prequel to disorder

In January of 2010 I found out that I was pregnant. Again.

I've experienced several miscarriages for unknown reasons. Luteal Phase Deficiency was tossed around, so with this last pregnancy I was put on progesterone to increase my chances of maintaining the pregnancy. We kept our good news under wraps until I was well past the first trimester and the threat of miscarriage had receded a bit. When I gave birth to my daughter (Molly), I did what I thought was expected of me and therefore right: I had an epidural and accepted whatever pain medication they had on hand. As a result, I don't remember much about that birth experience. I also ended up with a broken tail bone due to prolonged back labor. With this baby, I was determined to do it RIGHT. No meds. No IV if possible. I decided against a home birth because it just didn't feel right to me. I bought Natural Childbirth the Bradley Way and Breastfeeding with Comfort and Joy. Oh, yes. This was going to be epically awesome. I was going to be a baby wearing, breastfeeding, organic, med free, barefoot hippie mama. I researched every baby carrier on the market and purchased the Baby K'tan and the Ergo. I bought breastfeeding cover-ups. I did not purchase a breast pump. My reasoning was: I might not need it. I could wait on that and get one if it really became necessary. We bought the perfect crib. An expensive, perfect crib. I chose and purchased an infant carseat- one that was built to hold a baby up to 35 pounds. Just in case the baby popped out as big as a 2 year old. I also decided to go with cloth diapers. Better for the environment and a huge monetary savings in the long run. Saving the world and saving $$. What's not to love? I purchased a starter pack of the very cute, very hip G Diapers. In orange. Of course.

My sciatic nerve gave me a lot of trouble throughout the pregnancy, but I managed to keep Molly involved as much as I could in activities- swim lessons for one. I spent the summer of 2010 sweating my butt off watching her learn the freestyle and butterfly kick.

I had a plan. I knew how this was going to play out. I was going to have a baby. No meds. Granted, I was a little nervous about that part. But I figured, if I could just power through the whole pain thing, the rest would be easy. After all, I'd brought home a baby from the hospital before this. And this time, I wouldn't have to buy formula. Or diapers. I'd read Babywise. My daughter wasn't an easy baby. She boycotted sleep from day one and projectile vomited for the first three months of her life until we switched her to a soy free, dairy free formula. It was rough. This time would be easier. I was sure of it. I'd read all the articles about the benefits of breastmilk and how it cures everything from eczema to reflux to cancer. And if my new baby wouldn't sleep, I would pop him in my new awesome baby wrap and it would soothe him and he would love it. And we would eat rainbows and poop butterflies.

September 12th of 2010 was a Sunday. My daughter and I went to church that morning even though I wasn't feeling well. I was tired and sick-ish. My husband was in the field. (For those non-military readers- if there are any- that means that he was gone on a short training mission.) On Monday morning, things got a little weird. My baby wasn't due for at least another month, but I was leaking.

Some things should never leak. Tires, styrofoam cups containing hot coffee, military secrets, and pregnant women prior to their due date are all good examples of things that should not leak. But leaking- that I was. According to the Almighty Google, this was potentially amniotic fluid. Ruh-roh. No problem. I followed protocol. Lie down. Do nothing. Wait. Hours went by. Still leaking. I called labor and delivery and they said, "Come on in. We'll check you out." So I drove to the hospital and called my husband on the way. "I think I'm leaking amniotic fluid. It's probably no big deal. I'm going in to get checked out and I just wanted to let you know. No worries." He met me there and was way more concerned than I was. Me, my daughter and my husband hung out in the waiting room at labor and delivery for while and then they took my back to triage.

Confirmation: turns out I was leaking amniotic fluid. (Good job, Google!) My response, "Okeedokee, how long do I have to stay here? How do we fix it?" Their response, "Ma'am, you can't leave until you have a baby." Very funny. Maybe they don't understand. All I have with me are the clothes I'm wearing and my handbag. And my water bottle. I didn't even bring a magazine. Turns out, when you're leaking amniotic fluid a month before your due date, they don't make jokes in triage. They brought my daughter back to see me so I could explain what was going on and reassure her that I was ok. That was a great idea. Until the woman next to me started screaming and vomiting. So much for reassurance. I got a room pretty quickly and they gave me a cachet to get things moving along. I had to cave on the IV, but I was determined to do this drug-free. My type-A organized hippie mom plans got a little screwed up when the baby decided to come early, but that's ok. I could roll with that. After all, the car seat was already installed in the car. Good thing I brought my boobs with me to the hospital, because I was going to need them soon. To breastfeed this baby that was going to be born drug free in record time and then carefully swaddled in my baby wrap. Did I mention that I had plans? A long night of labor followed. My husband had been in the field all weekend without sleep, so he slept sitting up, waking up during particulary painful contractions to say, "You're doing great. You're doing great."
At 5:35 on the morning of the 14th, Sam was born. I did it. No meds. This was great. And then he was gone. I had a very brief glimpse of a baby that looked very much like a raisin: tiny and purple. And then he was gone. They took my baby away and I didn't understand what was happening. Just a moment ago I was surrounded by people: the doctor, nurses, my husband- and now I was alone. And very cold. I was shaking uncontrollably when a nurse came in and cheerfully asked me if she could get me anything.
"I'm so cold. Where is my baby?"
"That's normal. I'll see what I can find out."

Waiting. And waiting. So tired. But relieved. The hardest part was over. As soon as they brought my baby back (Where's my baby?) I could get on with my plans. I could snuggle him and take him home. My husband came back. (Where's my baby?) They don't know what's wrong with Sam, but he's having some trouble breathing. My husband left on a fact finding mission. (Where's my baby? And why am I alone?)

"Something's wrong... We don't know what... We'll take you to see him as soon as we can... He's in the NICU... We're going to airlift him to Duke... The pediatric cardiologist isn't here today...You can touch his foot if you want. Hold your hand open, just barely touch him with your palm. We don't want you to overstimulate him. That's it. They're going to take him now."

They discharged me at 10:30 that morning. I walked out of the hospital: no wheelchair. We watched from the hospital parking lot as the helicopter carrying our baby boy flew away from us.