February 23, 2005
“Drink some ice water,” the nurse on the phone said to me. I already did that. I had ice water. I had orange juice. I had a sandwich. “You need more than a sandwich,” she said. It was a big sandwich.
I had spent the morning nervously wandering around the house, just like every day of the past couple of weeks. I tried to do some menial chores here and there. I couldn’t get comfortable wherever I sat. I managed to take in a short nap while Gerry cleaned the bathroom carpet. I remember asking him to come and talk to Nick when he was done. Nick always was responsive to his Daddy being around. The doctor would tell him to stay there when I was hooked up to the monitors. We thought that was cute.
So, I laid on my left side. I laid on my right side. I jiggled my belly. I sat in my special chair. That darn lazyboy was all but guaranteed to let me feel him kick. I even had a low-carb ice cream bar. My boy liked chocolate as much as I do. At one point, I went to the basement to sort laundry, and asked Gerry to get out his turkey call. He put it up near my belly and let out some quacky noises, and I laughed, thinking how redneck it seemed. No response.
I had been instructed to monitor the baby’s movements, which I had become a pro at for the last several weeks. The latest rule was 10 movements in 12 hours. The last time I felt him move was the night before. “May I come in to be checked, please?” I asked the nurse on the phone. “Yeah, come on in”. I know expectant mothers tend to be anxious and worry, and I know the nurses at the hospital were well aware of my particular case. Maybe this nurse didn’t know me.
I had just been in for a non-stress test on Tuesday, the day before, and the fetal heart tracings were great. The doctor had me waddle over to his office across the street for another ultrasound, which was very good. We saw the baby breathing, the circulation through the cord around his neck was good, he was moving around; no problems at all. I was instructed to continue the twice-a-week monitoring, and he planned to do an amniocentesis on March 8th – two short weeks away – to verify lung maturity. He was going to induce me then, and I’d have my baby soon! This made it so more real to us, to be able to put a tentative date on Nick’s upcoming birth. Nick was only 34 weeks at this time, so by 36 weeks, he’d be stronger and healthier. I’d already had my steroid shots over the weekend, when he’d last given us a scare.
On Friday the 18th ~our anniversary~ I had gone for my usual NST. It was not reassuring. Nick was sleeping, and wasn’t moving around much. His heart rate was difficult to detect, and low from time to time. They called the doc, who ordered a contraction stress test, or oxytocin challenge. This concerned me. I didn’t want to mess around with pit, which might throw me into preterm labor. But, of course, I was willing to do whatever necessary to keep Nicky safe. I hadn’t been on the drip for more than ten minutes when things got weird. At one point, they couldn’t pick him up at all, and I had five nurses in my little curtained area, all trying a different machine and taking turns trying to locate and maintain the sounds of his heartbeat. Sometimes they’d find a heartbeat, but it would be my own. One nurse used the vibro-acoustic stimulator to wake him up. He jerked like a wild child and I felt a little better knowing he was okay. The doc had already been called, and when he came running in he started me on oxygen and upped my IV fluids immediately. He was able to visualize the heartbeats by ultrasound. They counted the beats manually several times, as the Doppler and monitors still couldn’t detect them. We were reassured Nick was doing well, just a little stubborn, and doc admitted me for an overnight stay to be sure. When he ordered the Betamethasone, however, it scared the shit out of me. I called Gerry to come to the hospital. I might be having Nick early.
It seems there were some variables showing up on the tracings. I had not known this, until I heard a nurse mention it to someone else. I told Gerry that meant there was an issue with the cord. I wasn’t terribly concerned, and was glad it wasn’t a problem with the placenta. Later, when I had a chance to ask the doc, I verified what I thought I knew, that it was either cord or fluid, and not the placenta. He agreed, and said we’d do an ultrasound the next day to be sure.
The ultrasound on Saturday showed a nuchal cord, or cord around his neck. The color contrast showed good circulation, his heartbeats had returned to normal, and I was discharged so I could attend my baby shower. I was to return the next day for another NST.
My shower was great! I had a pretty good turnout, and got so many nice gifts. We played games and ate like little piggies, and it was so good to have friends and family there to celebrate my baby. I couldn’t force myself to settle down, I was on such a high thinking about having him soon. Gerry, my dad, and I went shopping that very evening to get everything else we needed “just in case”. Mom and my Aunt Jean stayed behind to sort baby clothes into preemie, newborn and 3-month piles for washing. I was convinced we were going to meet Nick in the next couple of days.
Sunday at church, I felt dizzy and yucky. I nearly teetered over during communion, so we left, and went to the hospital for my test. It went well, and the doc was there, giving us reassurance. Being a weekend, he was in his casual clothes, and had his little girl with him. She’s a pretty little 3 year old, with a big ol’ mess of dark curly hair. Such a sweetie. He said to have the nurses call him when I come in on Tuesday for my next NST, because he wanted to do another ultrasound. We spent the rest of the day washing blankets and sheets and getting the nursery ready.
On Monday, my family left to go back to Virginia. Gerry was sick as a dog, so he stayed in bed. I realized we still needed a bassinet (Nick was going to be too small for that big crib!), and I wanted to get a matching bumper pad set for all the darling “Baby Pooh” stuff from my shower. So, I went shopping, and the rest of the day was pretty much uneventful. The following morning was my big Tuesday appointment I mentioned before, and things were looking good.
Until that fateful Wednesday when our world came crashing down. I was used to Nick’s little quiet spells, and knew I usually couldn’t get him to move on demand, he’d do it on his own time. But today was different. Oddly, I wasn’t quite as nervous as I had been in the past. I really had no idea that my baby was in trouble, he had been such a tough guy up to this point. I took a shower and talked to my belly. Finally, after some insistence from Gerry, I called the OB floor. I felt like a fool, every other time I was worried only to be proven wrong, and I hated to keep crying wolf. The nurse I spoke with didn’t sound too convinced, but let me come in anyway.
Thankfully, I met up with a few of my favorite nurses once I got there. They tried in earnest to locate his heartbeat, and calmly assembled the ultrasound and Doppler while putting in the call to my doctor. My anxiety level had not risen yet, I’d been through this before. How was I to know that the night before was the last I’d ever feel my sweet baby move? When the doc got there, in amazingly record time, he jokingly called me a troublemaker, and asked how I was doing. I said, “A little nervous”. He immediately went for the ultrasound, and within a few short moments, muttered “I can’t believe this”. I started to shake and cry uncontrollably. “He was fine yesterday, remember, we even saw him breathing, which a very good sign”.
The nurses held my hands and stroked my hair, and I prayed like I never prayed before. He kept checking, “Wait… wait…”. Then asked, “When did you last feel him move?” Last night, I told him… I was waiting for my 12 hours like you said…. I didn’t want to seem like a hypochodriac always saying he’s not moving, and then he does… “I’m sorry,” he said, “I really don’t understand this.” A nurse called my husband at home while I started freaking out. Loudly. I was admitted to a room, and they readied me for induction. The doc was visibly upset and shaken, as were we all, and a few of the nurses came in and cried along with me. He didn’t have any answers for me; my chronic hypertension had been well controlled, my gestational diabetes had been well controlled, everything looked okay, and even the nuchal cord hadn’t seemed like much of an issue the preceding few days. All we could do was hope the autopsy would give us a clue.
An autopsy. On my little boy. My dead little boy that was still inside of me. The baby that was supposed to make my life complete. All my hopes and dreams, shattered. Broken. Ripped from my heart. When Gerry got there, all I could say was “I’m sorry honey. I did my best”. And we cried. They broke my water and started me on a low dose of pitocin. It would be 30 more hours before we found out about the knots in his cord.
