Plans . . .

There was a time I thought April 15th, 2004 may never be a monumental day for any other reason than to have taxes completed and sent off.  One morning, the previous July, I woke up feeling particularly queasy.  I brushed it off.  Of course I wasn't pregnant.  Again.  I had two amazing boys, 22 months apart, and my sweet little family of four was just as it should be.  Complete!  To be on the safe side, I was still taking 'birth control' (seems like 'pregnancy control', would be a more appropriate name for that, but, I digress . . . ) in attempts to keep my little family of four, just that.  However, a few days later, I woke up with the same feeling of an unsettled tummy.  And the day after that, and the day after that . . . So, a pregnancy test, I bought.  A two-pack, with a bonus third test.  (Are folks missing their aim when they pee on that stick?  Do they misplace a test or two?  Why three? Ovulation tests - I can understand the multi-packs, but it's not like bars of soap that I'm going to use up and need a new one . . . )  Either way, I nonchalantly mozied to the bathroom, peed on the stick (An attractive picture I'm painting here, I realize), and set it down, truly thinking I was being silly, had wasted twelve bucks on three pregnancy pee-sticks.  A few minutes later I picked it up to toss it and what do you know - two lines.  Two red lines.  One was not fainter than the other, like the pamphlet shows still means a positive pregnancy test.  There was a bright red 'equals' sign staring back at me.  Seriously?!  Seemed like I'd just had my eleven pound, second baby only weeks before.  At this point, I was extremely grateful for the multi-pack.  I immediately did a second test.  Two red lines.  So, I calmly walked to the kitchen and downed a gallon of water, knowing the tests were wrong, and hoping to confirm that upon one more time of tee-teeing on the last 'baby test', as I saw it called on a store brand box of them the other day. (Whoever came up with that generic name is clearly very creative.  'Baby Test'.  What are we testing the baby for, again?)  Ten minutes later, I'm standing over my bed looking a row of three positive pregnancy tests.  I flipped.  This was not the plan.  I said it over and over, crying at my parents' house.  This was not the plan!  I can't be pregnant again!  It's too hard on my body. My first baby was 9lbs 11oz nine days early.  My second was 11lbs even, ten days early.  I can't do pre-eclampsia again.  How can I handle three?  I'm all done having babies!  I came home, found Mike, and in-between sobs, tried to choke out the news, while shoving three 'baby tests' into his hands.  Now, if I was upset, I seriously dreaded Mike's reaction!  However, he was calm.  Collected. He hugged me, held me and said, "Bird - It's ok.  You're ok.  We're ok!".  I went to bed.

Of course, I adjusted to the idea, eventually, of another pregnancy, another baby, a family of five.  And by 'eventually', I mean I was at a functioning level again several weeks later and, although I wasn't looking forward to nine months of pregnancy and all the added el-bees that come with, I began to get excited about another addition.  The boys were too little to even understand the concept of a sibling on the way.  The surprise of it all wore off quickly, I began taking my pre-natal vitamins, gathered up my maternity clothes, books, sanity . . . and life carried on pretty much as usual.  

With Nicholas, my first born, I read as many books about pregnancy as I could get my hands on.  I looked at pregnancy calendars, daily, excited for the way my baby was growing and developing in my expanding tummy.  I counted kicks.  I could hardly wait for that 20 week visit, when I would find out the sex of my baby.  It was all so new,  fresh, and exciting!  There were hiccups along the way, but nothing too major. Pre-eclampsia during the last six weeks, lead to an early induction and on November 21st, 2000, Nicholas Alexander finally entered this world.  My world.  It was wonderful.

Twenty two months later, Connor Miles joined us, completing our 'perfect little family of four'.  We did it!  And we were all done.  Or, so we thought . . .

Summer turned into fall.  It was still warm, hot even.  Perfect for morning and evening walks, pushing the very stealth, and oh, so easy to navigate, double stroller. We went to the park, played in the sandbox, took scheduled daily naps - Life was laid back.  I was content and happy.   Sure, at the time, I thought it was tough with non-stop diaper changes,  crying, teething babies, sleepless nights, the permanent 'Mommy Badge' that was spit-up on either or both shoulders.  But, as a whole, life was good.

October arrived.  Leaves started turning various shades of reds, yellows and browns, before falling to the ground.  I was looking forward to a cozy holiday season.  I was definitely excited about baby #3 at this point.  I was already 16 weeks into the 40!  Not far from the half-way mark.  One Friday night, about the third week into the month, I'd showered and was getting dressed for a 'night out'.  Standing in the kitchen, just before leaving to take the boys to my parents' for the night, I felt the most unusual wave of pain pass over me from head to toe.  I say 'wave', because it literally washed over me, lasting only about 15 seconds and then it was gone.  However, it left me extremely dizzy.  Bizarre.  Whatever, I was already late.  Figured I should probably grab a bite to eat and I'd feel much better.  I loaded the boys up and we headed to my mom and dad's.  I felt completely fine, and really thought nothing of the very quick, coming and going, pain and dizziness.  Before I left their house, I scooped up little Connor and figured I'd give him one last feeding before I headed out for the night.  I stood up to put him back in his crib and as I did, the same wave of dizziness hit me hard this time.  I took two or three steps towards the door, looked down and realized I was soaking wet.  It was dark in the room.  I figured the bottle had leaked and I was wearing more milk than Connor actually drank.  As I walked into the hall and went to pull the door shut behind me, I saw that I wasn't covered in milk.  My jeans were soaked with blood.  The carpet was.  I had blood all over my hands.  I went into a 'calm panic'.  I couldn't take a step.  I called out to my dad to call 911.  He ran in and saw me and, bless his heart, flipped.  Calmly, but in freaking out mode, I barked, "Dad.  Call 911 now."  I lay down on the floor.  With every single tiny movement, breathing even, I was bleeding more and more.  Little Nicholas woke up, came out of his room and saw me.  Screamed and ran for me . . . My dad whisked him away and assured him Mama was ok.  The paramedics arrived, loaded me up, and off we went.  What was happening still hadn't really hit me yet.  But, upon examination at the hospital, I was told what my head already knew, but heart wasn't comprehending - I was miscarrying.  Several ultrasounds, a reverse catheterization (EXTREMELY comfortable), then one more ultrasound revealed no heartbeat.  The little baby, my baby, that I was initially so upset I was going to have, so ungrateful for, was no more.  I was all by myself for two hours.  Bleeding profusely.  Scared, confused, sad, but too shell-shocked to cry.  I replayed all the negative things I'd said about my pregnancy at the beginning.  Guilt plagued me for that.  I repented.  Again.  I prayed for a heartbeat with every ultrasound.  Nothing.  The doctors decided to transfer me to a bigger hospital in Atlanta.  If I didn't miscarry within a short time, I needed to be at a better hospital for the D&C.  As I was wheeled, on the stretcher, into the second hospital and up to the L&D floor, we hopped in an empty elevator to go up.  There was a lost helium balloon dancing on the ceiling, that I was staring straight up at.  "It's a girl!", it read in pink letters.  It hit me then.  I cried.  I sobbed.  Finally, after waiting in triage forever, I got a room.  First thing they wanted to do was look for the heartbeat via ultrasound again.  Nothing.  So, I was told to 'make myself comfortable' (you kidding me?!) and there was still time for me to miscarry to avoid the D&C.  I cried out to God all night . . . Save my baby.  Please.

The next morning, the doctor on call made his rounds.  During a quick chat, he nonchalantly mentioned that he need to 'check his schedule' as to when he could fit me in for the D&C procedure.  The whole situation was most surreal.  About four hours later, a nurse came in and had been instructed to do another ultrasound.  I was numb.  It was just one more time of watching, waiting, and not finding a life.  I didn't even look at the screen this time.  I wanted this to be over.  She took forever.  I was frustrated they didn't have someone more trained doing this - I wanted to be alone.  She finished, put everything away, and said, "I'll be back in a few minutes."  Great.  Almost as soon as she walked out, she walked right back in with my primary OB physician.  He began another ultrasound, with a very intense expression on his face and completely silent.  Time was passing too slowly and I was getting restless and annoyed.  He finished and pulled up a little stool on wheels and slid right up beside my bed.  He propped his arms on the bedrail, then reached out with his hand and rubbed my head.  What he said next, will echo in my ears forever and gives me chills even as I type. "Eryn, your baby GIRL has a heartbeat."  I sat up, totally perplexed, confused and not comprehending what he'd just said.  "What did you say?"  "The nurse thought she'd seen a heartbeat, but believed she was seeing it wrong, as none of us have detected one yet - Your baby is alive."  He grinned ear to ear, as if HE were the one carrying the child and hearing the miraculous news!  I was overwhelmed with emotions.  I laughed and cried.  I still wasn't sure if I should be hopeful.  He went on to explain that he'd also been able to clearly see about a 40-60 % placental abruption (http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/placental+abruption).  In a nutshell, this meant the placenta had separated from my uterus, like it does shortly after a baby is born.  I was explained that, because I was so early into my pregnancy, I was a great risk for it to happen again.  That, since the placenta provides any and all nutrients and oxygen the baby receives, and since it was around 50% unattached, IF the baby reached a point of sustaining life outside my womb, there was a definite chance of complications, undeveloped organs, and/or brain damage.  I was put on strict bed rest for the rest of the pregnancy - however long or short that may be.  'Strict' meant, no sitting upright.  No standing.  Sponge-baths.  Bedpans.  Fantastic.  And even if these instructions were followed to a T, the chance of the placenta separating further and/or completely was still high.  If all went perfectly, from there on out, a complete abruption was still possible during birth, resulting in a stillborn.  So, yes - there was a heartbeat, which gave me hope!  But, all was still very 'iffy' and nothing was guaranteed, as far as a happy, healthy outcome.  So, the long journey began.  I stayed in the hospital for about a week, being monitored closely, then was sent home.  To bed.  For four+ months, if all went well.  With a one and two year old.  And a full-time working husband.  I was blessed with so many people, taking turns keeping my boys daily.  Bringing meals.  Calling and stopping by with words of encouragement.  I made weekly trips to Piedmont for specialists visits, finding someone to drive me while I lay flat on my back in the car.  For a few weeks, everything showed the same.  Nothing better, nothing worse.  A month later, though, an ultrasound showed that I'd developed a blood-clot bigger than the baby.  The fear was that the blood clot would begin to pass, putting me into labor at 21 weeks.  Nothing could be done about it, so it was just a waiting game to see what would happen. 

Days were long, nights were long.  I was uncomfortable and sad.  I'd been on my back, in bed, for nearly 15 weeks.  At this point, I was 'allowed' to get up for the restroom, a glass of water, but then back to bed.  It was February.  The magic month was March.  If I could make it to March, she'd have a fair chance at survival.  It wasn't ideal, but it was a lot further along than October!  I was in bed, the boys were with my mom, and I was bored and down.  If I thought the pregnancy wasn't 'my plan', THIS surely wasn't my plan!  I'm not a TV watcher so, other than that, there wasn't a lot to do flat on my back or on my side, as I was able to do now.  One morning, in early February, I woke up incredibly down, sad, depressed.  All this time in bed, doing everything in my power that could be done to sustain this life inside me, and at any minute, I could have a full placental abruption and this daughter I was already bonding with would be lost.  I rolled over and saw my Bible was on my nightstand.  I reached and wearily pulled it over to me.  It flopped open to Jeremiah and I just started reading.  My eyes fell on these words, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart . . .".  Wait, what?  That seriously never happens.  I've heard tale of someone's Bible falling open to the exact scripture that they 'needed to read' and been a bit skeptical.  I read it again.  "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart . . .".  I rolled over on my back, closed my eyes and was positive beyond a shadow of a doubt, I would meet and know this baby.

My original due date was at the beginning of May. March arrived - I'd made it!  Sure, she wasn't full term, but this was a great milestone to have arrived. I had an amniocentesis performed to check the baby's lung development.  Simultaneously, I immediate went into labor and was told her lungs weren't developed enough. I freaked.  But, over the next 24 hours, I was given meds to stop the labor, it worked and no further abruption occurred.  Also, the blood clot that was once larger than the baby had dissolved to a very small clot.  I was sent home a few days later to let her cook for a couple more restless weeks.  Upon, what would be, my final ultrasound, the first week of April, the decision was made to induce.  

Early the morning of April 15th, 2004 I arrived at Piedmont Hospital for admission.  My IV was started, pitocen streamed through my veins, resulting in a fairly speedy labor.  I was terrified.  I clung the the verse I'd read months before, but was still afraid.  The main concern at this point was that, as contractions increased, became more regular and intense, the placenta would pull away prematurely.  I was monitored closely.  In the back of my mind I knew that, even if this baby was born with no L&D complications, there was still a chance of undeveloped lungs and possible brain damage due to the lack of oxygen she received after that wretched night in October.  My blood pressure soared, thanks to pre-eclampsia and fear.  Pain meds were administered, the anesthesiologist started my epidural, and I relaxed.  Several hours later, although numb from my ribs down, I knew it was time.  I called the nurse and she quickly gathered another and my doctor.  Twenty minutes later, Estella Grace was born.  As soon as my doctor held her up for me to see, a bloody mess, I began to laugh!  Out of sheer joy!  Her Apgar score was high.  I heard the little 'duck-quack' sound that is a cry of a newborn.  She was bundled up and placed in my arms.  She was perfect.  Absolutely.  I was in complete awe . . . 

The first few months passed and every doctor's exam showed nothing less than a perfectly healthy baby.  As she grew, it was apparent and clear that there was no brain damage that was a great fear and possibility at one time.  She was the picture of health.

Stella's first birthday was an emotional one for me.  Thinking back on the long days, that turned into weeks that turned into months,  lying flat on my back, scared, sad, and worrying - I couldn't even imagine celebrating a 'first birthday' for this baby.  But, here she was - the most beautiful, happy and healthy baby girl grabbing fist-fulls of birthday cake, making an insane mess.  What a perfectly beautiful mess . . . 

Today, my Stella turns seven.  Seven years I've had with this miraculous girl.  This girl that I thought I may never know.  This girl that defied the odds.  This girl that I was promised that morning in February, after reading Jeremiah 1:5.  As gross as I know it sounds, the placenta was sent off for testing after Stella was born.  I learned that the placenta didn't necessarily 'heal' back, but 'sealed', 'reattached', rather.  My doctor was boggled.  Said it didn't 'add up' for Stella to have had no complications with only 50-70% of the nutrients and oxygen she needed to fully develop healthy.  She said I was 'lucky'.  I said Stella is a miracle.

I remember lying in bed one morning when Stella was about a month old, thinking, 'For this baby girl to not be 'my plan', I absolutely don't know what I would do without her now'.  And it suddenly hit me - When was it ever 'my plan'?  A third pregnancy, complications, months of bed rest and uncertainty - I didn't 'plan' that.  A beautiful baby girl sleeping peacefully beside me, I didn't plan her.  It was never my 'plan'!  The pieces of the puzzle, I thought I'd already figured out, came together at that moment.  "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you.  Before you were born, I set you apart".  That wasn't me.  That was never me.  It was never my plan . . . It was His.

The joy this precious girl brings me on a daily basis, I could never fully describe.  If you know her, you're fortunate.  The term, 'God-send', takes on an entirely new meaning when describing my Stella.  She's one of the most amazing things to ever happen to me.  She's beyond beautiful, inside and out.  She's my baby girl and always will be.  She's my miracle.

Happy seventh birthday, my sweet Stella Grace . . . A day doesn't pass that I don't thank God for his mercy, grace, and gift - that is you.  As your Grandmama and Granddaddy used to tell me when I was little, "You'll never know how much I love you".  However, at this point, I think I have a pretty good idea of how much they actually do . . .