The next few days went better. He was a strong but tiny baby. He weighed 2lbs 14 oz. I eventually got to hold him, do the Kangaroo Care on my chest and sing to him. He melted my heart. I pumped my milk for him, the best for preemies, and felt like I was really doing something. It was not all happiness though. As with most births, blood is taken from the mother for testing. This is to find any infections or drugs in her system that might harm her or the baby. Well, apparently, drugs were in my system. As a result, it is policy for the hospital to inform Child Protection of this and form a case against the mother/parents. Some nurses treated me like dirt because of this. Wondering why I was crying. Also during this, I was fighting off a strange fever from infections like a UTI and bladder infection. I kept getting sicker, and kept being investigated. Every time I left the hospital, it seemed like I got worse. That or my husband and I had to do a drug test. Nothing showed up in those or in Ein, but the board wouldn't let it go. There were no answers to be found in any direction.
By November 22nd I had a cystic infection in my incision, a bladder infection, kidney infection, UTI, and yeast infection. I was in so much pain I could barely walk. I was also becoming antibiotic resistant and my fever wouldn't break. On the morning of November 23rd, I went to visit my little one. He wasn't doing too well. He had started spitting up a few days earlier because he was receiving formula now that I had to take antibiotics for my various infections and he didn't tolerate it well. That morning he couldn't keep anything down and his belly was a little swollen. The nurses would watch him and would let me know what his doctor thought after he made his rounds that morning.
The NICU doctor overseeing Ein's case paid me a visit. I was on the phone with my mother-in-law telling her how Ein was doing when he popped in and said, "Well, I have some bad news..." " Oh nooo," was my only reaction. He told me that Ein's stomach was swollen and that his reflux had gotten worse, something that I had already known from my visit. He said the reason for it might be inflamed intestines or a hole in his intestines. It's common for preemies and usually medicine will ease the the inflammation but if it got any worse than he would need surgery. I immediately told him to do what needed to be done and to do it right away. I was floored. Everything had changed so quickly that morning that I couldn't even remember what the doctor said to tell my husband.
As the day progressed, Ein got worse. I don't know when or how it happened but I was informed that Ein would need to be air lifted to Children's Hospital 2 hours away for surgery and was diagnosed with Necrotizing Enterocolitis. What that meant was my little boy's intestines were dying. An infection spread from a hole and surgery was needed to save his life. We were informed he had a 10% chance of living if he didn't get there soon. It seems like it took the paramedics forever to stabilize him for transport. We just sat there, watching, waiting. I remember getting angry at one paramedic because he was just sitting there, sipping coffee and checking his watch. There were also nurses behind me talking loudly about their day, joking about their exams and boyfriends. But the thing I remember most were the nurses that hugged me. The ones that looked into my eyes with their teary eyes and silently communicated their sympathy and prayers. They gave me his bed things to take with us, which I still have, and stayed with us for as long as they could. I'll never forget that.
I was discharged from the hospital with medicine and instructions so that we could follow Ein by car. My wonderful aunt drove us the full 2 hours there. It was a tense and nearly silent drive. Ein arrived 30 maybe 40 minutes before we did so I got a call from the head doctor about what they planned to do. He needed blood and plasma transfusions before he could even have the surgery. The surgeon/ nurse/ doctor/ whoever seemed iffy about performing those tasks without us there but I told him he had our permission to do what needed to be done. Some other words were exchanged, probably more statistics, but I've blocked them out.
We finally get to the hospital and Ein is just being stabilized. We have a consultation about the surgery and are brought to a sleeping/waiting room for parents spending the night or waiting through a long surgery. A preacher woman is sent to us to either keep us company or provide hope. She prayed with us, for us, for Ein, for the doctors, and hardly left our side. I'm not sure how long the surgery was but we were finally called in to the consultation room again by the main surgeon. A small, sweet woman with sorrow in her eyes. The surgery was a fail. Ein's intestines were too far gone to be saved and there was nothing she could do. She was sorry, she tried, but that's what Necrotizing Enterocolitis does. She walked out to leave us together in our grief and my husband and aunt walked out with her to let our family know. Suddenly I was alone. My head was pounding and my chest was heaving and heavy. The floor looked peaceful so slid down from my seat so that I could melt into that shiny, waxed, purple sea.
After a moment, my aunt and husband walked back in and we asked to see Ein. They gave us a small room in the ward with a curtain half drawn so that we could say our good-byes. I don't want to sound insensitive when I say this, but he took a long time to die. I say it because that gave me hope. If he held on then maybe he would heal, it'd be a miracle. We needed a miracle. At 4:23 am on November 24, 2010, my little boy took his last breath. There were no more coos, no little cries. The pain medicine he was given allowed him to go peacefully, as I was assured. We were given the option to bathe him and dress him, I declined, but they also gave us a Shadow Box of little things like his tubing, eye mask, oxygen mask, and even some clippings of his hair. We stayed for a little while longer and then made our way back to the parking lot.
I remember trying to cry, to relieve the pain in my chest, but my eyes and mouth were dry and my stomach hurt from sobbing most of the day. When my aunt dropped us off at home, I felt so empty. This feeling of hope and expectation in our home had suddenly turned to anger and longing and sadness. We were so tired that we immediately curled up into bed with each other and just cried. We cried ourselves to sleep.
Over the next week or so, I continued to get worse and we continued to be investigated for the drug that was found in my system. The drug that was found was a sedative and apparently it wasn't something issued by the hospital. Even our caseworker fought for us because he believed us innocent. Still, the case couldn't be dismissed, we had to see it to the end. Eventually, the doctors figured out what was causing my infections and fever. I had Psuedomonas. No idea where it came from or how I got it, but it was the reason why many of the previous antibiotics weren't working. I needed the strong stuff and it wasn't until it was almost too late that we figured that out. December 2nd was the day I was finally discharged and on the mend from the my c-section and infections. Not sure how much later it was, but we also got a letter in the mail from the Child Protection Agency stating that we were found guilty of Negligent Supervision. It's the best they could do without any proof and without apologizing for being ass hats.
This birth was hard and traumatic for me. It's been 3 years and I can just now say that it doesn't hurt as much. I no longer have nightmares of it and can stand to hear a newborn cry without having a full blown anxiety attack. Instead, I help other women and new mothers in my situation. I give them a shoulder and hope. There is life after infant loss, but that's another blog post entirely. :D
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