Updated: March 30, 2021
Originally Published: Jan. 6, 2020
Emergency C-section. Two blood transfusions. Septic shock. Multi-organ failure. Emergency dialysis. And seven agonizing days away from my newborn son. It hit me just how naïve I had been to think that “no one dies during childbirth anymore.”
At 39 weeks pregnant, I found myself in the hospital. What should have been a joyous occasion quickly spiraled into a nightmare when I suddenly developed a 103-degree fever. Around midnight, uncontrollable shaking took over my body, prompting my doctor to rush in and order an immediate EKG, as my heart rate soared to 200. My baby began showing signs of distress, and his heart rate plummeted.
In a flurry of activity, my doctor called for an emergency cesarean. I can still remember the fear coursing through me as I struggled to sign the necessary paperwork while they whisked me to the operating room. My partner, Jake, ran off to get scrubbed in, but he never made it back to my side.
The atmosphere in the operating room was chaotic. Instruments clattered, and the doctor’s voice cut through the noise, asking, “Can you feel this?” as she made the incision. I was alone, silently crying and desperately trying to remain calm, knowing my baby was in peril.
At 1:04 am, I felt my baby being pulled from me. I waited for the sound of a cry, but it never came. Panic set in as I whispered, “Is he okay?” Silence was my only answer. I screamed, “Is my baby alive?” Finally, someone responded, “They’re working on it.”
As I began to hemorrhage, I heard the frantic commands from the medical team, ordering blood transfusions. I felt my strength waning and thought, “My baby is gone, and now I’m fading too.” Two transfusions later, I was still far from stable. When Jake finally entered the room, he described it as “a murder scene,” stepping over pools of my blood to reach me.
Amidst the chaos, they informed us that our son, Max, was alive. A team from a nearby children’s hospital was dispatched to transport him, as he needed cooling treatment after being deprived of oxygen for six minutes. My sister and Jake accompanied him while I took my own ambulance ride to the other hospital. When my mom arrived, the chaplain came by, and I jokingly said, “Isn’t the chaplain here for dying people?” Little did I know, I was still in critical condition.
I was jolted awake by alarms and a team of nurses. They quickly placed an oxygen mask on me, and everything became hazy. I texted Jake, “My lungs are failing; I think they’re putting me on a respirator.” The last thing I remember is doctors swarming in as they inserted a femoral catheter for emergency dialysis.
Upon waking, I learned that my kidneys and liver had also failed. My obstetrician, Dr. Lynn, crawled into my hospital bed to comfort me as we cried together. I asked Jake’s friends, Tom and Alex, to come in and help care for Max if I didn’t make it. Soon after, my hospital called Jake and my sister, urging them to come quickly to say goodbye.
Dialysis ultimately saved my life, but I was far from out of danger. The physical pain I endured was overshadowed by the emotional turmoil. The first time I saw Max was through FaceTime, and every picture my family sent felt like a dagger, knowing they were meeting him before I could. My sister, Laura, took stunning photos of him and hung them on my hospital wall, giving me a glimpse of the baby I longed to hold.
Over the next few days, my kidney and liver functions began to improve. Each day, I pleaded with my care team to let me go see Max, but I was still too weak. Gradually, I regained my strength, able to sit up and even walk to the bathroom on my own. One day, I was finally allowed to remove the EKG leads, a small victory that felt liberating.
On August 31st, I had my first shower alone, which felt divine! While in the shower, I noticed my breasts were heavy, but I brushed it aside. My friend Mia visited and did my makeup, and my sister, Sarah, was there to provide company. After Mia left, Sarah suggested, “Maybe your milk is coming in!” We figured out the manual pump, and I was able to pump out a few ounces of precious breast milk. My body was finally responding!
Later that day, I spotted Jake entering my room, cradling something in his arms. It was Max! I started hyperventilating, tears streaming down my face. As Jake placed him in my arms, a wave of emotions washed over me—joy, love, pain, relief. Everything I had been through was worth it. I held my son tightly, feeling as if he knew he was finally with his mom.
I begged the doctors to let me leave that night, but they insisted I stay one more day. My sister stayed with me, and sleep eluded me. The next morning, after Jake and Max’s pediatrician appointment, we anxiously awaited clearance from my care team. Finally, around noon, the doctors agreed I could go home, provided I follow up with a kidney specialist within 48 hours. Of course, I promised. I would have done anything to leave that hospital. When the nurse wheeled me outside, it felt like I was seeing the world anew. Breathing in fresh air was exhilarating.
Back home, I scrubbed off the remnants of my hospital stay and examined my new body. I was different now, bearing both emotional and physical scars. Stretch marks, leaky breasts, and various scars from IVs and procedures served as reminders of my journey. As I cradled my tiny baby against my chest, I felt a sense of belonging and reassured myself that everything would be okay.
While my scars have faded with time, they remain. On tough days, I look at Max and remember the battles we fought together. That feeling of “coming home” returns, reminding me of our miracle.
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In summary, my experience shattered the myth that childbirth is always safe. It has taught me about resilience, the power of love, and the miracle of life.
Keyphrase: childbirth survival story
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