Sarah Therese

As any of you who have read this blog before probably know, I make many more re-birth announcements than I ever thought I would. 

Way back when I started this blog I thought I would chronicle fun and moving stories of how we were growing our family.  I never imagined it would turn out so differently, or that we would be growing our family - in Heaven.  Yet, here I am again, wanting to relate the blessed and sad, the death and Heavenly life of another precious little one who has gone Home to wait for us In Eternity. 

I realize that many of you didn't even know I was expecting again as we kept it quiet and were only just starting to tell people.   

It was another traumatic experience however I have so much peace. I want to, in a special way, thank St. Philomena for her intercession and I know she was close by me during this time. 

On Monday, June 10, 2013,  I started to think things weren't right with the baby (though I had a nagging intuition for a while before that). I went to the ER after experiencing some troubling cramps and asked my husband to prepare the kids just in case.  At the ER it was confirmed that there was no heartbeat or movement and that the baby had not developed much beyond 10 weeks.  ( I was technically 12 weeks on Monday).  I explained the situation to the ER doc and my past history.  He was the SAME ONE who gave me such a hard time when we lost Claire.  I prayed for him.  He was much mellower this time and didn't make any comments that were hurtful.  Thank you, God. 

The whole time I kept praying "I trust You.  I Trust You." and I asked Jesus to allow me to surrender to suffering that He may send.  St Philomena's intercession was very evident as she made it clear several weeks ago that she would like to be a special player in my family's journey towards Holiness.  (I have had  a devotion to her since I was in High School).  Unfortunately the doctors figured they knew better than I did so they sent me home.  I knew from past experience I had at least 12 hours before things would get more dicey so I went home at 1am.  The next morning I was up by 6am and calling my OB.  He had off that day and I was instructed by the staff to wait until Wednesday morning for a D & C.  I calmly explained that I had no reason to believe my body would wait that long.  (And honestly, a D & C, while safer for my condition, is not ideal as I prefer to baptize and anoint my children.)  I was told by an irate nurse to "just go back to the ER then."   I abandoned the situation to God, praying over and over "Jesus I surrender to You completely, take care of everything"   and I headed back to the ER.  My dear friend, you know her as "Doula-Bestie-Extraordinaire", who was with me for all the trauma with Lolek's loss (she was literally measuring cups of blood as I hemorrhaged) met me at the ER. By now I felt as though I was in early labor in earnest. 

Thankfully after about 2 hours in the waiting room a Tech-Assistant whom I had befriended last time I was in the ER (a few weeks ago for a suspected DVT - it was not! ) recognized me.  He came out to see why  I was there.  I explained the situation.  He disappeared and 5 minutes later returned with a wheelchair. "You shouldn't be out here" he said and he told me he found me a room with the "really good doctor who listens."  What a blessing!!!  He was right too.  She (the doctor) is the first who has EVER listened and grasped my situation.  After explaining everything to her she responded by saying, "There is no way I can send you home."  I was so relieved I thanked her for understanding and for listening to me and burst into tears. 

She arranged with the OB on call to find me a room for observation to stay in until the scheduled surgery, should I somehow make it that long.  I waited for 13 hours (DBE and I managed to find creative ways to entertain ourselves!)  in the ER before a room on the pre-surgical unit was secured.  They gave me morphine which slowed the progression of labor.  I was of course not allowed to eat but I snuck some water.  At 9pm I was moved to the pre-surgical unit for "observation."  I explained to the nurse what to expect and let her know that I was progressing more rapidly and doubted I'd make it to the morning.  She looked slightly concerned as she wasn't an L & D nurse and had limited mother/baby experience.  By 1am I was extremely uncomfortable.  I decided worrying was useless and once again abandoned the situation to God.  I was prepared to deliver my baby, I had all my baptismal supplies and a small box for her body.  But if God so chose, I was ready for the D & C and would be at peace with it.  I Trusted His Providence.  I was able to sleep for half an hour.  Then my water broke and I knew what was to come. 

I will spare you the gory details.  Lets just say, I delivered Sarah's tiny perfect body.  Baptized and anointed her.  Kissed her and held her.  Then carefully, Doula-Bestie placed her in the little box.  Being the amazing Doula and friend that she is, she had spent the night with me. She donned gloves and prepared for the worst, which very shortly followed.  I talked the shell shocked nurse through what to do. (how many chux pads to get, what to expect, how I needed to be upright, that I would need a bag of fluid to help my BP and heart rate as I was already mildly tachycardic...   I hemorrhaged badly, as I expected.  I of course retained the placenta.  After a very short amount of time the nurse and the tech realized  I wasn't exaggerating about what I told them to expect and how bad it would get quickly.  They had to call the OB on call 3 times before they convinced him I didn't need to be "observed" and that I would in fact bleed to death unless he came in for an emergency D & C.  So after an hour I was finally brought down to the OR for the procedure. 

I am glad to say I retained my sense of humor through it all, and managed to make the nervous nurse and

tech laugh.  The nurse thanked me for "teaching her so much" and explained that she had no experience with "mother-baby" emergencies as she mostly dealt with patients who were there for bariatric surgery or occasionally a heart procedure.  Rarely did she get "real emergencies" like me.  I of course mashed on my uterus the entire time, knowing it would at least help with the clotting and hemorrhaging, and remembering that it also helps me to not pass out.  I am infinitely thankful for "DBE" who was helping with everything and helped to explain to the nurses what my situation was - as she witnessed it all first hand and close up the last time.  (But this time she could at least wear gloves and didn't have to call 9-1-1, I was already in the hospital!)

Eventually I was prepped and the anesthesiologist satisfied.  The OB showed up, I explained I had retained the placenta and would continue to hemorrhage.  I reminded them that I could not have Pitocin as it increased blood clot risk and asked to be given lovenox or heparin immediately following the surgery to prevent another PE.  They agreed. 

What happened next was quite a remarkable and blessed experience for me.  

All day I had been praying the Stations of the cross.  I love them.  I was wheeled into the OR but not put under immediately.  Instead, for some reason they prepped me while I was awake.  I was laid on the operating table, my arms were stretched out to either side and strapped down. I was strapped to the table.  My legs were stretched out in front of me.  I was unable to mash my uterus and felt myself bleeding even more uncontrollably.  I was in so much physical pain.  And then they removed my gown to put on all the monitors.  I lay there, in the shape of a cross, bleeding, naked, and in pain.  I was so moved all I could pray was "Thank you."  Finally they brought the anesthesia over and I was put to sleep.  Is it possible to be facing ones mortality (yet again!) and yet feel privileged?  Because in that moment, as crazy as it sounds, that is what I felt. 

When it was all over I was given my lovenox, it was confirmed I had retained the placenta.  I was eventually brought back  upstairs.  I slept a little and woke up to call the Funeral Home. I was able to sleep holding Sarah's box.  I made sure to keep her body moist.  The wonderful Funeral director came to take her body and I spoke with him for a while.  He has managed all our babies' burial services and is so kind and compassionate.  I cried healthy, sad tears of finality as I handed her to him and he and his wife left my room.  

I am now home recovering.  I am more sore and in more pain now, as I am experiencing the effects of the surgery -  they seem to have positioned my legs badly and I have torn and pulled muscled in my thighs and bruises on my arms where they strapped me too tight.  I have shortness of breathe upon walking even a few steps, and dizziness which will wane as I build back my blood supply.  After having not eaten for 36 hours I am gaining my appetite back.  I am very pleased to say it has been 48 hours post hemorrhage and I have not thrown a clot.  I thank God and St Philomena for her intercession!

I  feel as though I should be falling apart.  But I am not.  I recognize that I miss my baby and have moments of healthy grief over my loss.  But early on in the pregnancy it occurred to me that I should not pray for her to be allowed to be born full term and alive, especially if that is not what God had planned for her.  Who am I to deny any of my children Heaven?! So instead I prayed that God's Will be accomplished and that I be given the Grace to accept it, whatever it would be.  I believe He answered those prayers tenfold. 

I can see His Hand at work in all the circumstances surrounding Sarah's delivery and death, and in the way I was allowed to suffer, without the fear I thought I would face.  

I am human, and find myself battling fear of another Pulmonary Embolism every so often, and dealing with some hormone-induced anxiety whenever I get short of breathe, but that is nothing compared to what I think many people expect me to me experiencing.  (and after my PE I have found that a level of anxiety associated with symptoms and past experiences is normal.  So I can recognize it for what it is and move on).

I can only attribute it to God's goodness and His Mercy and to St Philomena's help and I praise God for His goodness. 

Some links you may find of interest after reading this story: 

St. Philomena - story and devotion 

Novena of Surrender to the Will of God

Where all our babies' Names are inscribed - The Book of Life

It's Been a Year, part II: The Gift of a PE and Pneumonia

So I ended the last post by saying that Padre Pio and Pope John Paul II were going to be playing a bigger role in my life "very soon."  I have always had a very strong and special devotion to St. John Paul II.  As a child I used to ask God for sufferings to offer for the Pope and experienced a closeness with him that is hard to describe.  After his death I mourned his loss and started a private devotion to him while praying for his Cause for Canonization.  I also asked him if he would accept me as his Spiritual Daughter.  His answer was "First you must make My Mother your Mother."  Of course he was talking about Mary.  I had always had a hard time with the Blessed Mother.  I prayed my Rosary, I honored her, I wanted to love her, and perhaps by an act of will I did, but it always felt flat.  In my heart I hadn't surrendered to Her Motherhood.  Well, Papa JPII got me thinking.  I desperately wanted him to accept me as a Spiritual Daughter so if he said to make Mary my Mother well, OK then!  I began begging her to help me do this.  At the same time I was given an incredibly strong sense that were anything "really bad" to happen to me, BL (now Saint). John Paul II would save me.  I didn't know what this meant, and quite frankly was a little rattled by this revelation that I was given while in prayer.  I thanked him for looking out for me and asked for his continued intercession.

This all began about 2 month before losing Baby Lolek.  Shortly before Lolek's death Padre Pio started "popping up."  He does this when he is letting us know we are going to need his help.  So I took the hint and began a novena to him asking for his protection.  When everything happened with Lolek I knew Padre Pio was interceding, and I clutched a prayer card of his throughout the ordeal.

The day after I was released from the hospital I was experiencing some very intense chest pain.  I had felt pretty woozy and lightheaded when they discharged me but was told by the nurse to expect to feel weak and to feel a heavy discomfort in my chest because of all the IV fluid.  So when I felt pain I recalled the words of the nurse and tried to ignore it.  The pain worsened throughout the day.  Perhaps it was my milk coming in?  After losing Claire my milk came in and it hurt.  Maybe it was anxiety?  I always get post-pardum anxiety.  Maybe its just my body recovering from trauma?  Maybe its all of the above?  As the day went on the pain only intensified.  It became hard to breathe.  I couldn't inhale.  I felt like I couldn't catch my breathe.  It must be anxiety.  This is the worst attack I've ever had.... I thought to myself.  Curled up on our big chair with a blanket I just struggled to breathe.  Walking made me dizzy and feel faint.  Wow.  I lost a lot of blood, probably normal....

I coped with these strange symptoms all day.  I mentioned them to my husband but tried to assure him that almost dying the day before was enough "badness" for a while - I was sure I'd be OK with some more rest.  Except I couldn't breathe!  I managed to make it through the day with as little exertion as possible.  OK, no exertion at all.  I tried to go to sleep that night.  My husband was restless and spent the night awake watching some movies in the living room.  I think I had given him quite a scare!  I lay in bed alone trying to get a good breath.  I once again thought of the nurse's warning, "It will be uncomfortable and feel heavy."   Boy, she wasn't kidding!  I tried to lay still.  After the 3rd Rosary I drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.  At about 4 am I shot bolt upright in bed - searing pain across my midsection from the bruises I had gotten after all the "mashing" the day before.  I was gasping for air and clutching my chest. Blinding pain was ripping into the left side of my chest and I had the distinct feeling that I had stopped breathing.  I gulped air, each gulp causing pain that made me dizzy.  Pope John Paul II's face flashed in my mind.  I tried to steady my breath.  I couldn't talk.  My heart was pounding so fast!  Slow breaths I commanded myself.  This must be another anxiety attack.  What else could it be?  After about 20 minutes of slow deliberate, painful breaths I put my head on my pillow and started another Rosary.  I was thinking of John Paul II.  I fell back into a fitful sleep only to wake up a short time later with the same awful sensation - gasping for air, clutching my chest in searing pain.  John Paul II's face again in my mind.  I didn't know what was happening but I DID Know that the "something really bad" had probably just happened.  I sat still, heart facing, trying to breathe through the pain in my chest.  I couldn't talk, couldn't move.  What was going on!?  I calmed down and tried to chalk it up to anxiety again, but I was a little scared.  And there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep! I sat very still in my bed, waiting for the sun to rise.  I may have dozed, in and out.  My husband  went to sleep as the sun was rising.  I told him what happened.  He looked concerned.  I told him I'd see how I felt and then call the doctor if necessary.  He said to wake him if I needed to.  I managed to get breakfast for my kids.  I walked slowly - every movement made me dizzy and made breathing more difficult.

Once noon hit I couldn't take it anymore.  I called the number on my discharge papers from two days before and left a message for the doctor.  Then I curled up on the chair with a blanket and tried to breathe.  My kids were a great distraction.  My husband woke up around 2:30 and at 3pm I got a call back from the doctor.  "If you are experiencing shortness of breath or chest pain you need to go to the ER, now."  I told her what the discharging nurse had said to me.  She wasn't impressed.  "You need to go to the ER.  What that nurse told you doesn't apply anymore."  I didn't really know what that meant but I told Dear Hubby we had to go to the hospital.  Our friend came over to keep an eye on the kids and we were off.

I will spare you the details of the Er trip.  The highlights included a dubious doctor who thought maybe my hemoglobin was low, and then a full oxygen mask, a heart rate dangerously high, blood pressure issues, X-Rays, a CT Scan (which I HATED!), an ultrasound of everything below my belly button, including my legs and feet, and eventually the dubious doctor poking his head into my room saying, "You're a MESS!"  It turned out I had a Pulmonary Embolism AND pneumonia.  PE in the right lung, pneumonia in the left. Our priest came and gave me the anointing of the sick.  I was instructed to NOT move at all.  Apparently my heart rate was so erratic that movement of any kind made it spike dangerously high  I was started on heparin, a blood thinner, and given something for the pneumonia, which they said was "hospital induced."  I had an OB come and consult because the doctors were afraid the blood thinners would make me hemorrhage again.   I was so scared!!  After getting started on everything I was admitted and taken to the cardiac ICU.  It had been 2 days since I had been in the ICU in the ER after losing Lolek.  I couldn't believe it.  What in the world was happening to me?!

The doctors were not very forthcoming with information.  I had a PE which I knew could kill you, and I was in danger of hemorrhaging, which could kill you.  The pneumonia seemed parochial at that point, and I refused to dwell on the fact that my grandfather had died from hospital induced pneumonia.  My husband had to go home to take care of the kids and I dictated a list to him of items to bring back in the morning.  I assured him I'd be fine and knew the kids needed him.  So I put on my brave face and joked through the oxygen mask, "Well I get breakfast in bed tomorrow!"  ("If I live that long" I added to myself, fear creeping into my thoughts.)  Hubby said good bye and I sat in the bed as a cascade of nurses came in.  Apparently in a cardiac ICU you get lots of attention.  I tried to adjust myself and my monitor started beeping.  A nervous looking nurse ran over.  "Honey, you CAN NOT move.  Your heart rate is way too high."  All I had done was try to adjust my position! Great. So if the PE doesn't kill me, and the anticipated hemorrhage doesn't kill me, and the pneumonia doesn't kill me, I will end up sending myself into cardiac arrest by accident and THAT will kill me.  All of a sudden I felt very vulnerable, very out of control, helpless and terrified.  I apologized.  She looked at me, "Your heart has had a work-out what with the heart attack and all."
Heart attack?  What heart attack?  I looked at her puzzled. She looked back.  The PE is in the right side.  It had to go through your heart to get there.  You're lucky you are alive."  I thought back to the night before- sitting up in bed clutching my chest gasping for air.  "OH! THAT'S what that was!"  I was stunned.  I was 29 years old and had already had my first heart attack.  I didn't know whether to be proud or mortified.  Instantly I thought of Pope John Paul II and in that moment I understood.  He had saved my life.  I had absolutely no doubt.  That thing was stopping up my heart and through his intercession it didn't kill me.  I silently thanked him.  So grateful.

I asked the nurse for my purse and slowly and carefully (so as not to speed up my poor heart)  took out my worn prayer book.  Pieta Prayer Book, in case you were wondering - my favorite.  I also took out my rosaries, Padre Pio and JPII prayer cards, and my Holy Water. I clutched them.  The nurses explained that my bed had to remain at a certain angle and I couldn't adjust it.  They messed around with my IV lines, gave me a catheter (ick), increased my oxygen, and drew some blood.  Then they instructed me to yell or press my call button if I thought I was bleeding to death, told me not to move again and left.  I was alone.

Now, I won't go into detail about the next 7 days in the hospital.  They had to draw blood every few hours, so by day 3 my arms were full of bruises and my veins didn't want to cooperate.  My blood thinners took a while to get in the "zone" where its safe (too little thinning and the clot can break free and blood can't move past it, too much thinning and well.... its bad).  The first 4 days I wasn't allowed to move more than my arms, and even then I had to be careful.  I will never forget laying there at that awful, uncomfortable 30 degree angle and wondering if I was going to die.  Would it hurt?  Would anyone be there with me?  Was I ready?  Why wasn't I excited at the prospect of Heaven?  What about my kids?  That's where I would get stuck.  My kids.  I was Mommy.  I had to take care of them.  Sure I thought about dying and getting to meet my three in Heaven, but my ones on earth needed me! I finally understood why so many prayers ask for the "Grace of a happy death."  I pray them very sincerely now.

Those first few terrifying days I look back on now with great thanks.  God was working on me.  I was, for the first time in my life, completely helpless.  I couldn't fight my way out of it.  I couldn't "suck it up, offer it up, and deal."  I couldn't even breathe without the oxygen mask! I realize now that those days are when I learned about contemplative prayer.  It was as if God taught me the amazing way to pray under fire.  It wasn't until months later that I realized that was what I was doing, how I was praying was contemplative.  I was so excited!  What a Grace I had been given!  I also learned that I needed to surrender.  I was afraid to.  I knew I was afraid to.  I was offering it up for my family and for my husband.  I was not complaining.  I was thanking God for the pain, for the fear, for the uncertainty, and yet I couldn't completely surrender.  I prayed the Stations of the Cross over and over again.  I found such comfort in them.  I knew I had to mourn my baby, Lolek, but I also knew that I couldn't yet.  It was as if my mind said "one crisis at a time, and this one is more immediate."  Besides my husband was making arrangements with the funeral home and the Church, I could be at peace knowing he would get the burial a child of God deserved.

One thing that was astounding to me were the insane conversations I would have with doctors.  They would come in every day to check on me.  I saw about 13 different doctors over the course of the first 7 days I was there.  THEY ALL told me I needed to decide what birth control to use.  A conversation would go like this:
Doctor: Hello Laura, how are you feeling
Me: Hello.  I still can't breathe and I have a lot of chest pain
Doctor:  Well that will take a  lot of time.  Your INR (how thin the blood is) is still off so we have to adjust your dose again.
Me: OK
Doctor: Now, lets talk about Birth Control for a moment.
Me: No, that's OK.
Doctor: Dr. So and So tells me you refused birth control yesterday.
Me:  Yes I did! *smile*
Doctor: That is not wise.  You see, blood thinners can cause birth defects and pregnancy can cause blood clots.
Me: So can Birth Control
Doctor:  Well, that's not exactly true
Me: Yes it is. It says so on the hormonal BC inserts.  Why in the world would you want me on BC if it causes them?  I ALREADY HAVE ONE!
Doctor: Well, it would be irresponsible of you to take a risk of getting pregnant
Me:  BC isn't fool proof. Besides my husband and I use a natural method and we use SELF control instead.
Doctor:  That's not really a smart idea.
Me:  Excuse me?  I am a Roman Catholic.  My faith teaches me that Birth Control is not only harmful to me, but its harmful to my marriage, to society, and to my soul.  AND I BELIEVE IT.  I practice my Faith.  I am very upset that every day I get a birth control lecture even after asking the nurses to notate on my chart that it is not to be discussed with me.  There is nothing you can say that will ever change my mind.
Doctor:  Well its your decision but it is not a smart one. If you get pregnant you have to come off the blood thinners and go on a different medication and you will need a high risk OB/GYN.  Plus, how many children do you have now?
Me: Four on earth.
Doctor:  My goodness.  All with the same man?
ME: YES!
Doctor: Don't you think that's enough?
Me:  I think its not for me alone to decide, and its none of your business.
Doctor: Very well, we are done.

At that point a nurse will hurry in and tell me my blood pressure was too high and I would explain that it was the doctor's fault.

So these were my days.  Plenty to offer up, and yet, I was still holding something back.

When I was released 7 days later I got home late afternoon. My mom was there with my sister.  My kids were so happy.  I was exhausted.  I was very weak, and still couldn't breathe.  I felt like I had been run over by a bus.  I got set up on the overstuffed chair and cuddled my kids.  I felt terrible.  The next day I still felt awful but managed a shower.  The kids had an early bedtime.  I decided to sleep on the chair because it was comfortable for my breathing.  As I tried to doze off an all too familiar sensation made me hurry to the bathroom.  I was hemorrhaging again.  A lot.  In half an hour I was back in an ambulance heading to the hospital.  It had been less than 12 hours since I was discharged.

The blood thinners were reversed to stop the bleeding.  This put me at risk for another clot and made my pain level higher and difficulty breathing worse.  An ultrasound revealed what they thought "might" be a retained bit of tissue.  I was told to not eat or drink in case I needed a D and C to remove it. I was admitted again but since the cardiac unit was full I was put on a Bariatric floor.

The poor nurses there didn't know what to do with me.  All the equipment was too big for me - it was designed for obese people getting bariatric surgery.  After all my problems I weighed about 118 pounds - hardly obese.  Still those nurses were wonderful. They knew I was hungry and wasn't allowed to eat, and they didn't have monitors for my vitals so they came in to check as often as they could.  Some dear friends came to pray over me.  They brought relics of several saints and along with a few other friends, including my amazing "super-doula" best friend we prayed.  Through the course of the prayer I began to feel very strange.  I had been given a drug that was supposed to help expel the retained tissue, but came with the risk of further hemorrhage.  The doctor had told me we still couldn't rule out a D and C and would I consent to placing an IUD while getting the procedure.  I practically shouted her out of the room.  "NO!  STOP TALKING TO ME ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL!"  She was very upset with me and told me she hoped I didn't hemorrhage but if I did, at least I could get another transfusion, and she left.

As I began to feel strange, I thought to myself, here it comes.  I'm going to bleed to death right here.  There are no monitors so the nurses won't see that my BP is dropping and my pulse is racing.  I began to feel faint.  I hadn't eaten in 36 hours, and I'm sure that didn't help.  I couldn't see straight, my heart was pounding.  I started to get tunnel vision.  "Surrender, Laura."  I heard a whisper in my heart.  "Make my mother your mother."  Papa JPII?  My friends were praying.  I felt like I was dying.  "Mama!!!  Mama!!!  I surrender!  Help me Mama!  I give up!  God can have me if He wants.  I surrender.  Please, be my Mother.  Help me to love you as my mother, help me surrender completely to God.  If its His Will that I die now, then I accept it.  Please hold my hand Mama, I give everything to God.  Everything. My life, my health, my kids, my husband, everything."    I was screaming in my mind.  I felt as though I was saying it out loud.  And in that moment, Mary became my Heavenly Mother.  I had broken through.

My pulse quickened, the dizziness intensified, and I felt as though I couldn't breathe.  I could tell I was about to hemorrhage.  "Call a nurse," I whispered. My friends looked worried. They pressed the call button and went into the hallway.  Two nurses came running.  "I'm not OK."  I told them.  "I feel like I do before I hemorrhage, and I want to pass out."  They started checking vitals.  The looked worried.  Very worried.  They called another nurse.  One left to make a call.  The other two ushered out my friends.  They shut the door and brought over a portable commode.  Lets prop you up on this and see what happens.  I agreed.  I prepared myself for the inevitable gush of blood and what I knew would be me passing out afterwards.  "You have to hold me up," I said.  The nursed could see I was so dizzy I couldn't even sit up without help.  "We aren't leaving your side," they said.  And so I glanced upward, asked Mary to give me courage, and resigned myself to the very real sense that I was going to die that night.

Then a strange thing happened.  I sat propped up waiting for the worst.  Instead of a rush of blood the only thing that my body expelled was a piece of tissue.  It looked to be the size of the retained tissue that the ultrasound had revealed. I was flabbergasted. So were the nurses.  You see, it just doesn't work like that.  You don't just expel a bit of tissue and NOTHING else.  Not post pardum, not when you have been hemorrhaging.  The dizziness began to wane.  Tunnel vision went away.   The nurses put me back in bed.

"See, I am your Mother."  I heard her whisper in my heart.  With complete clarity I understood. Mary had just kept me alive.  She had saved my life.  It was my final act of surrender that made it possible.  I was filled with gratitude.  Immense gratitude.  I can't write this without crying.  That night, Mary became my mother, and I learned that surrender - ultimate surrender - is a freedom.  Not something to be feared.

Shortly after this experience the nurses came in to tell me I was being transferred to the Cardiac Unit "where I belonged."  Soon I was back on the cardiac floor in the ICU for a few days, and then to the regular cardiac floor before being sent home.  All told I had been in the hospital for 16 days.

I had an ultrasound the day after the night when Mary saved my life to check on the "retained tissue" and wouldn't you know, they couldn't find it.  The whole time I had the distinct feeling of Mary's presence.  It was as if she was letting me know that just as I wouldn't leave one of my children's sides were they in the hospital, neither was she leaving mine.  I had the most profound peace.  I was no longer scared.  I didn't really know what would happen to me yet but I was not scared.  I was at peace.  I was still in a lot of pain and I still couldn't breathe, but I had peace.  I remember realizing that I had done as John Paul II said.  I made Mary my Mother!  And as I thought these things, in my heart I knew I had a new Spiritual Father as well.  I was overjoyed!  There I was with my oxygen cannula on, the anti-clot balloons on my legs, heart monitors all over, two IVs, and bruises up and down my arms, grinning like a fool.  Our God is an amazing God.

In my next post I would like to introduce you to some very amazing, very special, extremely dear friends without whom I couldn't have survived the hospital tedium, or recovered once home.  They have become my Virginia Family and I thank God for them every day.  So, next time you will meet "Lolek's Friends."  

Its Been a Year, Lolek Pio

Its been a year.  A whole year.  I haven't been able to blog about it until now.  A year ago tonight my tiny baby son was born at home, Eternally Asleep.  He was so tiny.  I was only 13 weeks along with him.  His nickname was "Baby Green Chocolate" and we gave him the name of Lolek Pio.  My dearest friend was there with me.  She is a doula by trade and to have her there with me was such a blessing and such a grace.  We had found out the night before that Lolek was no longer alive when she accompanied me to the Emergency Room.  She held my hand as the ultrasounds tech's silence spoke volumes.  She drove me home and we collected supplies.  She spent the night at my house as my kids spent the night at hers with her amazing Husband.  (My husband was away that weekend and didn't get back until after Lolek had been born).  She taught me how to crochet the next day as we waited for contractions to intensify.  She helped me clean his tiny body after he was born and she helped me Baptize him.  And then she basically saved my life.

After Lolek was born I had about a half an hour with him.  I held him, cleaned him, anointed and baptized him and kissed him.  I had prepared a tiny coffin for his body and I placed him in it after I had held him as long as I could.  My friend took a few pictures of him for me, so I could remember him (like I could ever forget).  After half an hour and after he was safely in the coffin, I realized that I didn't feel well and that I hadn't delivered a placenta.  When he was born he was attached to his umbilical cord and I had to cut it.  So I knew there was a placenta and a cord that needed to be delivered - albeit small ones.  Lolek's coffin was placed in the fridge on a shelf I had cleared for him (I know it sounds wrong, but its the best thing to do if you are waiting for a funeral director to come and take the baby's body for burial arrangements.)  I told my friend that I hadn't delivered a placenta.  Thats when I realized that I was bleeding  - a LOT.

Things happened very quickly after that.  With Lolek Pio anointed, baptized, and safely awaiting the funeral director my mind was able to shift to survival - and that is exactly what it needed to do because I was hemorrhaging - badly.  In an instant my friend switched from concerned bestie to super-doula.  She got me into my bed flat on my back.  No sign of a placenta or cord.  She felt my uterus.  Way too soft.  She mashed on it - lots more blood.  Lots.  By now there was blood everywhere.  It was in the bathtub it was in a garbage bag we had placed over the toilet for the very purpose of collecting it (midwife trick).  It was all over my bedroom - buckets, bowls, if I hadn't been feeling like passing out I would have made a Halloween joke.  Doula extraordinaire called my midwife.  She talked her through a few things to check.  It wasnt looking good.  Then my midwife instructed her to measure the blood.  Yes, my dear dear friend was elbow deep in my blood.  I cannot express to you the very deep humility I felt and appreciation I have for her.  She measured: 1 cup, 2 cups, 3 cups, 4 cups, 5 cups, 6 cups....and there was still more.  After measuring six cups the midwife cut her off.  She was concerned.  Still no placenta.  By now I was mashing and squeezing my poor uterus - trying to keep it as firm as possible.  I knew if I didn't I would quite literally bleed to death on my bed.  "I think we need to call 9-11," I said.  My friend agreed. She called.  I mashed.

She took over mashing as I heard the sirens.  Sirens.  They must be worried.

The EMTs came in and God bless them, didn't barf.  There were two seasoned EMTs and one newbie on the squad.  I thought he was gonna pass out.  "That's a lot of blood ma'am," he said, ashen.   They took some vitals and did NOT look impressed.  I was instructed not to move as they made a hammock out of the bedsheets and carried me into the hallway where the stretcher was.  My husband was on his way home.  I asked my friend's husband, who got to the house just after the ambulance did, to call him and tell him to go to the hospital.  Then away we went.  I was quite dizzy and very lightheaded but I was determined to keep mashing.  I instructed on of the EMTS on how to "mash" on my uterus.  He had never done it before.  I explained that I would bleed out if he didn't.  The poor newbie looked scared again.  As soon as the doors closed they rolled out, sirens wailing, speeding.  I figured this meant things were pretty bad.  Usually the sirens don't go unless there is a real emergency.  The driver didn't even slow down for the traintracks!! He just yelled "tracks" and the EMTs in the back with me held me down as we flew over them.  Then they got my IVs going - one in each arm and put me on full oxygen.  I was having trouble staying awake and fought it as hard as I could.  I kept mashing.  I could hear the EMT call in to the ER.  He sounded gruff.  He said a lot of code words I didn't understand but I DID hear "tachycardic" a few times and "crash cart."  That was enough to give me a bit of an adrenaline rush.  The ambulance sped on.

I remember at one point time sort of stood still.  I was laying on the stretcher and I was praying in my mind.  I was asking for strength and for God to give me courage.  I kept thinking of my children.  All of a sudden I "saw" Jesus.  I don't exactly know how to describe it.  It was in  my mind but out of it.  Clear as day.  Jesus was on a horse. He was dressed as a Knight in Shining Armor.  He was wielding a big sword and a lance and He was fighting.  I distinctly recall just KNOWING that He was fighting for me.  And then it was as if WHOOSH I rushed into the fast paced present again. The ambulance arrived at the hospital and the EMTs jumped out.  I kept telling them I was Catholic and that I needed a priest.  They were busy.  They jogged me into the hospital and we took a route I had never taken before - bypassing all the desks, all the rooms and went into a special room.  I found out later it was the ICU "Crash Unit."  As they wheeled me in I saw 7 nurses all scrubbed up ready to pounce.  One was holding the paddles of a crash cart - ready to go.  It dawned on me that the reason I felt so awful was because I was in pretty bad shape.  I kept mashing.

They transferred me from the stretcher to the hospital bed and POUNCE!  every nurse in the room went to work.  I had my clothes cut off me as someone else was putting in another IV, I was being checked all over, vitals taken, oxygen started again, the doctor appeared at my side.  Laura, I am doctor so and so.  We need to get your permission for a transfusion if you need one.  I gave it.  I didn't have a choice.  Not if I wanted to live.  I told him that I had a retained placenta.  I kept mashing.  I told the nurses they needed to mash on my stomach.  They were so busy getting me prepped and waiting for me to flat line that no one heard.  So I kept mashing.  Eventually they let my friend back.  She took over mashing for a few minutes.  The doctor asked us to stop mashing to see what would happen.  It wasn't pretty.  Lets just say I didn't know I could "squirt" blood like that.  Poor doc.  He told me I could go back to mashing.  Then a poor tech said he needed to do a blood draw so they could get my blood type for the transfusion.  I was actually snarky and told him he could stand at the edge of the bed and catch it.  He turned pale and I apologized, holding out my IV intubated arm to him.  He hurried away.

Unfortunately though that last dramatic blood loss made me very woozy.  I was seeing double and couldn't tell which way was up.  I started to shiver all over.  Uncontrollable shivering.  I was going into shock. Still I kept mashing. The doctor kept calling for bags a blood.  It wasn't coming so he sent a tech to "go and get it. Now!"  When the tech came back they started my transfusion - using the biggest needles possible. Then they  started a Potassium drip - which burns like nothing I have ever felt before - on the other arm. I kept mashing.  I was still hemorrhaging   Finally after what seemed like ages but was really about an hour and a half the OB on call came in.  Immediately she got me set up.  The nurses were trying to keep me awake and the one on "standby" with the crash cart kept moving closer.  She said there was no time for a D and C to get the retained placenta, I had lost too much blood and didn't have time to get to an OR. She looked at me, "I am going to have to go in and scrape it out. It's going to hurt, but we don't have a choice."  I nodded.  They got me set up in a makeshift way.  The nurses were afraid to move me as any movement sent my heart rate dangerously high.  And God Bless her, that OB, she got the job done.  We didn't even have time for pain killers.

I laid there in blinding pain and I kept thinking of the scene in Braveheart where he gets disemboweled at the end.  "Freeeeeeeeeedom" I whispered into my oxygen mask, laughing at myself.  Then I started shaking again.  Finally, finally, after quite a bit of time, the OB was confident that she had gotten everything.  She gave my uterus a good hard mash and squeeze.  It hurt so badly after being mashed and scraped and pounded on all night long.  Then she gave me two shots of pitocin.  I could feel the blessed contractions start!  FINALLY!!  They hurt like heck but I was so happy to feel them that I almost didn't care.  If they hurt they were working!!!  I didn't have to mash anymore!! I hadn't flat-lined, and I was alive!

My husband eventually arrived and was let back to the ICU with me.  I was holding my friend's hand as he walked back.  I am sure from his angle it looked like a war zone.  (The hospital collected buckets of blood too).  I, however, was being cleaned up a bit by some nurses and had blankets piled on my to try to stop the shaking.  I felt so cold!  The crash cart nurse put the paddle down.  She leaned over, "I can't believe you never passed out," she said, "I was watching your vitals the whole time and I am stunned I didn't need those," she referenced the paddles.  "Jesus was fighting for me," I whispered.  She smiled.

I stayed in the Crash Unit for a while longer as they waited for me to stabilize a bit.  They did an ultrasound to make sure there was nothing left behind and gave me some more pitocin.  Then they gave me some uber-painkillers.  They made me feel like I was floating on the ceiling.

I spent the night on two IV drips.  I didn't sleep.  The Potassium burned its way through my veins making it impossible to sleep, and my legs felt funny.  They hurt and then they would go numb, and then they would ache.  Nope, no sleep for me.

The next day my husband went home and met the funeral director. He gave him Lolek Pio's coffin and made arrangements.  Later that night he came and picked me up.  I was told I need LOTS of rest and to drink and take some iron supplements.  I was still on the very low blood volume side of things and needed to take my time as my body caught up with itself.

I went home and saw that my husband had cleaned up the mess.  He remarked later that he couldn't believe the odor the blood had.  "It smelled like Chrism" is what he said.  He was expecting a foul or nauseating odor and instead, he kept insisting it smelled like chrism.  "You smell like chrism too" he said to me more than once  - even after I had showered!  He also said he felt very strongly the presence of Padre Pio.  This didn't surprise me.  Two weeks before losing Lolek, Padre Pio was making it known that we were going to need him.  So when I started to sense that things weren't right with the pregnancy I immediately knew who to ask for intercession! That is why Lolek's middle name is Pio.  He was very near me as everything happened.

Little did I know that Padre Pio and Pope John Paul II were about to play an even bigger role in my life....  but that is for another post!

Baby Lolek Pio, I miss you and I long to hold you. I ask that you look down on us and along with your brother and sister who are also in Heaven, pray for us and for our friends and family.  Amen.