Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 4

I rejoined Lindsay in time to see the doctors and nurses transfer her from the operating table to the a new clean hospital bed.  Lindsay was partially alert throughout the move.  I told her that I took some pictures of Dorian. I filled her in on the instructions given to me by the doctor in the other room.

"Do you feel any pain?" the doctor asked Lindsay.

"No," she told him calmly.  "It's all gone."

"That's preeclampsia," he said with a shrug and a shake of his head.

Lindsay was wheeled through the hospital on the same path that I had taken just minutes before.  As we passed through the doors leading to the High Risk Unit, I glanced over to the lobby and saw my uncle in baseball cap sitting on one of the couches.  I gave him a thumbs up, which he returned with a wave, and we were escorted with Lindsay back to her room.

I called family members who had not yet arrived to tell them briefly about Dorian's arrival and give them an update about Lindsay.  The first time someone said the words, "Congratulations, Papa!" it struck a chord.  I had spent the last 3 days reliving, retelling, and reevaluating the anxiety and fear of the events leading up to this moment.  It was as if a switch had been flipped.  Yes, there were those difficult emotions still very close to the surface, but they were easily overpowered by the pure joy, happiness, and love given to me by Dorian.  Dorian made me realize what a joyous occasion this truly was.

Family filtered into the hospital to see me and Lindsay while we all waited to be told when we could see our son.  Those hours were difficult for me, but I cannot imagine how they must have been for Lindsay.  I felt that I had somewhat of an unfair advantage.  While Lindsay had spent the last 208 days with Dorian inside her, I had already spent more time with him face to face.

The nurses informed Lindsay that it was very important for her to see him when he is ready because it may be a couple days before she saw him again.  Just as Dorian needed time to adjust to being in our world outside of his mother, Lindsay would need time to adjust and heal as well.

When word finally came back that it was time to see Dorian, Lindsay's whole bed was on the move again--only this time I was walking right beside her.  The nurses carted her entire bed through the hospital and into a elevator taking us upstairs to the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit).  We passed through the first of two automatic double doors which lead to a hallway, with which I would come to know quite well.  As we continued our journey, we passed the NICU lounge which had couches, a refrigerator, television, and a full bathroom.  Further down to our right were two hand washing stations.  Guests, visitors, and parents were instructed to wash their hands thoroughly ("20 seconds or as long as it takes to hum 'Happy birthday' twice" a pamphlet stated).  Directly next to that was a nurses' station.  They greeted us with a smile and pressed a button on their desk which opened the next and final set of double doors.  Normally they look for identification badges and a hospital bracelet, but I think Lindsay's mode of transportation was identification enough.

I noticed a mural on the wall to our left just before we went through the doors.  The wall is covered with colorful birds, butterflies, and trees, and inscribed above it all were the words "The miracle is that one little life can change so many others."

The NICU itself can be a rather daunting and unnerving environment for anyone.  When you walk in, you see a large room dominated by a sea of large cubicles--"pods" I'm told they're called.  A large artificial tree rises out of each pod to the ceiling, and its branches and leaves spread out in a pattern providing unneeded artificial shade to the four pods beneath it.  The leaves alternate from tree to tree--green leaves on one tree; pink leaves on the next.  Some pods are empty.  Some are inhabited. The inhabited pods were decorated at varying levels.  Some had a banner with the baby's name.  Some had balloons with "It's a boy!" or "Twins!" printed on them.  Along the wall to the left of the entrance are rooms designated for babies in isolation, or for babies that have extended stays (I asked a nurse once what "extended" meant in that context.  She said, "One baby was here over a year once.").  Some of the rooms and the pods had parents and visitors with the babies.  Some rooms and pods simply had a baby--closely monitored and comfortable, of course (the incredible nurses are everywhere).  The worst part of the NICU are the sounds.  I don't mean the babies crying, which they do.  I'm referring to the ever present sound of the medical equipment.  There are buzzers, alarms, beeps, lights, klaxons, bells and whistles going off somewhere in the NICU at all times.  Although I am accustomed to them now, and I've become very educated about what each of them mean, it doesn't mean that my head doesn't turn to Dorian's monitor when I'm with him and I hear one nearby.

Looking back, I don't remember the sights and sounds deeply affecting me at any one specific moment.  I believe that I was immune to the NICU's overwhelming setting because I was a man on a mission:  I was going to see my son.  In my head, it was simple:  This is where Dorian is.  This is where I have to be to see him.

I get to see him!

My excitement grew with each step as we drew closer to Pod 15, where Dorian was.  His pod was in the far back corner of the room ("A prime spot," the nurse told me later.  "Less traffic than by the entrance.").  He was in an isolette incubator.  He was wearing a tiny white cap that was strapped underneath his chin.  The cap was merely superficial.  It's purpose was to hold the CPAP in place to assist Dorian's breathing.  Dorian was breathing on his own, and the CPAP was providing extra pressure that his lungs needed.

Lindsay placed her hand in the incubator with Dorian and he immediately latched on to her finger.  I watched Dorian.  I looked over at Lindsay.  I could immediately tell by the look of complete calm on Lindsay's face that Dorian had the exact same effect on her as he did on me.

"He's so beautiful," she said softly from her bed.

"Happy birthday, Dorian," I said.

"We love you," Lindsay added and I repeated it as well.

"We love you, Dorian."

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 3

Lindsay never ceases to amaze me.  While heavily medicated, after just going through major surgery, and as the doctors were finishing up, Lindsay had some questions.  "Will I get the placenta?" she asked coherently.

"Oh yeah," the doctor replied as he concentrated on whatever he was doing behind the curtain barrier.  "It seems that your placenta was starting to calcify some," he added.

"Could that be due to the preeclampsia?"  I was shocked that Lindsay was able to ask such good questions where as I was focusing on not falling off my chair.

The doctor stopped whatever he was doing, looked at Lindsay with an inquisitive glance, and said, "It may be, but I'd like to look at it under a microscope."  He returned to his work.  "We're going to put staples in so if there is any leakage, it will be able to come out easily."

"How long will the staples have to stay in the incision?" Lindsay inquired.

"Four days," the doctor stated simply.

"Four days?!  I work at a Vet hospital," Lindsay began, "and the staples we put in our animals stay in for at least seven to ten days!"

"No," the doctor responded.  "Four days."

"You can come see him."  I turned around to the source of the voice which came from a nurse standing in the ajar door where Dorian had been taken.  They didn't have to tell me twice.  I gave Lindsay's hand a quick squeeze, stood up, and walked into the next room.  It was an oddly narrow room compared to the one from which I entered.  A few feet in front of me stood five to six attendees dressed in the same yellow gown I was wearing.  Their backs were to me, they were circled around a small table, and their heads were all angled down looking at whatever was on top of the table.

I felt like I floated toward the table as if I were underwater.  The attendees--all women (Dorian's already a ladies' man, I thought to myself)--opened their tight circle to allow me to stand next to my son.  A lovely, dark haired Indian woman pulled a mask off Dorian's face.  "He's doing fine," she said in her rich accent.  "He's breathing on his own," she assured me.  "I'm just providing him with a little pressure to ensure that his lungs stay inflated."

He was so small--skinny to be more correct.  He was a long, skinny, beautiful baby.  He was perfect.  I was immediately in love.  I couldn't begin to fathom or understand the bond that was started at that moment--let alone put it into words.  The emotion, however, was pure joy.  All of my fears, doubts, and anxiety of the previous days were washed away instantly.

"What's his name?" one of the ladies standing around us asked.  This inquiry was quickly echoed by the others.  They were all eager to know the name of this perfect baby boy in their presence.

"Dorian," I said with a hint of reverence.  "His name is Dorian," I said even prouder.  The doctors and nurses around us repeated his name with "Ooo's" and "Aww's".

"You can take a picture," I heard someone say.  I pressed my hands against my gown and, to my great shock and pleasure, found a disposable camera I had apparently slipped into a pocket.  I had purchased the camera the day before when I was out running errands.  During the flurry of packing our bag, I had forgotten to bring our digital camera.  So I purchased this backup at a drugstore down the street "just in case".

"Thank you all so much," I said to everyone standing there with Dorian and me.

"You're quite welcome," the doctor said to me.  "You go back with his mother," she instructed me.  "We will work with him for a few hours, get him settled in the NICU (Newborn Intensive Care Unit), and we will have someone send for you both when he is ready."

I thanked them all again, smiled down at my son, and traced my steps back to Lindsay to tell her about our baby.

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 2

Nurses started flooding into Lindsay's room.  They explained that Lindsay would receive a "spinal"--which meant that I would be allowed to be in the delivery room with her.  One of them handed me a face mask, a full length, yellow gown, and two blue booties for my shoes.  I'm not exactly sure what changed, but just as I finished adorning myself with the medical gear that was given to me, the doctor told Lindsay and me that she would be given general anesthesia--completely sedated--which meant I would not be allowed in the room with her for delivery.  Upon hearing this I went to Lindsay's bedside.  I told her that I loved her and that I would see her soon.  I kissed her, turned to the nurses, and asked in a near shrill, "What do I do??"

The nurses prepared Lindsay's bed to be moved.  One of them turned the bed so it was in the direction of the door.  Another nurse gathered Lindsay's IV stand together.  Finally one of them said, "Someone will come and get you."

"So I stay here??"

Lindsay was being wheeled through the door with the entourage of nurses, and the last nurse replied, "Yes, stay here," as she passed through the doorway.

Just as the ambulance ride from Bloomington to St. Vincent's three nights prior, Lindsay was being transported and I couldn't be with her.  I allowed the tears and emotions to rise up and consume me as I was now alone in the room.  I felt ridiculous standing there in that emptiness.  I felt purposeless.  I ripped off all the medical clothing and guards I was wearing and began making phone calls to family.  In a shaky voice with tears running down my face, I informed them one by one that Dorian was on his way.

I was on the phone with my sister in Florida when a nurse burst into the room.  "Come on!" she barked at me.  I put my phone in my pocket, and I raced side by side with this woman down the hall, past the nurses' station, through the lobby, and into a part of the hospital I hadn't been before.  "Where's all your stuff??" she demanded of me.

I immediately knew she was referring to the gown, mask, and booties I was no longer wearing.  "I was told that I couldn't come in," I explained to her as we came to a set of large double doors.

"Well," she said, "things have changed."  She pressed a button on the wall and the doors opened for us.  We continued our quick pace down another hallway, turned a corner, and we were met by another nurse standing beside a cart with shelves.  The nurse that guided me here grabbed a face mask off the top shelf and handed it to me as the second nurse assisted me with a gown.  "You'll need these," the first nurse said as she attempted to put the booties on my size 13's.  She managed to get them both over the toe sections and declared, "Good enough!"  A hand was placed on my back, and I was shoved through another set of double doors that I had failed to even notice directly in front of me.

The room I entered was very bright--I remember that.  I immediately saw Lindsay on a table a few feet in front of me to my right.  There were curtains (thankfully) around her body, and 3 doctors surrounded her.  "Over here," a firm voice said.  I followed it to a man standing behind an empty chair which had been placed at the head of the table by Lindsay's face.  I went to it quickly and sat down.

"Hey baby,"  Lindsay said sleepily.

"Hey," I replied through my mask.

"We're having a baby," she said calmly with a smile.

"You're going to feel some pressure," the doctor said suddenly.  The table that Lindsay was laying on shook, and Lindsay furrowed her brow slightly.

After 29 weeks 5 days, at 9:36am on March 4th 2012, Dorian was born.

He let out a small cry as the doctor held him up for us to see.  "He sounds like a kitten," Lindsay said.  He wasn't nearly as small as I dared to imagine.  I remember he looked long, gray, and not too happy.  I could definitely see some mats of hair on his head.  I didn't have long to look before he was whisked away to a station on the opposite side of the room.

"He looks good," I said through tears as I squeezed Lindsay's hand.

"We made a baby," Lindsay said with a smile.

"Yes we did," I replied with a nervous, elated chuckle.

"Two pounds.  Fifteen ounces," the nurse caring for Dorian informed the room.  "And sixteen inches."  Dorian was then taken to another room through a door and out of our sight.

"He looks good," the doctor proclaimed.  "I think he peed on me."  I looked at the doctor from my seated position, and I noticed some clear droplets on his shoulder.  "That's a good sign," he said.  "That means everything's working."

That's when we heard it.

The first night we were at St. Vincent's (Friday night), I was taking a break in the lobby on the second floor.  It was sometime after 8pm, I had just woken up from a 4 hour nap, and I left Lindsay alone in her room to rest.  The lobby is rather long with couches, chairs, tables, and a television.  On the north wing of the lobby is the "High Risk Unit" (where Lindsay was).  "Regular" deliveries occurred through the double doors at the south.  There were two families sitting in a group just outside those latter double doors.  I sat on a couch alone near the north end.  I could hear their excited conversations about their new grandson, granddaughter, baby, bundle of joy, etc.  Being in the emotional, exhausted state that I was at that time, I sat quietly staring off into nothing.  I thought it was interesting that, from where we were sitting, we literally represented the spectrum of emotions regarding the arrival of a new life.  Suddenly over the PA system "Lullaby" by Brahms played softly.

"Whose is it?!"  I heard a female voice shout with excitement.

"Is it ours?" another woman asked.

I soon figured out that every time a baby is delivered at St. Vincent's, the lullaby is played.  It was too much for me to handle at that moment, and I went back through the double doors leading into the High Risk Unit and Lindsay's room.  Looking back now, I'll admit that the lullaby is very cute and lovely.

But that's not what Lindsay and I heard.

When Dorian was born we heard the "Imperial March" from Star Wars (aka Darth Vader's music).  "Is that what they're playing for Dorian??"  Lindsay asked me.

I looked up and saw a nurse walk toward a table across the room.  She picked up a cell phone where the song was originating and silenced it.  "It's just a ring tone," I explained to Lindsay.

"Okay," she said, and we both laughed.

Happy Birthday Dorian pt. 1

March 2nd.  A Friday.
To be honest, I don't remember a lot of that day after we got to St. Vincent's.  The families came for support and shared in the ultrasound experience.  Nurses and doctors were in and out checking on Lindsay.  The last conscience memory I have of that day was literally falling asleep standing over Lindsay's bed as a nurse or a doctor was talking to us.  I believe by that time I had been up for 36 hours.

Restful sleep did not await me.  I woke up a few hours curled up on a pull-out sofa, which was not pulled out.  The nurses were in taking more blood draws from Lindsay.  "I feel like you're vampires," she told them.  I was happy to hear that even in her medicated state, she could still crack a joke--although it wasn't too far from the truth.

Lindsay asked the nurse about getting some sleep.  Every hour they were pushing and prodding or drawing labs.  Her blood pressure cuff inflated every 60 minutes.  The nurses told her, "You'd expect to get some rest in a hospital...but it doesn't happen."  During that sleepless night, Lindsay was given the second and final round of steroids to help further develop Dorian's lungs in case he decided to make an early debut.  We were told that it would be ideal to hold off on delivery 48 hours after it was given if possible.  That means Monday by 1:30am, I thought to myself.

On Saturday a neonatologist came to talk to us about all of the possible complications for which to prepare ourselves.  He told us about "bleeding on the brain."  He informed that premature babies delivered after 24 weeks have a higher survival rate.  He said, "Once you get to 30 weeks, the chances of survival are 95%."  He told us that Dorian's chances are probably in the low 90 percentile.

I never thought that 10% could seem so high.

We were told that Lindsay would be staying at the hospital until the baby arrived--whenever that may be.  Since Lindsay and the baby were stable, they said that the plan was to deliver at 34 weeks (April 3rd). 

The rest of the day was declared "Aunt Day" by me.  Linday's aunts came to show their support and love.  My aunt came back with her whole entourage (her husband, daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters) bearing gifts for Dorian and sustenance for Lindsay and me (sugar cream pie and mashed potatoes, respectively).  Later that day more friends came to see Lindsay and show their support.  Lindsay was doing her best to answer questions and stay in good spirits, but with every visit her blood pressure would creep up.  I did my best to try to keep Lindsay calm and tell her to relax, but even in her medicated state, there was no "telling" her anything.  She comes from a long line of strong-headed, stubborn women.  We did try to keep the visits to a minimum best we could so Lindsay and I could attempt to maximize what little sleep we were able to get.

I made phone calls to my family and gave them updates.  "All was good.  Everyone's stable.  We're planning on delivering at 34 weeks.  Looks like we're going to be here a while."  I slipped into accepting this as our new reality.  We have some close friends whose father was diagnosed with cancer recently.  They said, "You make goals, or benchmarks.  You make it to those, and you make new ones."  My benchmarks--Dorian's benchmarks were:

1)  Monday 1:30 am - 48 hours after last steroid shot
2)  Tuesday - Dorian is 30 weeks, survival 95%
3)  April 3rd - 34 weeks, we deliver

"Part of being a parent is accepting that things don't always go as planned"

I woke up Sunday morning around 4am to unfortunately familiar sounds.  Lindsay said that the pain was back.  It was the exact same pain that brought us to the hospital 3 nights prior.  We called the night nurse in and she gave Lindsay some morphine for the pain.  This allowed 15 minutes of relief before the pain came back.  The staff brought in an ultrasound machine to check on Dorian.  They prodded for 30 minutes--"hospital protocol for this type of situation," I was told.  This did not help Lindsay's pain and discomfort.  I stood beside her, holding her hand, and feeling utterly powerless.

On the ultrasound, I could see Dorian.  I could see his heart beating.  He looked calm and peaceful.  I asked the doctor, "Is he okay?"  She didn't answer me right away.

"I'm looking for signs of him breathing," she told me as she studied the screen.

"Do babies breathe in the womb?" I asked.  Lindsay was moaning and shifting as the doctor continued to probe.

"Sometimes they do," the doctor said.  "Not always this early, though," she added.  A nurse came in to "stimulate" Dorian.  She held a small, black, controller-sized tool against Lindsay's lower abdomen.  When it was activated, it gave a small buzz.

During any ultrasound, Dorian was a mover and a kicker.  He didn't like to be messed with.  "He gets that from his mother," I would joke.  Dorian wasn't moving now.  "Could that be due to the morphine?"  I asked the doctor.

"Possibly," the doctor responded.  Thirty minutes never seemed so long.  When it was over, Lindsay and I were not prepared for what she told us, "Since your pain has not stopped, Lindsay," she began.  "And since the baby is not reacting to stimulation, I think it's best to deliver right away."  It was 9am on Sunday morning.  We had not reached any of Dorian's benchmarks.

Tempestuous Weather pt. 3

Since arriving at St. Vincent's Women's Hospital, Lindsay, the baby, and I received nothing but the best care.  The nurses were so incredibly caring.  I made sure to thank each and every one of them by name whenever they left the room.  Lindsay and the baby were being monitored by a computer that took Lindsay's blood pressure every hour.  She was monitored for contractions, and the baby's heartbeat was monitored constantly.  As the morning light slowly spilled through the windows, Lindsay had blood drawn to test her liver and other levels, her urine was checked for the presence of protein, and her temperature was taken with her blood pressure.  The magnesium sulfate pumping through her IV, we were told, would make her groggy, hot, and generally feel uncomfortable.  I did my best to provide cool wash cloths to wipe down her cheeks and face.  I rubbed her legs and feet (a nightly ritual started long before we became pregnant), and I did my best to keep her spirits up.

Lindsay was stable and the baby's heartbeat was strong.  Sometime later that morning (the memories of the specifics are fading, although with the lack of sleep I'm surprised I remember anything), the troops arrived.  Lindsay's dad and stepmother arrived first.  I did my best to quickly and calmly recount the events that brought us together that morning.  I told them about Lindsay's upper abdominal pain that wouldn't go away.  I relived the fear and anxiety I felt as I told them about the possibility of the baby being delivered today.  I was able to maintain my composure for the retelling of all the events except this one:  "Another 4 hours and we could have lost Lindsay and the baby."  My biggest concern is always for Lindsay.  Her blood pressure was stable and I intended to do everything in my power to keep it that way.  That meant filling in all of the family, friends, and anyone who would listen about our story and saving Lindsay from doing so.  The emotions tied to this tale were too fresh and too much for Lindsay to handle.  After Lindsay's dad and stepmother were caught up, I sent them in to the "High Risk Unit" where Lindsay's room was.

Next to arrive were Lindsay's mother and my aunt and uncle, who happen to live literally down the road from the hospital.  Again I answered the question, "What happened?"  And again I found the words harder to say through my tears: "another 4 hours and we could have lost Lindsay and the baby."  I ushered our family into Lindsay's room.  Everyone gave hugs and held Lindsay's hand. It all seemed so ridiculously unreal.

My aunt and uncle left shortly thereafter, and they promised to return the next day.  A machine was wheeled into the room to perform an ultrasound on the baby.  I found it incredible that Lindsay's mother, father and stepmother were present for the procedure.  Our baby was already bringing people together through love and support.  The baby's face was visible in the screen shot that the ultrasound technician printed out for us.  We passed it around for all to see before I taped it to Lindsay's IV pump located next to her bed.

I'm not exactly sure whose idea it was--and I'm not sure that I care--but Lindsay and I decided to tell everyone our baby's name at that moment.

When we first discovered that we were pregnant, we thought that we would keep the sex of the baby a secret--even from ourselves (Lindsay's idea, which I agreed with).  Lindsay said that there seems to be so little surprises any more with technology, social media, and the Internet.  Surely THIS would be a secret worth keeping.  As our 20 week ultrasound appointment drew closer, Lindsay's line in the sand started to blur.  "Well, if we see it on the ultrasound," Lindsay told me, "then it's okay if we know.  We just won't tell anyone else, okay?" she explained to me.  When we arrived at the doctor's office for the appointment I told Lindsay, "Baby, if we find out the sex of the baby today you will not be able to keep it a secret."  Lindsay bit her bottom lip and considered my statement.  "You're going to want to tell your mom," I added.  She broke a smile and said, "Yeah, you're right."

So after the appointment we told everyone we were having a boy.  However, we were going to keep the name a secret until he arrived--hopefully by then we would have decided on one...or four.

Standing in that hospital room with Lindsay in her elevated bed we told our family that our son's name is Dorian.  It means "tempestuous weather".  Rather fitting especially considering that weekend's weather included tornadoes, rain, snow, and 70 degree temperatures all in the span of three days.  Lindsay and I felt that is was important for everyone to know his name.  Dorian needed all the support and love from everyone who anxiously awaited his arrival.

Tempestuous Weather pt. 2

I arrived at our car parked in the ER lot, and I took the opportunity of this private moment to release the floodgates of tears that I was holding within me.  I nearly fell to my knees as my eyes went blurry.  I reached out my hand to the outside of the driver's side door to steady myself.  The doctor's words of "another 4 hours" and "strong possibility of delivering the baby" ran through my head like acid eating away at my core.  A sudden calm washed over me, and I said to myself very firmly, "You have nothing to cry about...yet."

This little pep talk worked...after I repeated it a few times.

I raced home through the side streets of Bloomington.  Along the way I came upon what appeared to be a very intoxicated hitchhiker.  As I got closer, I saw that he was visibly stumbling--beverage in hand. As my headlights illuminated his portion on the sidewalk, he turned and raised a thumb towards me.  As I passed him, the idea of picking up this solitary traveler and spilling my heart and soul to him was briefly entertained.

I arrived home at 2:45am, and I entered our living room.  I was frozen in place by the commonality of the setting.  A comforter was still balled up on the couch where Lindsay had been sitting.  Our drinking glasses were still on the coffee table half full.  It was hard to believe so much had changed in our lives in 3 hours.  Momo greeted me with her usual yowl for attention.  I told her, "We're going to be all right.  Lindsay's going to be all right.  I've got to pack a bag."

I raced upstairs--Momo bounding in front of me expecting the normal routine.  Momo's taken to drinking from our bathroom sink.  When we moved into our apartment, we were excited about having "his and her" sinks.  As it turned out, they became "ours and Momo's".  As I reached the top of the stairs, Momo looked out at me from the bathroom floor.  After she was sure that I knew what she wanted by briefly locking her feline eyes with mine, she leaped upon the counter and began rubbing her face against the faucet handle.  Thankfully she has yet to learn how to turn the faucet on by herself.  Quickly, I raised the handle for her, and Momo immediately lapped up from the small stream of water coming from the tap.

I walked into our bedroom and experienced yet another emotional collapse.  I still couldn't wrap my mind around the situation.  My wife was on her way to St. Vincent's hospital to possibly deliver our son 2 and a half months early.  I took a deep breath, shook my head, and wiped my eyes with my fingers.  I looked down at my chest and realized that I had yellow stains on my baby blue t-shirt.  I had no idea where they came from--we didn't have mustard with dinner that night, I thought. Yet there were the stains as clear as the decal of the narwhal picture and "The Unicorn of the Sea" writing on the shirt.  I took it off and reached into our laundry basket of clean clothes, which still hadn't been put away from the previous cycle.  I chuckled to myself knowing that Lindsay would normally scold me for neglecting my domestic duties ("You know where they go.  It takes 5 minutes.").  I traded the narwhal shirt for another custom-made shirt--both Christmas gifts from Lindsay's Aunts.  The one I selected said "Property of the Artist" on the front and "Lindsay's Man" on the back.  I figured that Lindsay could use as much support as I or a t-shirt could muster.  My head was swimming.  What do I pack?  How long are we going to stay at the hospital?  Lindsay was wearing a gown when I left her.  Will she need pants?  What clothes do I need?  I settled on one day's worth of clothing for each of us.  That was all the time I allowed myself to ration for packing the black bag given to me by Bloomington Hospital--their new motto, "The strength it takes" printed on the front.  We'll see, I thought.  I returned to the bathroom, shut off the faucet, gave Momo one last reassuring stroke, and burst out the front door and into my car.  It was 3am.

I reached a gas station in Mooresville around 4am.  I promised Lindsay that I would stop and get coffee on my way to the hospital.  She had repeatedly expressed her deep concern for my safety.  She kept trying to suggest friends who might not mind accompanying me to a hospital in Indianapolis at 3am.  Our compromise was that I would get coffee.  As I pulled into a spot directly in front of the entrance, my heart sank as I read that their hours of operation did not start until 5am.  I sat in my car contemplating my next action.  I had been driving near the speed limit, and I was desperately tired having been up for nearly 24 hours.  Waiting an hour in my car for a cup of coffee was a recipe for madness and desperate measures.  I wondered if tonight's events would warrant an insanity plea if I broke into this convenient store for a caffeine fix.  This all became a moot point as I saw a patron exit through the front door. 

I landed at St. Vincent's Women's Hospital 5 minute before 5am.  I shot through the revolving door like a cartoon character and approached the front desk.  I asked for "Lindsay Schroeder", and was told that she had not arrived yet.  I was instructed to go to a waiting area down the hall.  As I made my way through the hospital I placed a phone call with Lindsay's mother.  She told me to call her when I arrived and relay directions to her so she could join us.  I came to the empty lounge describing my location best I could to Lindsay's mother when I saw an empty ambulance through the windows.  My hopes and suspicions were confirmed when I turned around to see the EMT's from Bloomington turning a corner toward me.  "Where is she?"  I asked.  "She's..." the EMT began, "...I'll show you."  I said a quick goodbye to Mamma Lea and followed the EMT.

We rode the elevator up to the 2nd floor.  I fired question after question to this poor gentleman regarding Lindsay's condition.  He assured me that she was fine and stable.  He said that the ambulance ride had gone smoothly as we exited the elevator and walked down the hall. I knew we were getting close to Lindsay's location as I could hear her voice drawing nearer.  I could hear Lindsay chatting it up with the other EMT's when we entered her room.  They were laughing.  I wasn't surprised as anyone who spends time with Lindsay is bound to become quick friends.

"There's my baby," Lindsay said when I entered the room.  She introduced me to the EMT's by name (I cannot recall the names of those wonderful people--I've always been better with faces).  I thanked all of them for taking good care of Lindsay.  I went to her, grabbed her hand, and took a deep breath.  She asked me about my ride up and  if I got coffee. We slipped into surprisingly normal conversation as we waited for someone to come into the room  to tell us what we were to do now.

Tempestuous Weather pt. 1

On Thursday, March 1st 2012 I woke up to the moans of my wife, Lindsay Hine Schroeder (award-winning artist extraordinaire).  She described to me a pain that started in her upper abdomen and wrapped around to her back.  She said it was like someone was stabbing her with a red hot, searing knife.  The pain was constant.  The pain was not going away.  My wife was 29 weeks 2 days pregnant with our first child.

It was 6am by the time I woke up.  Lindsay informed me that the pain had started around 4:30am and hadn't stopped.  We immediately called our midwife to seek advice.  She suggested that we call our OB, and she asked us to keep her updated of any new information and developments.  Lindsay instructed me to call into her work and tell them that she would be unable to come in today.

By 8:00am I had called her work, and I was waiting for the doctor's office to open.  However, much to all of our delight and surprise, Lindsay's pain suddenly stopped.  Lindsay was exhausted and laid back down to sleep.  I started my day running errands.  I was recently fired from my job (another blog, another time perhaps), and I was following up on job leads, going to the bank, and going about my day as usual.  I returned for lunch, and Lindsay was awake.  We ate lunch, watched some tv, and I left to go to a doctor's appointment.  On my way to the appointment, I called the midwife to update her on our situation.  She was pleased that Lindsay was feeling better.  She suggested that perhaps the root of the problem could be Lindsay's gallbladder--especially considering all of the severe heartburn and acid reflux issues she experienced throughout the pregnancy.

I went to my appointment, and while in the waiting room I called to check in with Lindsay.  She said she was still exhausted.  Lindsay told me that she was going to lay down for a while.  I told her that I would be home soon.  I returned home around 6pm and started dinner.  Since I've been unemployed I've really enjoyed my increased domestic duties (cooking, cleaning, etc.).  It helps ease the time while I check my emails, job websites, and anxiously wait by the phone to hear about job interviews.  I made oven roasted potatoes, lima beans (for Lindsay--I'm not a fan), mac 'n' cheese (for Lindsay--I am a fan, but she specifically requested it), green beans (for me), and sausage (for me--Lindsay's a vegetarian).  Lindsay and I curled up on the couch, ate out dinner, watched 4 episodes of Amazing Stories on Netflix, and had a normal evening.  As usual these days, Lindsay said, "Baby wants some ice cream!"  Baby confirmed this with a kick.  I would put money down that our baby will know the words "ice cream", "sugar", "syrup", and "pancakes" when he makes his debut.  I wouldn't be surprised if his first word came from that list as well.

Lindsay got up, went to the bathroom, and went to the kitchen to start cleaning up.  Suddenly without warning the pain was back.  She returned to the living room and sat down on our couch.  It was the same upper abdominal pain as before.  I rubbed her back to give her any relief that I could.  At this moment, I remembered what the midwife had told me and I relayed the "gallbladder" theory to Lindsay.  In her pain and frustration, she berated me for not telling her sooner.  We went to our computer to look up more information.  Upon finding a website describing a gallbladder attack, Lindsay was convinced that this was the problem.  We immediately called our OB.  Lindsay described her symptoms and informed the doctor that she believed this to be a gallbladder attack.  The doctor said that if she wanted to wait until morning and go to an emergency clinic that would be okay.  However, if the pain got worse or did not stop, she should go to the ER.

Lindsay got off the phone with the doctor, went upstairs, got into bed, and called a friend of hers who recently had her gallbladder taken out.  Lindsay described her symptoms to her friend who agreed that it indeed sounded like her gallbladder.  "Friend" (as they like to call each other) told Lindsay to "go to the hospital.  Even if they can't fix you, they can make you feel better."

Lindsay and I spent the next 10 minutes having a conversation that, more than likely, happens a lot in our country.  Is a potentially expensive ER visit really necessary?  Lindsay, true to her nature, pointed out the ridiculousness of the fact that we were even having this debate with a string of expletives.  I told Lindsay that if she feels that she needs to go to the ER, the debate is over and we will go.

We arrived at Bloomington Hospital at 12am Friday morning.  Lindsay was taken to a room, admitted, hooked up to an IV, and blood was drawn to do labs.  Baby monitors were connected to Lindsay to monitor the baby's heart.  His heartbeat was strong the entire time as it had been throughout the pregnancy.  Lindsay's blood pressure registered at 180/110.  She was in a lot of pain.  Our OB arrived at the hospital, reviewed the labs, and informed us that it was not Lindsay's gallbladder.  It was severe preeclampsia (hypertension and high blood pressure due to pregnancy).  According to the lab results, the pain was stemming from Linday's liver.  Those levels were six times where they should be.  They informed us that an ambulance would be sent from Indianapolis to transport Lindsay as soon as possible to St. Vincent's Women's Hospital.  He said, "I'm not going to sugar coat this.  If you would have waited 4 more hours you might have lost the baby and the mother as well."  The doctor said that there was a good chance that when Lindsay arrived at the hospital, they would deliver the baby by c-section.  My wife burst into tears.  This was NOT part of our birthing plan.  We where scheduled to take birthing classes next month.  Our nursery wasn't completely put together--we needed to make curtains, hang a shelf, paint knobs on the dresser.  Lindsay and I were just discussing that she didn't want to use a birthing tub anymore--she thought that giving birth on our bed might be best.  Emergency c-section at 29 weeks 3 days was NOT part of the plan.  I told Lindsay (and I would repeat this throughout this weekend), "I think part of being a parent is accepting that things don't always go as planned."
I made all the necessary phone calls that I felt were needed.  I called family and friends--I found it pleasantly surprising the number of people who answer their phones at 2am.  I made all of these phone calls in the bathroom in Lindsay's hospital room 10 feet away from her as the nurses prepared Lindsay for transport.  During this time, they gave Lindsay medicine for the pain and a steriod.  They explained that it was the first of two that would be administered.  They said that this steriod would help with our baby's lung development.

I finished my phone calls and entered the room trying to mask my utter fear, dispair, and puffy red eyes.  Lindsay was no longer in pain and appeared relatively calm.  I did my best to reassure her.  I was told by the nursing staff that I would be unable to ride with Lindsay in the abulance since I was not a medical professional and there was not enough room.  They said that the ambulance would be running their lights and sirens all the way up to Indianapolis.  I was instructed not to run the lights with the ambulance, but I could meet them at the hospital.

I told Lindsay that when the transport team came, I would immediately go so I could get to the hospital as quickly as possible.  I planned on going back to our apartment to pack a bag, take care of our cat Momo (a gray manx), and tie up whatever loose ends I could think of.  I spent the rest of time with Lindsay trying to hold it together.  She was much calmer than I was--probably due to the medications, but I couldn't even begin to fathom the idea that this was our new shared reality.

When it was time for transport, Lindsay had stabilized and the baby was doing great.  The EMT's said that they would not be running the lights and sirens since mom and baby were stable.  I kissed Lindsay goodbye.  I told her that I would meet her at the hospital.  I turned to the EMT's and told them, "You take good care of this woman."  I walked out of the room physically and emotionally breaking down with each step.  I passed a young, blonde woman as I got to the elevator.  She smiled at me.  Being the ever polite, cheerful person I always am, I smiled as my tears started to run down my cheeks.