought to have a conversation about what he should do if things went wrong and the baby needed to go to NICU. Together we decided that unless I was actively dying, he should leave me and go with the baby to make sure it is OK. Looking back, I am so glad we made that plan in advance and were not frantically deciding what to do in the moment. Vlad was able to see Zoya get settled in the NICU, sign consents for her treatment and meet her nurses before returning to me as I was getting stitched.

After my repair was complete, I was transferred back to a hospital bed. The team went above and beyond by wheeling that giant thing through the halls of the hospital to the NICU so that I could see where Zoya was for myself. She was laying under the warmer without a blanket and I could see her limbs, as thin as my fingers, for the first time. Her breaths, assisted by an oxygen mask, were fast and hard – she was working overtime at life. I wanted to be there for her in every way possible but also felt utterly exhausted and helpless and overwhelmed. I was brought into the recovery room on the high risk maternity floor where I would be for the next 5 days. Everything that had happened seemed like a bad dream. I knew I had a baby but she was not by me. I was a mother yet I was still supposed to have been pregnant another two months. Zoya had been an extension of me and suddenly I was empty. Nothing made sense. All of these feelings continued to be blunted by the magnesium drip that was still running into me and would continue for the next 24 hours.

I laid in the dark of the recovery room as she laid, one floor down, in the NICU. It was the end of the beginning. The light from our heart monitors cast a glow over our beds as we started out on life as mother and daughter.

Runaway Train

The hospital I belonged to was divided up into two parts – the main building and the Women’s Hospital. In order to get to Labor & Delivery late on a Sunday night, one had to park in the main garage and enter through the Emergency Room since the main lobby doors were locked. One then had to make a five minute walk down a seriously long hallway to another lobby set specifically for the Women’s Hospital. There was no way to park at the Women’s Hospital and walk directly in. I guess maybe they thought it was good for all those laboring women to get their steps in.

Once Vlad and I made it to the second lobby, large double doors ushured us in to the Labor and Delivery unit. Several staff greeted us from behind a giant desk. A clipboard with privacy forms appeared for me to read over. At this point I was more than ready to stop feeling the headache, still cracking at my temples. All I could think about was following the nurse who appeared from around the corner and was beckoning me into a room. I managed to scribble my signature at the bottom, pushing the clipboard at Vlad to finish filling out.

In the room, the nurse helped me change into an ever-fashionable hospital gown as I told her the story of my day. We joked about the grumpy cat socks I was sporting. I waddled to the bathroom for a urine sample. After that was taken care of, I settled into the hospital bed for a vitals check. The blood pressure cuff was inflating, cutting off the circulation in my left arm. The alarm was creeping up inside of me again. I tried to be nonchalant as I stared at the clock on the opposite side of the room from the monitor. Vlad finished with the paperwork and appeared beside me. I took a deep breath and kept looking at the clock. The cuff suddenly let go and a high pitched sound rang out from the monitor. It was too ugly to be good news. Still refusing to look back at the screen, I asked the nurse how high my pressure was.

“Let’s just re-do it on the other arm!” She said brightly. Obviously it was bad enough that it warranted a second try. I tried to tell myself that this was ok. Blood pressure can falsely elevate in tense situations and this was definitely one of them. The repeat measure would be more normal, I was certain. Again the cuff inflated, this time on my right, and again the ugly sound rang from the monitor. I could not bring myself to look. I knew if I looked I would not be able to remain calm.

“How bad is it?” I asked again with an anxious laugh. The nurse continued to smile but I could see the concern in her eyes. She said she would page the doctor. This was the kind of answer nurses used if things were not good but they were waiting for the person with MD behind their name to deliver the news. The nurse then began preparing to start an IV, which told me this was a serious enough situation that she could not wait for the doctor to evaluate me and actually place order for one. I pointed out a spot in my forearm where a juicy vein could typically be found. To me, it seemed like a no-brainer placement for anyone with a few weeks worth of experience. How very wrong I was. Try as she might, the nurse could not seem to find the vein. I’ve never been a huge fan of needles (ironic, isn’t it?) and the very large one the nurse was using to dig around in my arm caused me to be covered in a thin layer of cold sweat. Vlad tried to distract me by telling the nurse that I too, am a nurse. I’m sure this helped her feel totally pressure free. After a few minutes, she gave up on my forearm and moved on to my antecubital area (the crook of my arm). There, too, she struck out. She ended up having to call the unit IV whisperer, who finally placed a line in my left antecubital area. The whole time, I was glaring and rolling my eyes at Vlad out of frustration at what I thought to be the nurse’s incompetence. Later, I would find out my initial blood pressure readings were showing 220/110, which was much more than just a little concerning for anyone, much more so for a pregnant woman. Such a high pressure was causing my kidneys to stop functioning properly. As a result, I was retaining fluid, leading to massive swelling over my entire body. The swelling masked my veins as well as exerted pressure, squishing them down and making them impossible to find.

As the vein search wore on, the on-call physician for my ob-gyn group, Dr. T., stepped into the room. Her tone was calm but serious. She explained that based on my symptoms and blood pressure readings, what was happening could be pregnancy-induced hypertension or preeclampsia. If it was pregnancy induced hypertension and I would respond to treatment, it was possible that I could go home, be placed on bed rest and continue taking blood pressure medication until delivery at 34 weeks. If it was preeclampsia, then there would be no choice but to deliver me as soon as possible for fear of life-threatening complications. Confirmation of one versus the other would come by way of blood work, which was currently being run in some windowless, halogen lit lab somewhere in the hospital.

What was being said to me sunk in very slowly. As the nurse pounded me with medication to bring my blood pressure to a safe level, I was starting to realize that I was on a runaway train with no means of exit. Being totally devoid of control petrified me. Vlad was also stunned. We held hands, praying and clinging onto the hope for the best possible lab results. I tried my best to find a positive, lighthearted aspect of the situation. Two weeks of bed rest, endless books, shows and snacks being brought to my bedside wasn’t the worst possible outcome. In two weeks Baby Girl would be a whole 14 days closer to being ready to live in the outside world. Whatever it took in those days for her to get stronger, I would do. I could not bring myself to consider the alternative.

In the late hours of that Sunday night, I was thrust out of my hopeful existence into reality. The labs were back and they were bad. By bad, I mean so ridiculously horrible that some of the staff on duty that night had never seen values so out of normal range. I was so sick from the preeclampsia that my kidneys not just malfunctioning, but were about halfway to being entirely shut down. Dr. T explained all this to me standing at the foot of my bed. Although she was hoping for a different outcome, based on the severity of the findings, she and the rest of the medical team on the unit that night concluded that there was no time to lose. The only way to definitively stop the preeclampsia from progressing was for me to give birth.

The next events were like a horrifying, yet perfectly orchestrated game play carried out by a team of professionals who knew exactly what they were doing. The news of my imminent delivery came right during the nursing change of shift at 11 pm. My new nurse charged into the room with the confidence of someone who regularly managed other people’s crises for a living. Her name was Morgan, she had strawberry blonde curls tucked into a bouncy ponytail and she seemed around my age. She listened to the outgoing nurse’s report on my situation and plan of care as I cowered in bed next to the both of them.

“Right, this is what we are going to do.” She said. Word that I was also an RN had spread throughout the unit quickly. She spoke to me as an equal, as someone who was preparing to fight my battle right by my side. “Your blood pressure needs to get under control. We are going to give you meds for preeclampsia, steroids to help mature your baby’s lungs and then as soon as you are stable the doctor will start the induction process. I am going to be here with you every step of the way.”

I was and am still so thankful to God for having Morgan take care of me that night. She was like the relentlessly positive, capable and compassionate warrior Vlad and I needed in the room with us as the night spun on.

Treatment started with more medication to keep bringing my pressure down and an IV antibiotic for group B stretoccocus, which is routinely ruled out in all pregnancies at the 32 week ob-gyn visit. My 32 week visit was scheduled for that Tuesday but I would never make it. I was given the first of two steroid injections to speed up Baby Girl’s lung development in preparation for her entrance to the world. As if being poked by multiple needles for IVs and injections was not enough, I needed repeat blood work every 4 hours to keep checking on the status of my poor kidneys. Megan showed nursing excellence here as she advocated for the best phlebotomist in the hospital to come and stick me for blood since no one on the floor could find a good vein. An ultrasound machine was rolled into the room to check on how Baby Girl was doing as all this drama was unfolding. To our relief, none of the symptoms I was experiencing affected her in the least. Her heart rate was in perfect range and good movement was seen during the scan. She was head down, poised for optimal vaginal delivery. Women’s bodies are designed to protect a baby at all costs in pregnancy, a truth I was never more grateful for.

One more large puzzle piece in the treatment of preeclampsia that I needed to undergo: magnesium. As a result of an IV infusion of magnesium, the body’s nervous system is tricked into dilating blood vessels in the brain as well as relaxing skeletal muscles. It acts to prevent the likelihood of seizures and protect the mother’s and baby’s brains if one does occur. The unpleasant side effect that goes along with this life-saving treatment is the feeling of heat and tingling from within. I knew this as a fact because I had also regularly given it in the ER to relax the spasming lungs of patients suffering asthma attacks. The usual ER dose was 2 grams and just that caused perfectly rational patients to turn into anxious wrecks who would jump out of beds and pull IVs because they couldn’t handle the heat (literally). The dose that I was set to receive, said Megan, was 6 grams over 20 minutes followed by a continuous infusion of 2 grams per hour…indefinitely. I steeled myself for what was going to be a certainly unforgettable experience.

Megan, being ever experienced, came armed with a basin of cool water and towels in addition to the bag of IV magnesium. She started the drip at the prescribed rate. The first few minutes were not so bad. Slowly, I began to feel the sensation of burning. It crept and tingled from somewhere within, soon taking over my entire body. I felt like I was having a thousand hot flashes all rolling from one to the next and piling on top of each other. It was itchy and sweaty and really did make me want to jump out of bed. Under Megan’s direction, she and Vlad began soaking towels in water from the basin and placing them over my body in attempt to alleviate the sensation. We started a countdown to when the drip could be turned down and tried to carry conversation as a distraction mechanism. After 20 long minutes, the fire was over. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief as Megan changed the settings on the infusion pump to 2 grams per hour.

Shortly thereafter, I attempted to go to the bathroom. This seemingly simple ritual made me discover that magnesium does not only make you boil from the inside, but also causes your body to be weak and your mind foggy as a result of inciting all that relaxation. Add to that extreme exhaustion from stress and lack of sleep. I had the strength and wits of a newborn kitten. There were about ten different wires and tubes connected to me from all angles. I stared in a stupor as Megan whizzed around, untangling and organizing all my accessories in attempt to make me mobile. Walking was a whole other thing. I swayed like a drunk, dragging two IV poles, as I tried to make the ten feet from my bed to the bathroom. Megan had to help me through the entire process, speaking encouraging words as I clung on to her for dear life.

What seemed like an endless stream of professionals funneled through the room. Social workers, ob-gyns specializing in high risk pregnancies, the neonatology and pediatrics teams, a respiratory therapist, lactation consultants – it seemed as though the whole hospital was mobilized to ensure the best possible outcome to a frightening situation. Vlad and I contacted our family and close friends to brief them on what was going on. Vlad’s parents were in New York on vacation and my dad was in Russia taking care of family business. The only one actually close by was my mom, who immediately started driving to the hospital. The text message alerts on our phones went off every few minutes as people sent prayers and expressed their support. It was comforting to know that there was such a literal army standing behind us. Somehow it was also very overwhelming. Giving updates made the whole situation even more real. I was afraid to waste the precious energy I had left on explaining and reassuring worried loved ones. Even holding and looking at my phone seemed debilitating. The faces of all the hospital personnel introducing themselves was reduced to a blur. I mechanically thanked each one and repeatedly stated that no, I did not have any questions at this time. In reality, I was barely processing information to be able to think of anything to ask.

Dr. H., the ob-gyn who I had been seeing for my pregnancy (plus the past seven years) drove in to see me. She arrived all dressed up, straight from the bedside of her daughter-in-law, who had just given birth to the family’s first grandchild. I was shocked that Dr. H. had left her house in the middle of the night after such a pivotal day in order to see me. We had always had a very warm doctor-patient relationship but this act of care truly brought tears to my eyes.

“You were supposed to be my easy patient! What happened?” she asked.

I tried to picture what she was seeing. My body, swollen to the point of disfigurement. The multiple bags of IV medication hanging on either side of me. Megan glued permanently to my bedside. My mom, who had promptly arrived at the hospital and now sat in the corner with a decidedly terrified look. Vlad’s grim smile and my blank stare. All three of us were trying to process and failing miserably. I had made a total transition from taking care of patients to becoming one in less than 24 hours. A 32 week baby was about to make an appearance in the world and she was mine. My once healthy body slapped me in the face in an act of ugly betrayal. I felt like I should possibly be crying, or screaming from fear or indignation or the injustice of it all. I knew that I needed to pray. Yet I could not muster any words. All these thoughts and emotions were blunted. All I could do was lay back and hold Vlad’s hand. To me he was maintaining supernatural calm. In reality, he was also barely holding on. We were at the mercy of God’s grace. It was just the beginning of the most humbling experience of my life.

As Sunday night wore into Monday morning, the medications kicked in and my blood pressure began to look more like that of a healthy person. Megan paged the on call resident physician. It was time to induce labor and meet the tiny human still in the process of being knit within me.

32 Weeks

Seven months. 32 weeks. I won’t bother with trying to figure out how many days or minutes are in that time span. At 32 weeks a baby is taking its first practice breaths in the womb, its skin transforming from translucency to look like actual flesh. An ideal pregnancy has roughly 8 more weeks in its timeline during which babies get nice and fat in preparation for the work of outside life.

32 weeks is by no means an ideal point at which a baby enters the world, yet it happens to so many people. And it happened to me.

Let me preface this by saying that I had a textbook healthy pregnancy. Yes, the nausea and the heartburn were bad throughout, but that was to be expected. My blood work, vitals, and nonexistent medical history were all mundane in their normalcy. After the fact, I found out that preeclampsia is completely unavoidable. There is no special tea to drink, no extra amount of times to measure blood pressure to somehow catch and stop it in the act.

Once it starts, its like you’re on a runaway train and the only way to get off is to give birth.

A word on preeclampsia. No one really knows where it comes from (Herndon, 2018). It happens in about 5% of all pregnancies. The syndrome is characterized by high blood pressure and a high urine protein after week 20 of pregnancy. Ladies also get ridiculously swollen (but really, who isn’t swollen when they’re pregnant?), get vision changes and headaches. If left untreated, it can progress to eclampsia, which means all of the aforementioned symptoms plus seizures. Ultimately, it can result in long term organ damage as well as maternal and fetal death. It’s pretty bleak to think about.

I knew about preeclampsia from nursing school, of course. The symptoms to watch for were engrained in my brain long before I was ever actually pregnant. But as that particular individual with a nonexistent medical history and textbook pregnancy, I felt I had nothing to worry about.

The day before I realized I was on the runaway train was a great one. Vlad and I spent the morning putting the house in order. I remember bending down to pick a bag off the floor only to notice my ankles. Or should I say, where my ankles used to be. That area had gotten so swollen that it was as if my calf grew directly into my foot. I laughed about it and sent a photo to some friends. In the afternoon we finally made it out to Buy Buy Baby to make some returns and spend our store credit on baby necessities (a.k.a. pink pig ottoman). Vlad’s friend, Eugene, was in town from Colorado, and the three of us went to Mindy’s Hot Chocolate for an indulgent treat paired with excellent conversation. We ended up getting home around midnight and I fell directly into bed because I had a shift the next morning.

I awoke with back pain, which was a typical occurrence for me in those days. It was so common that I had a routine worked out that would pep me up before I started my shift at 11 – I would get in as hot a shower as I felt was appropriate for a pregnant woman, take two acetaminophen and sit on the couch eating my breakfast with a heating pad. It tended to work like a charm and that day was no exception. With the pain subsiding, I used the remainder of my morning free time to check my baby app. It was a fun little ritual that happened every Sunday as the weeks flew by. This Sunday I was 32 weeks and wanted to know everything going on with Baby Girl, who was supposedly the size of a squash. After a satisfactory scroll through the app, I squeezed into my non maternity scrub pants and made sure my work bag was packed before setting off for my 12 hour shift.

I felt delightfully peppy as I walked into the Emergency Room. It was November 4th. The weather outside was frosty, meaning a lot of patients would not venture out unless absolutely necessary, keeping the waiting room nice and empty. My favorite day shift charge nurse was working. I had been assigned to the fast track along with some of my bestie coworkers. The goal of fast track was to weed out the minor complaint patients so that the nurses and doctors working the main side for the day could focus on the critical cases. It was a nice mental break that my 32 week pregnant self did not mind at all.

The first four hours flew by uneventfully. Then, the backache came back with a vengeance. I stiffly walked around from room to room, a fake smile plastered on my face for the patients’ sake. The pain was a relentless, tight ache radiating from my waist to my shoulder blades. Additional acetaminophen was doing nothing for me. I toyed around with the idea of asking to go home early but brushed the thought aside. I needed to save my PTO for maternity leave and didn’t want my coworkers to think of me as less capable simply due to being pregnant. At the urging of my fast track teammates, I conceded to a 15 minute lie down in one of the patient rooms.

As I lay on the stiff ED cart, one hand on my belly, I remember wondering how much more it could stretch in the next 8 weeks. I remember hoping that this baby would come a few days early. I made a mental checklist of all the things I still needed to get done before she arrived – finish decorating the nursery, pre-wash all the clothes, pack a hospital bag.

Fifteen minutes and I felt like I hit a second wind. I came out with full resolve to finish out the mere 6 hours I had left in my shift. The department felt mine for the conquering.

That lasted only about an hour or so.

When it became clear that the pain was not backing down easy, I finally waved the white flag. If I felt better after laying down for 15 minutes, then clearly I needed to continue doing so…but in the comfort of my bed. I waddled over to the charge nurse desk and conceded my need to go home. Before I knew it, I was punching out on the time clock and heading towards my car in the parking lot.

On the drive home, I actually began to feel better. I called my mom and we had a nice chat about the goings on of the past few days. As I got off the highway on the exit towards home, I chided myself for wimping out on the rest of my shift. No matter, it was too late to turn back now. I was going to make the most out of my night off.

Vlad met me at the front door of the house. We had a nice long hug and I made a beeline upstairs to our room. There was nothing I wanted more than to put on my comfiest, softest pajamas and snuggle under the covers. Netflix and early bedtime were waiting.

I’m not certain exactly when the change in pain happened. Maybe it had steadily been building throughout the day and I wasn’t paying attention. Or perhaps it hit me like that runaway train. All I knew was that suddenly the pain had shifted from my back to my head.
When I say this was the absolute worst headache of my life, I am not exaggerating. It felt like someone was playing whack-a-mole in my temples. Tension headaches from stress were not unusual for me and I tried to tell myself this is all it was.

I tried my best to ignore the gnawing tension of an internal alarm telling me something about this was not right.

Vlad, in his sweet and supportive husband mode, brought me a bowl of cut up fruit and Tylenol. The headache was making me nauseous. I took a few bites of fruit and collapsed back onto a pillow, praying the Tylenol would work quickly. It wasn’t long until I was urgently walking to the bathroom as my body rejected the food I just ate. Throwing up at all times of the day from random meals was nothing new to me; I had gotten extremely good at knowing just how long I had from the time I felt the vomit coming to make my way to the nearest toilet in an orderly fashion. Typically, one such episode would make me feel instantly better and I could continue about my day. As I watched my stomach contents get flushed down the toilet bowl, I was elated in thinking the worst of my day was behind me.

Nothing got better. The headache seemed to be only worsening in its intensity. I threw up twice more. I could not think or speak coherently any more. Even laying in bed was getting difficult – there was no position of comfort. My internal alarm grew more intense. At some point I had the idea that Vlad, who was sitting helplessly beside me, should take my blood pressure. Since headaches were a sign of high pressure, the nurse in me reasoned, I needed to prove to myself that my pressure was normal. That would mean that this is just a silly headache and nothing to worry over. All we had to measure with was an old manual cuff I had left over from my nursing school days. Vlad had never taken a manual blood pressure before that moment. Talk about a high pressure first experience (pun intended). I tried my very best to walk him through how to use the cuff. He followed the directions as I laid there, tying to relax through the pain.

“It’s high. Like 190, I think.” He said as the cuff was deflating from around my arm. Cue internal alarm. If true, that was extremely high. Like getting close to having a stroke high. I brushed it off and told him that he was probably doing it wrong. Next, I had him hold the dial as I pumped up the cuff and listened in the stethoscope myself. My result was only slightly better – 160 systolic. Still I refused to believe what I was seeing. Obviously I couldn’t be trusted to take an accurate pressure in my current condition, I thought. Vlad was asking what should we do.

I imagined all of the pregnant patients with headaches I took care of in the ED. Usually, they got re-hydrated with a bag of IV saline and a cocktail of pregnancy safe medications for their pain. Within a few hours, they were feeling much better and on their way home. I so badly did not want to be one of those pregnant women who rush to the hospital over nothing and subsequently become the subject of eye-rolling discussion in the unit break room. On the other hand, the prospect of getting some kind of relief from this pain was very enticing. Vlad and I came to the consensus that we would call my doctor’s office and see what they had to say.

Within minutes I was talking to the ob-gyn on call for the practice I belonged to. I explained my symptoms without trying to sound as if I was actively dying over the phone. The response came without any hesitation – I should report to labor & delivery in the hospital as soon as possible for an evaluation. As soon as I got off the phone, Vlad and I jumped out of bed and got dressed. Ok, he jumped and got dressed. I barely rolled out and could not even think of wasting time putting on clothes. Now that I knew we were going to the hospital, I suddenly could not wait to get it over with. My super soft comfy pajamas (which were that way from years of washing and stretching) were very appropriate. I threw up a fourth time (one for the road) and tried not to dwell on the internal alarm, now loudly shrieking, inside me.

We drove silently, hand in hand, through the dark streets to the hospital. It was already dark and the roads were mostly empty. The chill of winter approaching was thick in the air.

“I guess I’m probably not going to show up to work tomorrow either.” I tried to joke as we turned into the hospital parking lot. My first day of being 32 weeks pregnant was coming to a close.