This Is Only the Beginning

On October 28, 2015, at 12:02pm, after 85 hours in labor (both natural and including a failed induction to 9 cm) and an indicated cesarean section, Baby Girl was born. It had been a wonderful and easy 9 months, my body loved being pregnant and I was thrilled when I started natural contractions at 39 weeks and 2 days at a Nashville Predators game.

9 months of excitement and anticipation had finally come to that moment and I couldn't stop crying. She was tiny, but she was perfect: 6 lbs even and 19 1/2 inches long. After a few scary moments of learning she'd swallowed meconium, she was whisked off to the newborn nursery with my husband and I was left alone to finish the surgery. 2 1/2 hours later I would join them, the following weekend I would feel like death warmed over as I fought sepsis from a bad chorioamnionitis infection that festered from the prolonged labor, and ultimately on November 6, would be taken back for a second surgery to "fix a tear in the abdominal fascia" that I learned the next morning also meant a radical hysterectomy leaving only my left ovary because the infection was so bad. Two days after the hysterectomy, I developed a DVT in my left arm which hematology told me was "provoked clot" from all the fallout. In total, we spent 3 1/2 weeks at Vanderbilt, I had a wound vac for 11 weeks both in the hospital and at home, and I was left devastated and unable to bear another child.

We couldn't understand how we had gotten to this place. I experienced a completely uncomplicated 9 months. We were pregnant 6 weeks into "trying", breezed through all the milestones, so grateful to not have pre-eclampsia or gestational diabetes, and other than morning sickness the first trimester, I felt great. I hired a doula, attended every prenatal appointment, and read all the books. We had growth ultrasounds, doppler checks, and a midwife team at Vanderbilt that I trusted completely in conjunction with their OB and MFM team if needed. Baby Girl was head down at 28 weeks and so low the last few weeks of pregnancy I walked like John Wayne in a Western.

That Saturday night at the hockey game when labor began, I called the midwife on call, reported how far my contractions were apart, was told to monitor and inform my doula. Timed contractions, consistently coming 5 minutes apart, spent all day the next day on Sunday with the doula walking and using my birth ball until contractions were 2-3 minutes apart and then we went down to the hospital expecting to be through transition. Instead, only 1.5cm dilated, was sent home on "therapeutic rest" with a shot of morphine, only to wake up and have contractions back to 12 minutes apart. That Monday night, same thing, back to hospital, this time 2.5cm dilated, and then sent home on therapeutic rest again. Show up in the clinic Tuesday morning, desperate to know what was going on, and was going to be sent home again when MFM Angel overrode the midwives and called the induction.

I cannot say enough about MFM Angel. As the overseeing doctor for the midwife team, I had met her at my monthly growth scans but not really interacted with her much else. I am convinced she saved not only my life, but Baby Girl's as well. If she hadn't called that induction, I'm not sure either one of us would have made it two more days. It's terrifying to me to even think about.

Nothing and no one can prepare you for that kind of turn of events. As thrilled as I was (and am!) to have my beautiful Baby Girl,  hubby and I have always wanted more than one child. I have spent so much time somewhere between over the moon happy about Baby Girl and in the deepest despair about the loss of what I won't get to go through again. I regret not taking weekly pregnancy photos of my growing belly. I should have kept a pregnancy journal. I feel the deepest guilt about all the plans I had for Baby Girl that just didn't get done- her handprints in ink on the day she was born, I've forgotten to write down what she loved monthly as she has grown, and I lost the ability to nurse at 4 months because my milk dried up within 3 days of ending the 90 days on warfarin to deal with the DVT. I wasn't able to change diapers or walk and hold her for weeks. I still struggle with bending and getting down on the floor to play because of where the incision is that left me with a surgical hernia (that I need to have another surgery to fix soon). I still haven't been able to baby wear.

We started trying to get pregnant when we did because I thought it would take us a little while to succeed. My mom had tried for a few years before she got pregnant with me and we have had so many friends affected by infertility, I just assumed it would be a bit. When we got pregnant so quickly and I had such an easy pregnancy, I assumed we'd be doing it again in a few years without a problem. Assume, assume, assume. As my husband says, to assume makes an ass out of u and me. I have been incredibly humbled by this entire experience, and really come to realize I took for granted how easily we got pregnant and that I had a functioning uterus at all. I have felt guilt and been guilted by others for even wanting another kid. We have prayed and prayed and feel God calling us to pursue surrogacy and to pursue having an additional child. This blog details our journey to give our dearest Baby Girl a sibling. We want to be a family of a mommy, a daddy, and two children: it's what we dream 4. Thanks for reading.