Time drifted on with nothing happening.
Why didn't everyone react with rushing around and alarms going off when the water broke? Why weren't they working their asses off to save Charlotte whose sack was still intact and inside? Why wasn't I being rushed from room to room and being knocked out for some sort of surgery that might salvage at least one of them?
I think Dr. Z was there at some point confirming that there was nothing to be done. She had talked to Dr. David Fucking Spade when the water broke and they agreed that it was over. Christina had been infected and because she shared the placenta with Charlotte and the placenta was the source of the infection, there was no way that Charlotte would survive.
Can we at least confirm that Christina is completely gone so I can focus on Charlotte? Please?
And if you think I'm going to accept a phoned in diagnostic, fuck you. If Dr. David Fucking Spade was going to pronounce both of my girls as inevitably dieing, he could at least look at me first. At least pull out the ultrasound and react to what you actually see there rather than just diagnose according to what someone tells you over the phone.
The nurse got the fetal heart monitor and told me for the millionth time that night that since they were still so young, it might not be possible to find a heartbeat even if it's still there. Yes, I understand that, but fucking check anyway! If there's no heartbeat, I can just stop now. And I understand that Christina is gone, I accept that (shit, did I just admit acceptance? No, must not admit, and yet I know she's gone, can't accept, but I know) but at least tell me if Charlotte went with her.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Final Cough
There was about 3 hours where nothing happened as I laid there upside down. Heartbeats are still good. We might all survive this.
K and I discussed how I would probably be on complete and total bedrest from this point out. From the beginning, I had been asking what the odds of that were. And I think everyone interpreted my interest in the subject as me wanting to be a lazy little princess with my every whim catered to. But now I think K finally understood that my desire for it was so I would be completely monitored 24/7 and nothing would happen to the girls that couldn't be fixed.
There was some joking during this time. I could tell that K had been praying. I was raised without specific religion (though a generically Christian values household) and he was raised Catholic but had decided years ago that the god of the Catholic church wasn't really the god for him. So I teased him a little bit about finding God again. And we joked about how K had better keep chapstick in his pockets for the duration of the pregnancy.
***Warning, graphic content ahead***
Then I started realizing that there was a cough coming, and I wasn't going to be able to control how deep it went. I had been asking for a cough suppressant the whole time, but I'm not certain they ever gave me one. Knowing it was coming, I asked either K or the nurse to cup their hand over the sack to prevent it from pushing out when I finally did cough. Obviously, it was up to the nurse to do that and thank everything that it wasn't K. I'm so glad he does not have the tactile memory of what followed.
I held back as long as I could, to the point that I was choking. And then I coughed.
There was a very loud *pop* and I felt the sack explode on my right thigh and fluid everywhere. And I felt the nurses hand jerk away. Just to be clear and to understand that she did exactly what I asked her to do, her hand jerked microseconds AFTER the pop.
And I started screaming "That was it! That was the point of no return! I just killed our babies!" And I just kept screaming variations of those three thoughts as everyone was suddenly in my face trying to convince me that I didn't do anything. K was crying and he and the nurse were both holding me tight and trying to tell me how the cough didn't do anything. The sack was so thin that if that little amount of pressure could pop it, there's no way it would have remained in tact no matter how still I had been.
It hadn't even occurred to me that my water would break. I was thinking that it would push completely out of my body. So the shock of it bursting just hit me. Hit isn't a strong enough word. Punched? Sledgehammered? No word is strong enough for the impact of that shock.
There's brain knowledge, and there's emotional knowledge. My brain understands that there was nothing I could do to prevent my water breaking at some point during that night. But my emotional knowledge keeps countering that argument with no matter how much you examine it and look at it, it burst in response to a physical action that I didn't have enough willpower to stop.
And my mind just kept seeing my little girl slowly choking to death as her fluid drained away. And there was nothing we could do about it, we just had to know it was happening. Even with my lack of medical knowledge, I was fully aware of the fact that there was no magical procedure that could create a new sack for her to live in.
And just to make it worse, I identified the dieing twin as Christina. For some reason, I imagine Charlotte as the big sister, and Christina as the little sister. I know they are just arbitrary names and they weren't even assigned to a specific baby yet, but for some fucking reason, it wasn't Twin A that was lost and Twin B still in a sack, it was Christina that was lost and Charlotte still inside.
And then it all got calm again. We cried, but nothing else was happening. I wasn't in any pain, I was actually physically very comfortable. And that just made it even worse. If she was slowly dieing, why couldn't I at least suffer along with her?
The nurse examined the fluid and told me that there were green specs in it. This told her that the baby had already been responding to the infection and had pooped in the water. I don't remember at what point I had been told that this was all due to an infection. The fact that Christina had pooped in her water meant that she had been inevitably lost for quite some time. Hours? Days? We don't know.
K and I discussed how I would probably be on complete and total bedrest from this point out. From the beginning, I had been asking what the odds of that were. And I think everyone interpreted my interest in the subject as me wanting to be a lazy little princess with my every whim catered to. But now I think K finally understood that my desire for it was so I would be completely monitored 24/7 and nothing would happen to the girls that couldn't be fixed.
There was some joking during this time. I could tell that K had been praying. I was raised without specific religion (though a generically Christian values household) and he was raised Catholic but had decided years ago that the god of the Catholic church wasn't really the god for him. So I teased him a little bit about finding God again. And we joked about how K had better keep chapstick in his pockets for the duration of the pregnancy.
***Warning, graphic content ahead***
Then I started realizing that there was a cough coming, and I wasn't going to be able to control how deep it went. I had been asking for a cough suppressant the whole time, but I'm not certain they ever gave me one. Knowing it was coming, I asked either K or the nurse to cup their hand over the sack to prevent it from pushing out when I finally did cough. Obviously, it was up to the nurse to do that and thank everything that it wasn't K. I'm so glad he does not have the tactile memory of what followed.
I held back as long as I could, to the point that I was choking. And then I coughed.
There was a very loud *pop* and I felt the sack explode on my right thigh and fluid everywhere. And I felt the nurses hand jerk away. Just to be clear and to understand that she did exactly what I asked her to do, her hand jerked microseconds AFTER the pop.
And I started screaming "That was it! That was the point of no return! I just killed our babies!" And I just kept screaming variations of those three thoughts as everyone was suddenly in my face trying to convince me that I didn't do anything. K was crying and he and the nurse were both holding me tight and trying to tell me how the cough didn't do anything. The sack was so thin that if that little amount of pressure could pop it, there's no way it would have remained in tact no matter how still I had been.
It hadn't even occurred to me that my water would break. I was thinking that it would push completely out of my body. So the shock of it bursting just hit me. Hit isn't a strong enough word. Punched? Sledgehammered? No word is strong enough for the impact of that shock.
There's brain knowledge, and there's emotional knowledge. My brain understands that there was nothing I could do to prevent my water breaking at some point during that night. But my emotional knowledge keeps countering that argument with no matter how much you examine it and look at it, it burst in response to a physical action that I didn't have enough willpower to stop.
And my mind just kept seeing my little girl slowly choking to death as her fluid drained away. And there was nothing we could do about it, we just had to know it was happening. Even with my lack of medical knowledge, I was fully aware of the fact that there was no magical procedure that could create a new sack for her to live in.
And just to make it worse, I identified the dieing twin as Christina. For some reason, I imagine Charlotte as the big sister, and Christina as the little sister. I know they are just arbitrary names and they weren't even assigned to a specific baby yet, but for some fucking reason, it wasn't Twin A that was lost and Twin B still in a sack, it was Christina that was lost and Charlotte still inside.
And then it all got calm again. We cried, but nothing else was happening. I wasn't in any pain, I was actually physically very comfortable. And that just made it even worse. If she was slowly dieing, why couldn't I at least suffer along with her?
The nurse examined the fluid and told me that there were green specs in it. This told her that the baby had already been responding to the infection and had pooped in the water. I don't remember at what point I had been told that this was all due to an infection. The fact that Christina had pooped in her water meant that she had been inevitably lost for quite some time. Hours? Days? We don't know.
The stupid things that occur to you
The last several posts cover about an hour, hour and a half. And during that time, you'd think that I'd be so focused on the bigger picture of the trauma that was occurring that nothing else would be in my brain.
But wow, the stupid things you think of under duress!
I'm obsessed with chapstick/blistex. I keep it on my desk, in my purse, it's everywhere. And throughout this whole ordeal, I keep requesting my fucking chapstick. Like every 2 minutes, K has to hand it over to me.
It's so dry, but they'll only let me have ice chips. Good lord I don't want ice chips, that's what women in labor get and I don't want to be in labor so I don't want to have to accept the damned ice chips.
I'm wearing my favorite jammies. I love these jammies. My most comfortable flannel pants that my mom made me and my most comfortable nightgown. Will I ever be able to wear them again without associating them with this? I don't want to have to throw these jammies out to save my mental health later.
It's too bright, can I have a wet washcloth over my eyes? My eyes are so light sensitive, we had even asked my doctor in my last appointment if I could wear sunglasses in the OR when I delivered because my eyes just hate light. Probably all of those years of working backstage in theater.
There's a total bitch out there who said I shouldn't be a mother and it kills me that she might have the opportunity to gloat.
I don't think K is going to work in the morning, he should probably text his boss.
No matter what happens, don't tell my mother until it's over. I can't handle trying to not be in pain to save her from sympathy pain.
Poor K was already half asleep when this all started. He must be exhausted now.
Wow is our sex life over. Those cramps that an orgasm creates, so not going to risk that again. Sorry Hon, you're on your own for a few months.
The doctor that was here for most of this, what the fuck was her name? Zillerman? Zimmerman?
I tend to swear like a sailor in my daily conversation, I'm surprised only one or two shits or fucks have escaped my lips while in all this pain.
Well, I guess this was an interesting rehearsal. I now know I'll survive the pain I suppose. I was trying to avoid thinking about that, but at least now I have a clue as to what I'm in store for. That's a good thing?
But wow, the stupid things you think of under duress!
I'm obsessed with chapstick/blistex. I keep it on my desk, in my purse, it's everywhere. And throughout this whole ordeal, I keep requesting my fucking chapstick. Like every 2 minutes, K has to hand it over to me.
It's so dry, but they'll only let me have ice chips. Good lord I don't want ice chips, that's what women in labor get and I don't want to be in labor so I don't want to have to accept the damned ice chips.
I'm wearing my favorite jammies. I love these jammies. My most comfortable flannel pants that my mom made me and my most comfortable nightgown. Will I ever be able to wear them again without associating them with this? I don't want to have to throw these jammies out to save my mental health later.
It's too bright, can I have a wet washcloth over my eyes? My eyes are so light sensitive, we had even asked my doctor in my last appointment if I could wear sunglasses in the OR when I delivered because my eyes just hate light. Probably all of those years of working backstage in theater.
There's a total bitch out there who said I shouldn't be a mother and it kills me that she might have the opportunity to gloat.
I don't think K is going to work in the morning, he should probably text his boss.
No matter what happens, don't tell my mother until it's over. I can't handle trying to not be in pain to save her from sympathy pain.
Poor K was already half asleep when this all started. He must be exhausted now.
Wow is our sex life over. Those cramps that an orgasm creates, so not going to risk that again. Sorry Hon, you're on your own for a few months.
The doctor that was here for most of this, what the fuck was her name? Zillerman? Zimmerman?
I tend to swear like a sailor in my daily conversation, I'm surprised only one or two shits or fucks have escaped my lips while in all this pain.
Well, I guess this was an interesting rehearsal. I now know I'll survive the pain I suppose. I was trying to avoid thinking about that, but at least now I have a clue as to what I'm in store for. That's a good thing?
Both here and gone
There are still 2 heartbeats. I hear the number 136. They are still alive and "well". And yet they're not. But they really, really want to be and refuse to display signs of anything else. Oh god that makes this so much harder. I desperately want it to be true that they are ok, and yet I'm also wishing that they could already be gone so I don't have to experience this in real time. I just want this to be over one way or the other and they won't let it be.
And it's agony to wish them both dead and alive at the same time. How can I possibly wish them to be gone? How selfish is it to wish that I could just be told it's over rather than to have to go through the experience of desperately trying to keep them alive and ultimately failing?
I'm still in somewhat heavy labor at this point. And I'm thinking if I can't hold them in, they will die. But if I can hold them in, there's still hope. And oh my god how I despise hope. And no matter how much everyone is trying to say it's not my fault, I might have to experience my body killing my girls.
If they were DOA when I got to the hospital, I wouldn't have to experience the hope. I wouldn't have to experience the moment of failure.
The nurse/doctor/I don't know who is there, is asking me how I deal with stress and pain so I can do that (since I won't do the Lamaze breathing to calm me down) and I tell them that I'm doing it, I narrate. I don't know what information is relevant to a doctor and since I'm the only person who can convey the physical sensations, I just keep narrating so that no relevant little detail is missed. That's the pragmatic side of me. Do everything I can to be of assistance to those who are attempting to assist me.
I've always been the person that you want around in an emergency. I've experienced emergencies on another persons behalf and no matter how scared or stressed I was in the situation, I'm able to think pretty clearly, get done what needs to get done, and get the person through it. I tend to freak out and panic after the actual emergency is over and it's safe to do so. And I'm doing my best to be that same person now on my own behalf.
But the downside to this coping strategy is that K has to listen to it. I don't want him to know how much pain I'm in but the doctors need to know so I need to say so. Which means he not only had to watch what was happening, but he had to listen to it being described in minute detail, all while having no ability to do anything about it. And the whole time, I know that I'm inflicting this on him and I don't want to do that. But I have no choice. So now I'm hurting and I'm hurting him in the process. K is a protector, a fixer. Every instinct he has is to make it better, and I know full well that there's not a damned thing he can do. And that's his personal hell through all of this, and I'm actively inflicting it on him.
I'm given a shot in the arm of something that is supposed to stop the contractions. What I had felt in my vaginal canal and my fingers is one of the sacks. It has been trying to push itself out of my body. And I'm still coughing in my throat and trying not to allow that cough into my abdomen.
The shot begins to take effect and there are a couple more sets of contractions but they get progressively lighter and more tolerable. They finally stop altogether. I'm on a bed, reclined backwards in an attempt to allow gravity to gently pull the sack back into my body.
And now we wait.
And it's agony to wish them both dead and alive at the same time. How can I possibly wish them to be gone? How selfish is it to wish that I could just be told it's over rather than to have to go through the experience of desperately trying to keep them alive and ultimately failing?
I'm still in somewhat heavy labor at this point. And I'm thinking if I can't hold them in, they will die. But if I can hold them in, there's still hope. And oh my god how I despise hope. And no matter how much everyone is trying to say it's not my fault, I might have to experience my body killing my girls.
If they were DOA when I got to the hospital, I wouldn't have to experience the hope. I wouldn't have to experience the moment of failure.
The nurse/doctor/I don't know who is there, is asking me how I deal with stress and pain so I can do that (since I won't do the Lamaze breathing to calm me down) and I tell them that I'm doing it, I narrate. I don't know what information is relevant to a doctor and since I'm the only person who can convey the physical sensations, I just keep narrating so that no relevant little detail is missed. That's the pragmatic side of me. Do everything I can to be of assistance to those who are attempting to assist me.
I've always been the person that you want around in an emergency. I've experienced emergencies on another persons behalf and no matter how scared or stressed I was in the situation, I'm able to think pretty clearly, get done what needs to get done, and get the person through it. I tend to freak out and panic after the actual emergency is over and it's safe to do so. And I'm doing my best to be that same person now on my own behalf.
But the downside to this coping strategy is that K has to listen to it. I don't want him to know how much pain I'm in but the doctors need to know so I need to say so. Which means he not only had to watch what was happening, but he had to listen to it being described in minute detail, all while having no ability to do anything about it. And the whole time, I know that I'm inflicting this on him and I don't want to do that. But I have no choice. So now I'm hurting and I'm hurting him in the process. K is a protector, a fixer. Every instinct he has is to make it better, and I know full well that there's not a damned thing he can do. And that's his personal hell through all of this, and I'm actively inflicting it on him.
I'm given a shot in the arm of something that is supposed to stop the contractions. What I had felt in my vaginal canal and my fingers is one of the sacks. It has been trying to push itself out of my body. And I'm still coughing in my throat and trying not to allow that cough into my abdomen.
The shot begins to take effect and there are a couple more sets of contractions but they get progressively lighter and more tolerable. They finally stop altogether. I'm on a bed, reclined backwards in an attempt to allow gravity to gently pull the sack back into my body.
And now we wait.
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