I’ve never told my story about Simon’s birth. I’ve wanted to – don’t get me wrong – but it seemed so inconsequential in light of the fact that my little miracle was all wired up at the NICU, waiting patiently to be allowed to eat by mouth, waiting patiently for his mom to get better, waiting patiently for his homecoming. My story or experience seemed so trivial in comparison to that of our tiny son who endured constant hunger for 14 straight days, several PICC lines, and IVs through his head while he slept in a plastic bin.
Many internets who are loyal to my site have been pregnant these past few months; a few of them have/had some health issues which could lead them to a situation of a general anesthesia C-section and I felt it just plain wrong to belabor any negative points about my experience – let’s face it, when you’re pregnant you’re nervous and emotional…there’s just no need to be exposed to any childbirth horror stories which will send your pregnancy alert level deep into red territory. There’s truly no need.
Thankfully, these women are home with their healthy babes now. Galloping Cat mentioned as recently as last week that a general anesthesia C-section was a possibility for her (links forthcoming). Now that she’s safely off to the hospital to witness her own story unfold, I feel it’s okay to talk about what really went down when I was admitted to give birth to my son.
It’s taken me months to piece things together – to understand chronologically what took place and what really happened to me and how critical the whole thing really was. Mind you, I’m not trying to frighten anyone (especially you PNH moms to be) nor am I trying to get all Lance on you. Rather, from a mental health standpoint, it’s a cathartic exercise in helping me to process what really went down. I need to do this as the question of whether or not Simon will be blessed with a sibling has been weighing on my mind as of late. A 40-year old infertile simply does not have the luxury of letting these kinds of things percolate too long. If I’m to take action, I’ll need to do it relatively soon.
I suppose I’ll start by describing that first week of hospital bedrest. “Rest” is a misnomer for sitting in a bed in a hospital room all day. There is nothing, nothing at all restful about it. When in a hospital, especially a world-class ivy-league teaching and research hospital, there are fellows and interns and residents and attendings who are all very interested in what’s going on with you and include you in their rounds sometimes up to 3 times a day. Because I was a freak of medical science, I was entertaining troops sent in from both OB and Hematology/Oncology. Because I was expected to have a preemie, I had social workers and NICU docs visiting constantly. Because I was expected to have a general anesthesia C-section, I had several visits from anesthesiologists. Nurses took my vitals and put the doppler on my belly 4 times a day and twice in the overnight. Because I was transitioning from Lovenox shots to a heparin drop, my blood was checked up to 6 times a day. A quiet stretch of 15 minutes was an absolute luxury.
I had a room in the OB wing where mothers with complications were situated. Sal was in Amsterdam on business the day Dr. High Risk threw in the towel and told me he’d reserved a bed for me upstairs. My Mom and Dad dropped me off that night. I was nervous as I was 32 weeks 3 days prego. My incessant googling had filled me in on plenty of scary NICU stories for babes who were that far along gestationally. All I cared about was keeping my blood pressure down and letting Simon bake as long as possible...I prayed my preemie would be okay. I made my room as comfortable as possible and tried my hardest to relax. It wasn’t easy. By day 3 I had become completely irritated by my new best friend, my IV pole, who came with me everywhere.
At the time, no one knew for sure when I’d have the baby. Dr. High Risk, the OB, was in favor of more roasting time; Dr. Cutting Edge, my hem/onc, was definitely crowing that he should come out and soon. While they both debated the risks for Simon and me, I was growing impatient. One thing we all agreed upon: Simon would not be allowed to incubate longer than 34 weeks. If I remained stable until that time, no matter what, they were going in. I, on the other hand, was holding out hope for 35 or even 36 weeks. I just didn’t want my babe in the NICU. I was resigned to doing whatever I needed.
To this day we know I did not have preeclampsia, despite having presented with most of the symptoms. Medically I was considered unique in that my body makes a protein that could stave it off. As such, I agreed to participate in a clinical trial that Dr. High Risk was heading. For me, it entailed some questions, a release, and a donation of some blood. If studying my protein was going to help save the lives of women and babies, then hell yeah, take all the blood you want. For a diseased person like me, being able to help like that felt really good.
My mom and dad, who had been visiting from 3 states away for close to two weeks, decided to head back home until they knew Simon was definitely coming. My dad had a stroke 2+ years ago and for him to be away from home for that long a period of time was very stressful on him. The plan was for my mom to head back here on her own when the boy was to make his appearance. I remember the look on her face before she left- she was torn, that’s for sure. I urged her to go; there was not much to do here but visit and wait, and by that time Sal had returned and I was getting fairly ornery and, with each passing day, quiet and more unsocial.
On Day 4, the day after my mom left, my morning bloodwork showed a disturbing trend: plummeting platelets. Anyone who’s experienced HELLP (a very dangerous and urgent condition for both mom and baby) during pregnancy has had the unique experience of what it feels like to endure a severe episode of PNH. Since the symptoms of PNH and HELLP are so alike, the question was: which is it? I assured all who would listen that I felt fine. Dr. Cutting Edge was called in and admitted to me he was pretty unhappy with that turn of events. Because we couldn’t be sure it was just the PNH talking, we’d have to assume a little HELLP was developing. Tomorrow morning, for sure, would be my C-section…to wait longer was just too risky.
Deflated and anxious, I was cut off from food at midnight in preparation for the next day’s surgery. Sal and I furiously finished off the last of the thank-you notes for our shower gifts. We made our phone calls and lay in bed together taking pictures of ourselves. Sal talked to my belly as we gave each other pep talks on Simon’s health and wondered what the NICU would be like. I barely slept that night.
That next morning, as every morning at 5 am, Roman, the unhappy Ukrainian phlebotomist, came in to my room to draw my blood. Roman remarked that the weather in New England is always terrible – either too hot or too cold or windy or rainy or snowy. I note that Roman is always frowning and make a secret vow to make him laugh before I leave.
At 9:30, a half hour before my scheduled surgery, one of the nurses bolted into my room. “They’re up!” she exclaimed. 110!!! Your platelets bounced back!! You won’t need the C-section today!
I sobbed with relief as I called my mom. Sal shook his head, unsure what to feel. I demanded breakfast and happily reclined to watch television. I could eat, I could get up. More importantly, Simon would get another day to cook, and using the 1 day in the womb = 3 days in the NICU comparison, I was thankful for every hour I could keep him in there.
The next day, my platelets dove again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Dr. High Risk had finally had it. Dr. Cutting Edge was naming white hairs on his head after me. He throws the gauntlet and announces that on Tuesday, 7 days into my stay, no matter what happened , Simon would make his appearance,
I spent my time waiting, anxious, scared, but hopeful.
On June 16th, at 12:45 PM, 15 minutes before surgery, I hopped on a stretcher with Sal at my side.
We headed up to labor and delivery, where by now I’m just begging shamelessly for something to cut the edge off my anxiety. I get a new IV line (now I have two) and do one final pee before the catheter insertion (yuck, ick, and OUCH, btw). I’m physically shaking in pre-op but am told I would be under shortly. I know there are other patients like me behind curtains across the room but am barely aware of them. My nurse is proficient but more about brass tacks than making me feel assured. It dawns on me that no really, I COULD BLEED OUT, and I may not come back. Surgery and heparin are just not a good mix. Because the PNH predisposes me to clots, especially during pregnancy, for my own health I have to remain on anti-coagulants. An epidural is just not an option as I could hemorrhage into my spinal canal, causing paralysis. Docs come in and out, 3 from anesthesia. They’re part of the “dream team” assembled weeks ago to handle my surgery. One man with grey hair, the one I assume is in charge, tells me there isn’t any contingency they have not planned for. Hearing that helps a bit.
After 45 minutes more or so, the nurse takes my eyeglasses off, and tells me “This is it.”
I kiss Sal goodbye and feel overcome by a palpable sense of doom. Where was Dr. High Risk? I need to see him – I need him to tell me everything was going to be okay. I remember being introduced to a NICU doctor, who evidently was there to stabilize Simon should the need arise. As I’m placed on the operating table, my shaking is now apparently interrupting normal prep. One of the younger OB fellows takes my hand and urges me to try to relax. I feel Simon kicking like crazy inside me, feeling the effects of the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Prep seemed to take forever, with doctors with masks on hovering and talking about me but not TO me. I keep asking when I’m going to be put out, anxious to be done with it all already. I’m repeatedly assured soon…soon. I’m trembling with fear and cold and the table is hard underneath me. I’m trying to count how many people are in the room and I can’t keep up.
Dr. High Risk peers over me. “Hi Dana, I’m here,” he says through his mask. “When you wake up, you’ll get to see your beautiful baby.”
The anesthesia team is talking in heavy jargon. They are clearly taking my situation very very seriously, leaving no stone unturned. This should reassure me but instead reminds me of the danger I’m in.
Finally, freezing cold and scared beyond words, with Simon and me shaking so very hard, the young anesthesia guy puts on my mask and checks my oxygen. They keep talking, and I’m not sure if they understand that I’M STILL AWAKE. I’M STILL AWAKE I realize I’m yelling into the mask.
“We know,” the one says to me. “We’re going to put you to sleep through your IV.” And with that, another pushed the syringe into my arm, and I fell, fighting uneasily into the quiet blackness of unconsciousness, where there are no dreams nor thought nor sense of time. I lift my head in defiance before I fade completely away.
A minute later I was awake. Or was it a minute? I didn’t care. I didn’t care because someone was pushing down the oxygen mask on my face really hard, and I was very aware and not confused at all and knew the searing, burning, unbelievably intense pain in my belly was from a completed C-section and my first thought was not for my child but rather OH MY GOD I WOKE UP TOO EARLY FROM THE ANESTHESIA. And I’m screaming bloody murder into the mask, only to be ignored by the masked doctor above me. I know I’m on a stretcher and we’re rolling down a hallway, fast. I’m screaming, but hearing that my voice is weak and hoarse (was I intubated?), I am convinced the doctors have no idea. With all the strength I can muster I push away the hand that held the mask and screamed to the masked man above THISFUCKINGHURTSWHAT’SHAPPENING TOMEPLEASEPLEASEWHYDOESTHISHURTMMMMMPPPPH.
The masked doctor clamped down the oxygen on my face again, hard. Now all I can do is kick, but this sent a galaxy of hurt to my midsection which eradicates any ability to do anything but experience the agony. Before I can process what to do next, I feel hands clamp down on my legs. Suddenly things look lighter, and I’m in a new room. I’m still screaming, trying to catch my breath despite the ample oxygen, and wondering when the fuck will this pain go away because though I know I’m not dying I certainly wouldn’t mind it at this point because this is just beyond all comprehension. We finally stop moving and PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEHELPME I’m screaming as I feel hands under me. I hear a male voice urgently telling someone IN HER IV NOW NOW NOW DILAUDID FIRST.
The room became even lighter, and I don’t know how much longer I continued screaming but I remember thinking I’M GONNA WRITE A LETTER ABOUT THIS as the morphine slowly muddled the unrelenting chainsaw massacre that was my lower midsection. Fade to black once more.
At some point Sal showed me a pic of Simon. He’s doing great. That’s good, I think.
At another point I am on a stretcher again, motoring down hospital hallways. The OR nurse is smiling at me. “We’re taking you to see your son,” she says. Oh shit, the NICU. I’m too confused, too out of it to truly understand what’s going on. I remember a plastic isolette, I remember ultraviolet light on a tiny red body. Oh shit he’s not good. I must have had little to no reaction because I was promptly wheeled away. I remember mumbling “I love you Simon.”
I wake up again and I’m back in my room. Our friend Liz is there, perhaps my MIL, and I know Sal is there. They’re showing me pictures and assuring me that Simon really is okay. It’s like 7 at night? I’m comfy and sleepy and happy. I made it. The baby will make it. We did it. It’s all gets good from here. I remember holding Liz’s hand, so happy that she was there sharing in our miracle.
After that, things get really cloudy. My days morph into an unending stream of IV changes and blood draws and new nurses.
The next night, a NICU nurse, Sara, wheels Simon’s isolette into my room. She unhooks some of his wires and I’m bursting with joy as she places his tiny bundled body into my arms. I can’t believe I’m seeing my son. I can’t believe this beautiful being fit inside my body. I can’t believe he’s going to be ok.
Was it the day after? Or two days after? I’m feeling pain again. And not good pain…this time it’s all over, from my shoulders on down. Despite it, I’m clumsily trying to breastpump as my milk had come in and it was dripping all over. My mother is calling, and I don’t know what to tell her because she’s saying I don’t sound good and I don’t really realize why or that I was on a downward slide at all. I remember the nurse telling me my bp was 155/110. I remember her asking if I could get up. I remember trying and hearing the ringing in my ears and blacking out. I remember spitting up frothy white stuff, the pain in my shoulders and chest. I remember warnings about my saturation and that I needed to start walking around if I was to start to recover more quickly and knew there was no way that could happen. I remember the nurse telling me I looked like a ghost.
At some point, Heather, Dr. Cutting Edge’s fellow who researches PNH came in to check on me. Evidently she was horrified by what she saw. She left the room and very soon there were a lot of people there, including Dr. Cutting Edge and Dr. High Risk. Now I’m realizing that I’ve been arching my back and moaning in pain and scaring the pants off everyone. Someone mentioned my hematocrit was a 17. One of the doctors touched me and it set off an episode of incredible pain throughout my entire middle. I remember asking Dr. Cutting Edge if he was worried. He said “I’m very worried about you.”
The people all left for a conference in the hallway. All I knew is that I needed more dilaudid. I don’t remember much else other than a CT scan. They put me back on a drip again. That and I was back on a second IV, this one bright red – I was getting transfused. Two nurses were with me now.
Dr. Cutting Edge is back. “We’re going to send you to see a very good team (something like surgical radiology?). I know Drs. So and So there very well. They’re going to go in and see what’s going on in your uterus.”
“We’re going to transfer you to ICU Dana,” says Dr. High Risk.
“But I need a tv,” I remember saying.
“But you’re not watching it,” he says.
“No, no, I can’t go there..”
He squeezes my hand and tells me gently, “Okay.” Before he leaves, he looks back and tells me that he can’t rule it out in the near future, and for now I could stay in my room.
I wake up (day, night? What day is it?). Despite the heparin, I’m told, I clotted in my stomach muscles. While that was going on, my uterus hemorrhaged. I required 7 units of blood and would get two more to bring my counts up from the danger levels.
I get wheeled down to the surgical radiologists and they won’t let Sal stay with me. I remember crying.
These docs tell me nothing. While I wait to find out when they’re going to start, they tell me the catheter was already in. I remember being on that hard cold table for what seemed like hours, unsure what was happening, unsure what they were looking for or even doing. I keep pressing my dilaudid pump, becoming more relaxed but very aware that if I do not pump, the pain will return and I did NOT want that to happen. I may have slept too. I just don’t remember.
I’m back in my room. alone except for the nurses. I have pulmonary edema. I need to get my saturation up or I’ve got a date with the ICU. When they come check my vitals, I am ultra vigilant about my breathing to get my sat level up. It works, at least temporarily. I get it in my head that I’ve got to keep coughing to keep my lungs clear so I don’t go to ICU. If I go to ICU, it means I may not make it, and that’s just not an option.
The next day (a few days later?) my counts showed improvement. Another CT scan showed the surgical radiology people did a great job in cleaning me up. The clot looks to be resolving on its own. When your uterus hemorrhages it oozes – there are no major veins/arteries to clamp to control the bleed. Hence the hours I spent on the ablation table…it must have been arduous work.
Dr. High Risk visits. My incision isn’t healing correctly. He needs to come by and cut it open again.
My.
God.
He comes, tells me to press my dilaudid button while the nurse tells me to squeeze her hand. He does it bedside. I remember it to be anti-climactic – it was painful, yes, but compared to days past t’was nothing. He packed it with dressing which would need to be changed daily. THAT part sucked to holy hell.
“Dana, if your fever doesn’t start to go down I’m going to have to put a cold blanket on you.”
Shit. Like I can help it. 102.9.
Evidently I stopped talking altogether which scared Dorcie, one of my overnight nurses. Problem: Tylenol was not controlling my fever. I was soaking my sheets and alternating between unbearable heat and bonenumbing chills. I was refused more frequent Tylenol dosage out of concern for my liver, which was already compromised because of my PNH. I attempt to negotiate with the attending, assuring her Dr. Cutting Edge would allow it, but she won’t budge. My days and nights run into each other but they truly don’t matter as now all I know are my cycles of hot and cold and –yes- still trying to breastpump once a day and get permission for someone to wheel me up to go see Simon during the one hour that the Tylenol actually works. I eventually convince Dr. Cutting Edge to override the OB team and allow a higher dosage. It doesn’t eradicate my fevers, but at least allows me more time between them.
Sal blows up a digital picture of Simon and hangs it on the wall in my room directly in front of my bed. “There’s your incentive to feel better,” he says.
One day a young woman in a white coat peeks in and says "I'm going to come back in a few minutes and palpate your stomach."
"Who are you?" I ask, panicked that someone else is going to cause me untold minutes of pain.
"I'm a medical student," she answers. I look at my nurse and no words need to be said.
"Don't worry," my nurse tells me as the student leaves. "She has no chance in hell of coming in here...I'll take care of her."
Infectious Disease is called in. I hope perhaps I’ll meet a Dr.House but instead meet a nerdy William H. Macy type and his team of young nerdy fellows. I’m asked a slew of questions about my medical history while they check my charts and my incision. These Harvard brainiacs may be the best in the world but some of them paid for their clinical ability with people skills. One idiot unapologetically rips off an entire line of my pubic hair a half inch wide as he removes the bandage from my incision. I’m reduced to tears by the indignity and the pain. I’m getting weary.
I’m given oral antibiotics which do absolutely nothing. My fevers are more frequent and more severe. I hit 104 and they start hooking up the big-gun IV cocktails. The blood that remained in my abdominal cavity had become infected. Days continue going by.
The catheter is finally removed as I now have a raging UTI. I'm forced to get up and stumble into the bathroom every time I have to pee. Did I mention I was on a 24 hour saline drip?
As this all goes on, daily I’ll meet an OB staffer who is not familiar with my situation who will come into my room to talk about breastfeeding…or why I should keep pumping…or can I attend breast class on the 9th floor on Tuesday? Knock knock – who is it?? ( I’m exasperated by people entering my room every minute). It’s the New Mom Cart, the roving vendor selling all things breastfeeding. Thankfully, the social worker shushes her away.
The next day it’s a girl selling birth photos. “Her BABY IS IN THE NICU,” my nurse admonishes her. I’m grateful when my nurse team finally puts up a sign outside my door which reads in stern, bold, green letters:
NO VISITORS. FOR PERMISSION TO ENTER PLEASE INQUIRE AT NURSE’S STATION.
Gentimycin, cyclosomething, vancomycin…, I don’t remember a third of the names of the drugs that were pumped into me. They are tried in different variations and aren’t working. One night, Dorcie comes in and hooks up some Flagyl. For some reason, I tell her, that’s the one.
I don’t recall when my oxygen tube was put away, nor when the dilaudid pump was removed from my room again. I do remember being relieved that my nose had finally stopped bleeding every morning and that my nostrils were finally free of the stalactites of dried blood.
My MIL doesn’t handle change well. She’s a nervous nelly to begin with. To have her only grandchild in the NICU and me not doing so well kind of sent her over the edge. She visited the hospital daily (never acknowledged the sign on the door), but could not understand the medical jargon nor figure out what was going on with either Simon or me. She began to look to me for explanations, and I was too sick to help. Grandparents are not allowed to enter the NICU unless they are accompanied by a parent. Since Sal was working and trying to take care of literally everything, there were only small windows of time each day when he himself could visit me and Simon. His parents began to pressure me to make a schedule to facilitate them being able to visit him. They’d show up to my room and sit there all day waiting for a moment to go upstairs. Obviously, I was dying for my own moment with Simon…I was too sick to even visit on my own. By this point they had seen him more than me. Frustrated with Sal’s seeming unavailability, they began lashing out at me. I’m certain had they truly understood what we were going through they would have acted differently. But they didn’t, and their behavior was noted by Dr. High Risk and a few of my nurses, who made direct suggestions that I tell my inlaws to curtail their visits. The problem was compounded when my mom came back. I was so relieved to have her there, to advocate for me and protect me and keep people from leaning on me – my inlaws felt even more excluded, and it took a long time to get them to understand we had little control over what was going on. The hard feelings lasted for a while.
Back to the Flagyl - it actually works but does nothing to restore my appetite. I could not stand the smell of hospital food and every day would ask the food service people to please stop bringing it to me. I had long stopped completing menu requests as the thought of eating repulsed me. The fever and the antibiotics together created a powerful aversion to food- so powerful that other than a few peaches and a brownie, I didn’t eat for 8 days.
I finally poop however, and am demonstrating that I can get up from my bed and sit up in my wheelchair for stretches of time. I’m allowed and even encouraged to go visit Simon alone with Sal. Dr. High Risk starts talking discharge and oral antibiotics.
I’m so weary of pain and fever that I’m afraid to transition to taking the drugs by mouth, lest it triggers a setback.
And so I get a PICC line installed so that I can administer my medications at home. A visiting nurse is set up and 3 weeks to the day I was admitted, I’m released.
It is this very day I learn of Simon’s intestinal bleeding and the potential for a very dangerous nec infection which will require 2 weeks of IV feeding to rest his stomach.
As we packed up I got teary. My mother, anxious to finally get me home, looked at me incredulously:
“What are you, institutionalized?”
I suppose I was. I was going to miss Dorcie and Melissa. I was also traumatized and weak and overwhelmed with anxious thoughts about my baby upstairs. My arms were purple from the dozens of IVs. My muscles were so weak I needed help to use the bathroom. Walking was slow and arduous and often painful.
After a quick visit with Simon, Mom assisted me as I hobbled out of my wheelchair into the warm Boston summer air.
After finally arriving home after navigating the city's pothole-ridden byways (each bump sent me writhing in pain), we met with my home nurse to learn about managing IVs and administering medications. I may have been home but I had a while to go before I would be feeling better. I was still sweating at night and popping oral dilaudid. A nurse came every day to change my wound dressing and check my vitals. I was exhausted and in pain and very anxious about my son. As I couldn’t do stairs, I slept in a twin bed set up in our living room. Sal spent most of his time working and at the NICU. My mom spent most of her time pleading with me to eat something. A step on the scale revealed I had lost 37 pounds- 25 of pregnancy weight plus 12 more. I was beginning to look gaunt.
I still kept breastpumping, though very sporadically, vowing to give Simon another food option should he need it once his 2 week rest period was up. Despite all I had been through, it was still all about him. It was a struggle to get to the NICU for my short visits. I would become very tired very easily and was very weak. I was still sweating at night and suffering from a c-dif infection – the heavy antibiotics wiped out the natural flora in my intestines, and I’d wake up in the middle of the night moaning in pain, popping dilaudid like candy. 3 days after I stopped the IV antibiotics, the fever returned. My incision still hurt whenever I moved. I went back on antibiotics, this time oral. Again, my appetite was depleted. I was weak and malnourished. I felt I might never get better. It was a long, long recovery.
Simon finally came home July 17th, one month and one day after he was born. His presence quickly made me forget my physical pains…the adrenaline and joy of having him with us superceded my physical need to rest and before I knew it, his world encompassed mine. The love he radiated made me forget the details of the past month – even the past 3 years. I felt lucky and blessed and thanked God we were both home. And I healed. And I started feeling better than ever. I was and am still convinced that Simon was worth every setback and every discomfort. For him, I would do it again. And again.
As days passed, people would comment on “how great you look,” citing, “I can’t believe you had a baby 2 months ago.” Sure, some were probably just being sweet but just how does one explain? Do I really need to tell people that 15 days of fever is a surefire way to lose all of your pregnancy weight and then some? I think not. I just let them think I have great metabolism.
People love to stop and talk about Simon (people love babies in general). Babies, like dogs, are great conversation starters and as a result, I often find myself chatting with very nice strangers about infants and motherhood in general. When the topic of having another child is inevitably brought up, I’ll usually say “we’re not sure yet,” or “if we’re blessed.”
“Don’t let him be an only child!” they’ll scold me.
“We had a hard time having Simon,” is my usual response.
To put it fucking mildly.
I mean, how could I possibly summarize the PNH, the infertility, the miscarriages, the IVFs, the PGD, the twice-daily Lovenox shots, the hypertension, the fake preeclampsia, the bedrest, the platelets, the general anesthesia C-section, the anesthesia debacle, the hemorrhage, the ablation, the clot, the hematocrit, the pulmonary edema, the blood transfusions, the fevers, the incision reopening, the chemo-grade antibiotics, the three weeks in the hospital, the month in the NICU, the nec infection, the stem cells? How? How?
I shouldn’t have to, I know. And because I really can’t explain, I don’t.
**
Docs High Risk and Cutting Edge are of the opinion that now that we have a benchmark as to how my body behaves during pregnancy and childbirth, a second try should go much easier, though there are no guarantees. Dr. High Risk hugged me during our last visit and told me how much he enjoyed having me as a patient, agreeing that we probably won’t run into each other again anytime soon. Dr. Cutting Edge and I are longtime buddies though and he knows he’ll see me until he retires or I kick the bucket, and so is more candid with me.
He tells me to wait a year and see how I feel. He says that women’s bodies and minds are wired so that they forget the ugliness of childbirth and that without that wiring, no woman, (even those with uncomplicated deliveries) on this earth would ever try for a second. Dr. CE knows what Simon means to me- and the stem cells are just a fringe benefit. Simon gives me a stronger will to live a normal life, a stronger will to overcome my disease.
And that will keeps me feeling vital and positive, two things any doctor would want for his patient.
I suppose we’ll see. I suppose we’ll see.
**
Dorcie, if you’re reading, I think of you often and will never forget your kindness toward me.
Post script:
The morning of the day I was released from the hospital, Roman the Ukrainian phlebotomist came knocking on my door, as usual, at 5 am to poke my veins for the gazillionth time. As I woke from my hazy sleep, I uttered in fake annoyance, "Roman, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"
He not only smiled but finally he laughed, heartily. "I'm sad you are leaving but happy for you," he told me. Me too, Roman. Me too.
