Birthing, and nearly dying
Waiting for a baby is complicated. As our pregnant daughter put it, it gets you feeling all the feels—or, in a direct quote, “😃🥰😭🤪😱😳🫣😵💫.” Rightly so: As much as you might count on the future unfolding predictably, you don’t know.
We did a lot of happy anticipating before Granddaughter arrived. We sorted heaps of hand-me-downs passed on by Daughter L’s and Son-in-Law J’s generous friends and family. We talked about (and they executed) nursery plans. We studied a Lamaze video to get familiar with labor. Finally, we headed joyfully to the hospital for a planned induction. All was pretty routine for a while, up through healthy baby’s delivery via C-section. But then…you know, it’s not a good sign when the obstetrician looks and sounds frantic.
Am I dying?
In the same moments J was holding and welcoming Baby, the medical staff were instituting their “massive hemorrhage protocol.” L asked for the first time, “Am I dying?,” and the obstetric anaesthesiologist reassured her. Momentarily believing that the procedures they had implemented were successful, the medical team, L, J, and I and all went to the recovery area. I then headed upstairs to keep an eye on Baby, leaving J with L, just as all hell broke loose. “What’s going on? Will she be OK?” J asked. “She’s bleeding out,” the obstetrician replied. “Am I dying?” Daughter asked again. Obstetrician takes a deep breath: “It’s serious,” she responded.
Eventually stabilized (blood for a massive transfusion finally arrived after an unconscionable and dangerous delay), the team transferred L to interventional radiology for a procedure to stop blood gushing from a lacerated artery. J, I, and now Grandpa, too, waited for word in L’s designated postpartum room—the place we had anticipated resting and joyously bonding with Baby. Now, though, we were there facing an imagined future in which we would never hug or speak with L again.
After an interminable hour, a nurse came to tell us that the procedure to halt the bleeding was underway. “She’ll get back to you, but I can’t guarantee she’ll have a uterus,” the nurse said. Finally, finally, another nurse came to fetch J because the bleeding was stopped, and L was in the ICU, intact, although missing three-quarters to 100% of her own blood.
It wasn’t until later, after I had seen L and J and Baby together in the ICU, L pale but smiling, that I cried.
Processing
There are some pragmatic lessons from this story: Have babies in facilities that can handle emergencies. In those facilities, make sure blood is available. Have your baby during the day, so your obstetrician hasn’t been up all night. Make sure the medical staff knows which elevators their gurneys fit in. (The medical team had to re-route on the way to interventional radiology). Not that all those things are controllable. But if you anticipate the unexpected, some of them are.
Beyond the practical, a week or so on all of us are still processing. The physical and emotional hangover for L and J is intense. Parts of the story are still unclear, along with ramifications for future health and pregnancies. And all of us feel the shredding of the expected birth story—routine birth, bonding, nursing, home—versus L and J’s tale of facing death.
A very practiced stoic or enlightened Buddhist might advise us to avoid such emotional whiplash by avoiding anticipation. Avoiding the emotional chaos of anticipation in all its forms—excitement, anxiety, dread—makes intellectual sense: Given that we don’t really know what will happen, why devote the energy? But most of us aren’t there. We anticipate, in all the complex ways, because we care about what happens to us and to our loved ones. We anticipate even when we know, deep down, that we can’t predict the outcome.
Thank God, our story has a happy ending. My heart goes out to all the families whose stories end with a loss—I can hardly imagine your pain. Our family now can rest in gratitude that L and Baby are with us and thriving. And—even as we hold our breath—we anticipate with joy the addition Baby will make to our lives.
Hugs and peace to all.
PS. Consider blood donation. We’re incredibly grateful to those whose donation helped save L’s life. And thank you to breast milk donors, too!