Thinkpink: Finally, a week later, my story. VERY, very long m

Thinkpink: Finally, a week later, my story. VERY, very long

I was finally able to sit myself and write it all down. It's long - and it's not even the full version. I just let it all pour out. Didn't edit or anything - so I hope you can bear with me and read it through. Here it is - my story:

***

I remember a dark hospital room, lit only by night lights out in the corridor. I heard the nurses laugh, enjoying their first quite time of the day. My roommate was snoring in the bed next to me, behind that ugly gray curtain. It was a good thing, I thought. She was diagnosed with cancer a few days earlier and had a hard time sleeping since. The pump made that noise, which always sounded to me like spoken words; That night I imagined it saying “mommy, mommy…again. That was my favorite. The small pump bottles filled up quickly and I yanked in pain, both physical and emotional, each time I leaned forward to dump my contaminated breast milk into the bedpan near me. In bed with me was a picture of Zoe, my then week old baby girl. A friend took that picture a day after she was born, I vaguely remembered, at that other hospital, before things went terribly awry. And like I did so many times in that dim hospital room, I kissed it, I caressed the tiny little face in it, I touched the little lips, the nose, the chin, and I cried, oh such a bitter, sad, painful cry, a cry of a new mom separated from her newborn baby.

We began trying to conceive on the eve of DH’s 30th birthday, August 1998. He wanted children for a long time; I wanted to wait a little. That evening, in a small B&B on the shore in Maine, I decided we’ve waited enough. Little did I know - the wait had only begun. We tried for a year with no success. Then I started charting, taking temperature, checking cm - no success. I went to my ob. He said I was working too hard, that I should relax, that I should not drink so much coffee. Then he sent me home with a prescription for Clomid. I never took it. I dumped the prescription on the way home, and started searching for a new doc as soon as I got there.

I found a new OB, went to see him, complained about major pain during period, nausea and heavy heavy bleeding. He did some tests, found nothing. Said I should keep on trying ttc naturally. So we did. No success. It took another year on Advil, two visits to the ER, and a failed consultation with Cornell until I typed “Laparoscopy” on the computer, found Inciid and one of the best RE’s in the country specializing in Endometriosis, Dr. Alan Copperman, then of Mt. Sinai, NY. He saw me within a week, did an U/S and saw a huge endometrimoa in my uterus. I had a laparoscopy within a week, was found to have had a stage V Endo with irreparable damage to my tubes.

IVF was our only chance to ever conceive. We were excited, eager, scared, but very, very optimistic. I remember my first post on Inciid’s IVF waiting room “do the shots hurt?...”

And then our first shipment of medication arrived – the needles, the syringes, the little cute glass bottles containing follicle food - our baby’s first meal. We were thrilled. We were about to embark on a wonderful wonderful journey, we were going to become parents.

Cycle number one ended with a chemical. Bummer, we thought, but were eager to start over again right away. We got PG with cycle number two, but had a miscarriage on week 10. For cycle #3, RE switched us labs, changed the protocol, put me on baby Aspirin, and increased the dosage of our Progesterone injections. 10 days after a day 3 transfer beta was 97. After another week we saw two sacs. Two weeks later we saw two heartbeats. We were ecstatic - we couldn’t believe we’re going to have twins. We weren’t. A week later there was one heartbeat only. It was Zoe’s.

The pregnancy developed nicely, all was going well, I felt great, and so for DH’s 34’s birthday we went away for our traditional birthday trip, this time for a Photography expedition in Alaska. It was our dream vacation, we saved a long time for it, and it was to be our last vacation of that sort in a long, long time. We had a blast, it was all that we had hoped for, and I remember sitting in the airport on our way back, telling DH that perhaps we shouldn’t go back, perhaps we should stay a few more days. It was 2am. The date was September 10, 2002.

We arrived home on Monday, September 10, close to midnight. Home was Battery Park City, New York, our apartment building right under the Twin Towers. Driving under the towers, I remember telling DH that even though Alaska was great I missed these two giant buildings. For us they meant home, and it was good to be back.

We never had a chance to unpack. We left our camera gear by the door and went to sleep. That was the last night we spent in our home, overlooking the World Trade Center, in the shadow of the South Tower. The next morning, when the first plane hit the first tower above our heads I was still in bed. DH was on his way to the subway, inside the WTC. A phone call from a friend kept him home a little late. A couple of minutes after the second plane hit our building staff started banging on our door frantically, calling for an immediate evacuation. We grabbed a bottle of water, an apple and our camera gear and left. For good.

We were about 150 feed away from the south tower when it collapsed literally over our heads. With my belly, I couldn’t run fast enough, and the blast hurled me to the ground, flat on my stomach. Within seconds I was under a heavy cloud of dust, cement, debris, who knows what else. I felt a sharp pain in my belly. Then nothing.

I will not get into the whole Sept. 11 story here. It’s too long. For those of you who want to read it, it’s on our website: http://www.shivi.com/sep11/sep11.htm. Everything is there. But the trauma of Sept 11 will stay with us forever. It changed us, it shaped us in new ways, and it will forever be part of us, part of Zoe.

She was fine, and for that we will forever thank God. She survived the entire ordeal, as did we. We were the fortunate ones, unlike many many others, and we will forever thank God for that too. But we were five month pregnant and homeless. We moved from one friends’ house to another for nearly two months. Then we stayed in a hotel for two more months, still hoping to be able to return home someday. DH lost his job, but found another one. I, along with our home, lost my business. I had no job, no house, no idea where I would bring my baby back from the hospital to, and a due date approaching real fast. I hoped to be spending that part of my pregnancy choosing themes for the nursery. Instead, I was on the phone with FEMA all day, every day, trying to get what little help they had to offer. Eventually friends helped us and rented us their house in the suburbs. We moved into their house as soon as we could go in our old place to retrieve our stuff.

We tried to put it all behind us, settle in our new place and look forward to our new life as a family. It was three weeks before my due date, we unpacked hastily, friends gave us an old crib, I made cute red curtains for Zoe’s room, we set up a nice nursery, and waited.

I was three centimeters dilated when I saw my OB for my week 38 routine visit. He said I’ll deliver that night. I was in heaven all the way home, I packed my bag, filled the gas tank, and waited. Nothing happened. I had mild, irregular contractions, but nothing more. I took my hospital bag with me to my week 39 checkup. I thought that would be it. It was – but not what I had in mind. My OB performed a manual exam, said I was still 3cm dilated, but a little bit more effaced. We were joking about Zoe not wanting to come out when he pulled his hand out. As he did, I started gushing blood. Not spotting, not bleeding –- gushing rivers of blood. And it was painful, too. They all panicked, hooked my up to the monitors, tested whatever they could. Zoe was doing fine, and after 30 minutes or so the bleeding subsided. They sent me to the hospital for more tests. DH was calling the doc office frantically every minute. They told him to come pick me up.

By the time we got to the hospital all was well. No blood, Zoe’s doing fine, mild contractions, little pain – nothing exceptional. So when an hour later the resident on call said we could leave and go home we were surprised, but did not object. It did seem odd – I was on week 39, had major bleeding, beginning of labor - I couldn’t understand why we should wait further and take a chance with something going wrong. But they wanted to wait. So we did.

Exactly a week later, week 40, at night, we were in bed. I felt a sharp pain in my cervix, then a gush of liquid. I was thrilled, got DH up, told him that my water broke, and switched on the lights. And I literally missed a heartbeat: I was sitting in a huge pool of blood. The bed sheets, the matters, the floor, all red – it looked like a scene from the movie Psycho… With tons of towels between my legs I rushed into the bathroom while DH was frantically on the phone with the doc. Go to the ER, he said, go now. It was 4am, we were alone on the road, I was sitting on piles of towels, crying the whole way. DH was driving like crazy. I remember thinking – this is not what I was planning…Things did not seem good, not at all.

By the time we got to the hospital the bleeding had once again subsided and I was merely spotting. The resident on call checked me, they hooked my up to the monitors – Zoe was fine. Regular HB, no distress. We cried and laughed at the same time in relief. I lost tons of blood, but had regular contractions, was 3 cm dilated, with an effaced cervix, in full term. The nurses told me to get ready. They said I’ll be a mommy in a couple of hours. We took our cameras out. And we waited.

We were still in the triage room about 4 hours later. A new shift was on duty, and a new resident came in, looked at us, and told us to go home. We couldn’t believe it. There I was, after two very violent episodes of bleeding, on week 40 of my turbulent pregnancy, already dilated, with a baby who survived a lot but was clearly in danger of something going terribly wrong, and they were sending us home. We asked for a second opinion. They said non was available. I told them we’re not leaving until we see a peri, and I would wait a whole year if needed. They brought someone, another resident, who looked at me and said he rather wait for natural delivery because with all that I’ve been through the stress of induction could be dangerous for the baby. I asked about C-section, they said I lost too much blood, they don’t want to risk an unnecessary surgery. I asked for an explanation for the bleeding, they didn’t know, said probably placenta previa. I asked if that was not a good enough reason for a C-Section, they said just be patient. My doc finally called back - he never came to the hospital to see me – and said the same thing. We were in utter disbelief. On both occasions, they never saw the bleeding, just took our word for it. I guess they thought I was just the hysterical type. And I started to think maybe they’re right... after all, it’s NYU we’re talking about. All of them are telling me to wait, maybe they know best. We went home. And waited.

Three days later I woke up with a sharp pain in my belly. Not contractions, just terrible pain. I felt another bleeding episode was eminent, and this time I wanted it to be in the hospital. We made the trip to the hospital for the 3rd time, not knowing what to think, what to do, what’s going on.

This time they saw it all. As soon as the resident touched me, I starting gushing blood again, and this time it was worst than ever. We’re talking about a gallon of blood in minutes, just pouring out of me. The resident clearly freaked out, summoned the whole hospital. I kept bleeding. They hurled DH out of the room, brought in a hematologist , a peri, a surgeon -- all trying to stop the bleeding, tossing me in every possible position, poking me everywhere, sticking needles in me, hooking me up to machines. I kept calling for DH, they kept him out of the room. Over the hysteria I heard someone say prepare the OR, someone else called for an epidural, they shoved it in me while still trying to stop the bleeding, and finally, they rolled me into the operating room. It was a major cluster-XXX. I was crying for DH. They finally put scrubs on him and let him in. We were too shocked to say anything, to frightened to do anything, too numb to feel anything. We just held hands very very tight, very very quiet. They brought in the chief anesthesiologist. He was the nicest guy in the world. He was the only grown up there at the time, and the first one to treat us as humans. He calmed us down, explained exactly what was going on, and told us it will be ok. I so wanted him to be right, Gosh, I wanted him to be right.

When they pulled Zoe out I was almost completely under. The anesthesiologist played with the medication so that I could be somewhat conscious, but I don’t recall much. I remember not being able to see her. She was surrounded by tons of doctors, not breathing. DH started crying, that I remember clearly. Then I went completely under once more.

When I woke up again DH was holding Zoe, still crying. She was ok, and she looked amazingly beautiful, peaceful, so much alive. She made it after all. She made it through the IVF, she made it thought Sept. 11 and she made it through the three episodes of terrible bleeding from the placenta. We later learned that she also had the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck three times. She was truly a survivor, she had so much life in her – we decided to name her Zoe, a name that in many languages means the source, or meaning, of life. We couldn’t think of a name more appropriate.

Then I went down again. I woke up in the recovery room with terrible pain. I told the nurses about it, they said walk it off. I couldn’t move, so I stayed in bed, thinking it’s just the surgery, and that I should feel better soon. I was so so tired, like never before. They brought me something to eat – and I threw it all up. I drank water, and puked it immediately. The nurses said it’s normal after a C-section, and it will be gone soon. So I waited.

They brought Zoe to me to breastfeed. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen or felt in my life. My own baby, right there, resting in my arms, drinking from my breast. But my pain intensified with every hour that passed, and lasted for days. I still couldn’t eat a thing, I kept throwing up. I couldn’t drink, couldn’t get out of bed, and became increasingly nauseous, dizzy. Then I started to shake uncontrollably. We kept telling the docs something was wrong. They never looked at me for more than three minutes during regular rounds, and kept giving me Tylanol for the pain. The nurses weren’t any better. They thought I was just a wuss, that I couldn’t bear the pain of the surgery. Walk it off, they said, you’ll feel better after passing some gas. When I started to run a fever a doctor was finally brought in. All he was concerned with was my incision which had started to ooz. DH said I haven’t eaten in three days, said I constantly threw up stomach fluids, that I was in pain. I’m a very strong person with a very high threshold for pain. And I was never is so much pain in my life. DH told them that. They replied – she never had a C-section before. They gave me some medication for the gas, since I still wasn’t passing anything after four days. I immediately started throwing up even more violently. Turned out the nurses gave me the wrong medication. I sank deeper and deeper yet into a semi-conscious state. I was in and out of it for the most part, all the time in terrible terrible pain, still nursing my new born baby at every feeding. When I still didn’t pass gas at the end of the fourth day, they reluctantly let me stay an extra day. I still couldn’t eat anything, but could tolerate some clear chicken broth, which helped me pass a little bit of something. The next morning a resident asked if I passed anything, we said yes, and so they sent us home. I was so relived to leave that place and go home with our baby that we didn’t argue. DH packed me, Zoe, and whatever we had in that dingy old room, and we left to go home. Before we left I got a visit from that nice anesthesiologist. He gave us his home phone number, said he had never done that before, but since we were neighbors and since we were new in the area we shouldn’t hesitate to call him should we need anything. We thought it was terribly nice of him, but that we would never see him again.

I barely remember the next day, it’s all a blur to me. I felt progressively worse, I was in constant pain which intensified with each movement I made. I still didn’t eat anything, kept throwing up, was shivering from cold, and couldn’t stand on my feet. I kept breastfeeding but felt I couldn’t do it for much longer. Another day went by, and by the end of the second day I went to the bathroom to throw up again, and didn’t make it. I collapsed on the floor. I couldn’t get up, couldn’t move, could see or hear anything. DH called our doc, the one from the city. He said rush back to the hospital. We were not about to return to that awful place, but we didn’t know where else we should go. We didn’t know if we could trust the little local hospital right by our house, we didn’t know anyone in the area, we didn’t have a local doctor. All we had was the phone number of the nice anesthesiologist who said we shouldn’t hesitate to call.

It was close to midnight, my situation had deteriorated. DH looked for the phone number and called. The doc. wasn’t home, his wife picked up, and when DH started apologizing and explaining who he was, she said she knew all about us. Her husband had told her to expect a call. DH said we needed help. She said wait, “don’t do anything,” and less than 3 minutes later her husband called us back. He said his best friend is the chief internist at the local hospital. “Go to the ER,” he told us, “my friend will wait for you there.”

When we arrived at the hospital the doctor was indeed there. He put his hand on my tummy. “Is that where it hurts?” he asked. I curled in pain for an answer. He made a face. DH asked what was it. He said he wasn’t’ sure, need to check some more. Meanwhile I began losing it. I knew little of what’s going on around me. The pain was too much to bear. I had little control over my body. I remember thinking “I can’t be in a hospital right now, I have a new baby at home, I must feed her.” They did an U/S, Cat scan, MRI and some x-rays. Turned out I had a 12 inch hematoma -- it was the size of a large grapefruit -- pressing against my intestines. It caused a paralysis or the intestines, creating a feeding ground for bacteria, which after awhile erupted into my blood stream and onto every system in my body. I lost half my blood in internal bleeding that filled that hematoma, so I was severely anemic, plus I hadn’t eaten in 7 days, and kept breastfeeding. My body had no chance of fighting that bacteria, or anything else for that matter. They assembled a team of 5 doctors – the A team we called them: The internist, a bacteriologist, a surgeon, a radiologist, and an OB. They were there all night, taking care of me, trying to come up with a plan.

At around 2 am the Anesthesiologist form NYU came by. He wanted to make sure we were taken care of, that we were fine. “Where’s the baby?” he asked. DH said she was staying at friends for the night, another friend took the next day off from work to be with her, but that was it, we had no plans beyond that. He said bring her over to their house. Their nanny would love to take care of Zoe for as long as we needed, day or night. And she did. DH left Zoe there during the days, then took her home at night. He was fathering a week old baby by himself.

The anesthesiologist came to visit every day, making sure I was in good hands, checking on the nurses, advising the docs. His wife came over too. She was thinking that as a new mom I surely wanted to see the person who was taking care of my baby. They are the sweetest people on earth, they became a family to us, they’re going to be Zoe’s Godparents.

Meanwhile, that night in the hospital, they couldn’t operate on me to remove the hematoma, the normal course of action in that situation. They feared I wouldn’t survived another surgery. Instead they drilled a catheter into me, penetrated the hematoma from the outside and hoped to drain it slowly so that the pressure on the intestines would ease gradually, allowing it to recover by itself over time. They started pouring antibiotics into me, huge amounts, to treat the bacteria. They drained the incision of my C-Section, which as a result of everything couldn’t heal and got infected as well. They put me on Demerol the whole time so that I wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. And, after some debate and with the persistent pressure from the OB on the team, they also agreed to bring me a breast pump, so that I could continue to nurse when I was back home.

That was all I could think of – going back home to my baby, nursing her, holding her, being her mommy. I couldn’t use the breast milk, it was too contaminated with all the medication I was on. So I would pump and dump, pump and dump, crying the whole time, half awake, half hallucinating.

They kept me in the hospital for five days, the worst five days of my life. DH wasn’t allowed to bring Zoe in, I couldn’t see her, couldn’t touch her, couldn’t hold her. My heart was broken, my body was yearning for her in every possible way. I remember having nightmares, dreaming I had given her up for adoption. We still did not have any pictures of her. But a friend who heard about our situation fedexed some pictures he had taken of her at NYU, and I was clinging to these pictures as if my life was depending on it. And it think it was – she kept me going, she gave me strength, I knew I had to get back to her as soon as possible, as soon as I could make it out of bed.

After many pleadings with my doctors, and again with strong urging from the OB, they agreed to send me home with a home-nurse. They installed a pick-line in me, a permanent IV line that goes through the arm into the chest so that we could administer our medications at home. They also connected the catheter I still had in me onto a portable bag, so that I could walk around with it. With a nurse care at home, and with daily visits to the hospital, I was allowed to go back home to see my baby.

The reunion was overwhelming. I collapsed crying holding Zoe in my arms. I was still not allowed to breastfeed, but I held her at my breast, close to me. I kissed her all over, whispering in her ears “mommy’s back, mommy’s back, baby, I didn’t forget about you, I’m back...”

It took me four months to heal, and only a month ago I was taken off the antibiotics and was done with the last pill. Turned out that when I had my C-section at NYU, they never drained the bleeding. The closed my up with the bleeding still going on, and I kept bleeding internally for a couple more days until the old blood created a sac for the new blood to pour into, crating the hemoatoa. If they had only listened to me, if they had only touched me, if they had only treated me as a person they would have found out about it in time. But they needed the bed, they needed the room, they needed me out of there.

We’ve never done anything legally with that story. Never filed a lawsuit, not even a complaint. I just wanted to put it all behind me and focus, finally, on being a mommy. Everything we’ve experienced during that last year left me scared in many ways -- physical and emotional. I feel that I’ve changed in some ways, and I’m trying to recover the person I was before it all happened – before Sept. 11, before I nearly lost my life, then my daughter, and then my own life again, due to some terrible care of some terrible doctors. I still grieve sometimes not being able to have a normal delivery, not being able to experience the first weeks home with my new baby, not being able to breastfeed… the list goes on. But once more, we’re trying to put it all that behind us. We have a gorgeous gorgeous little daughter, I’m finally healthy, we have a roof over our heads, and we’re fine. We’re more than fine. We’re a happy family – a daddy, a mommy, and a little Zoe. And for that, we will forever thank God.

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