This is part 3 of my pro-choice series. I again preface this with I am not here to change you from pro-life to pro-choice, but I am here to tell you my story - and why I believe the most critical decisions that you make regarding life and death should be between you and your doctor. You can read part 1 here and part 2 here.
There was nothing highly remarkable about my day on July 7th, 2012. It was a pretty low-key day where I was packing up my kitchen and preparing, in general, for our upcoming move. The move was scheduled for Friday, July 20th and my dad volunteered on that fateful Saturday to come help with maintenance and packing while my stepmom visited the outlet mall. I remember that it was sunny. I remember carefully climbing on the step-stool to hang up the curtains that I had washed. I remember taking breaks and resting before I felt like I was overdoing it. I remember feeling very normal for a woman thirty weeks pregnant. I don't remember exactly when my dad and stepmom left my house, but I remember being alone with the dog for the evening and retreating to bed.
My husband and daughter were at a family wedding with my husband's parents three hours away. I missed my daughter a great deal, but the wedding was in the evening - so I didn't get to say good night to her. I pulled on my blue and gray pajamas and crawled into bed about 9 PM. I may have read or watched TV, but I honestly don't recall exactly what I did that night before I fell asleep. I do remember that it was the middle of the night when I woke up feeling awful. The distance from my bed to the bathroom was not great, as it was only across the living room, but the pain that I felt was immense. I vomited. I had diarrhea. I had a massive pain in my upper right side - right under my breast and high in the rib cage. I focused on breathing - and made my way to the kitchen where I kept the blood pressure monitor.
My stepmom encouraged me to take blood pressure readings daily - and I did. I took them upon waking most mornings and for the most part, the readings weren't of concern - until June and that's when they started going up. That night I sat at the kitchen table, pulled the cuff on my wrist, and pushed the start button. The reading was high. It was so high I was scared, but I was alone. I said a silent prayer, "Please don't let anything happen to me. I know that I'm not a good Christian, but my daughter needs me. If the baby has to die, I will be okay, but my daughter needs me." I pleaded with God to keep me safe for the time being - and I needed to lie back down. So I did.
When I woke up, I was hoping that it had all been a bad dream. I hoped that I hadn't really woken up in the night and I just had a very real, very scary nightmare. But - I didn't. I had a very real, very intense night and knew that I should call Labor and Delivery to find out if they wanted to see me. The call went something like this, "Labor and Delivery, may I help you?"
"I am not feeling the baby move as much and I am having some problems with my vision."
"If you're concerned, you can come in and we can hook the monitor up to you." The woman on the other end had no concern at all in her voice. It was matter-of-fact. It made me feel like I was overreacting. I did not rush in getting to the hospital, but I also did not wait for my husband and daughter to get home.
I simply said, "Okay." I had no one to take me to the hospital. Everyone that I knew was either gone for the weekend, had kids at home that couldn't be left, or had a high probability of not being sober. I drove to the convenience store and got a Gatorade. It was fruit punch flavored. Then I drove myself to the hospital. I took the back road. It went straight to the hospital. There is no way I should have driven myself though.
Upon arrival, I was escorted to a triage room. The triage room was at the end of the labor and delivery unit and I remember that it was dark. There were no windows in that room. I texted my husband, but he never responded. So I texted his mom and let her know what was happening. I arrived at the hospital about 12:30 PM. By 1:30 PM, my husband, his parents, and my daughter came to visit me. I remember the technician getting irritated with me because I used the bathroom 4 times in the hour, but I don't remember saying good-bye to my husband, daughter, or in-laws. I just remember darkness.
In part 4, I will continue the birth story of my son.
There was nothing highly remarkable about my day on July 7th, 2012. It was a pretty low-key day where I was packing up my kitchen and preparing, in general, for our upcoming move. The move was scheduled for Friday, July 20th and my dad volunteered on that fateful Saturday to come help with maintenance and packing while my stepmom visited the outlet mall. I remember that it was sunny. I remember carefully climbing on the step-stool to hang up the curtains that I had washed. I remember taking breaks and resting before I felt like I was overdoing it. I remember feeling very normal for a woman thirty weeks pregnant. I don't remember exactly when my dad and stepmom left my house, but I remember being alone with the dog for the evening and retreating to bed.
My husband and daughter were at a family wedding with my husband's parents three hours away. I missed my daughter a great deal, but the wedding was in the evening - so I didn't get to say good night to her. I pulled on my blue and gray pajamas and crawled into bed about 9 PM. I may have read or watched TV, but I honestly don't recall exactly what I did that night before I fell asleep. I do remember that it was the middle of the night when I woke up feeling awful. The distance from my bed to the bathroom was not great, as it was only across the living room, but the pain that I felt was immense. I vomited. I had diarrhea. I had a massive pain in my upper right side - right under my breast and high in the rib cage. I focused on breathing - and made my way to the kitchen where I kept the blood pressure monitor.
My stepmom encouraged me to take blood pressure readings daily - and I did. I took them upon waking most mornings and for the most part, the readings weren't of concern - until June and that's when they started going up. That night I sat at the kitchen table, pulled the cuff on my wrist, and pushed the start button. The reading was high. It was so high I was scared, but I was alone. I said a silent prayer, "Please don't let anything happen to me. I know that I'm not a good Christian, but my daughter needs me. If the baby has to die, I will be okay, but my daughter needs me." I pleaded with God to keep me safe for the time being - and I needed to lie back down. So I did.
When I woke up, I was hoping that it had all been a bad dream. I hoped that I hadn't really woken up in the night and I just had a very real, very scary nightmare. But - I didn't. I had a very real, very intense night and knew that I should call Labor and Delivery to find out if they wanted to see me. The call went something like this, "Labor and Delivery, may I help you?"
"I am not feeling the baby move as much and I am having some problems with my vision."
"If you're concerned, you can come in and we can hook the monitor up to you." The woman on the other end had no concern at all in her voice. It was matter-of-fact. It made me feel like I was overreacting. I did not rush in getting to the hospital, but I also did not wait for my husband and daughter to get home.
I simply said, "Okay." I had no one to take me to the hospital. Everyone that I knew was either gone for the weekend, had kids at home that couldn't be left, or had a high probability of not being sober. I drove to the convenience store and got a Gatorade. It was fruit punch flavored. Then I drove myself to the hospital. I took the back road. It went straight to the hospital. There is no way I should have driven myself though.
Upon arrival, I was escorted to a triage room. The triage room was at the end of the labor and delivery unit and I remember that it was dark. There were no windows in that room. I texted my husband, but he never responded. So I texted his mom and let her know what was happening. I arrived at the hospital about 12:30 PM. By 1:30 PM, my husband, his parents, and my daughter came to visit me. I remember the technician getting irritated with me because I used the bathroom 4 times in the hour, but I don't remember saying good-bye to my husband, daughter, or in-laws. I just remember darkness.
In part 4, I will continue the birth story of my son.
No comments:
Post a Comment