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.
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