Hellobee

As I went to bed the night before the C-section after our birth parent dinner, I was overcome with the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

When Friday, February 13th was chosen as the C-section date, I hesitantly asked if it could be a different date.  There is no evidence to say that Friday the 13th or full moons are any worse in emergency departments or labor and delivery, but the myths are persistent. Those times always seem to feel worse to the providers working those shifts.  The caseworker laughed at my preference for another date and said it was not an option.

Since my request seemed silly, I dropped it without a fuss. So beyond the normal adoption fears, I had an added and irrational fear that this was all going to happen on an inauspicious day. Of course, I couldn’t really express those fears to anyone, so they were just background to the bad gut feeling that started the night before.

Friday the 13th dawned and we got the girls ready for an extra long day at school. They were going to go to early care at 7 am and to stay through aftercare at 6 pm. Then there was a Kids Night Out party that was going to last until 9 pm. It was going to be a mighty long day for them, but would meet our childcare needs while we were present for the birth of the new baby.  They were excited for Kids Night Out, and we thought it would be a good distraction for them.

I went to the hospital early while Mr. Jacks dropped the girls off at school. The C-section was scheduled for 7 am. With the chaotic shuffle of the morning and traffic, I got to the hospital around 7:15, just in time to see S. wheeled off to the operating room. Our caseworker said, “We should be seeing a new baby in about 30 minutes!” Mr. Jacks and I went to the waiting room and met up with a very nervous B. We all chatted casually as we marked time, but I had a distinct sense of depersonalization as if I was watching but not experiencing the day as it unfolded. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or my worries about S as she went through surgery and recovery. When the anticipated time of birth came near, we listened anxiously for the chimes of “rock-a-bye baby” that are played every time a baby is born in that hospital.

The half hour that the C-section usually takes came and went.  There was no cheesy music chiming through the loudspeakers. I started to get really worried, though the caseworker kept reassuring me that the most likely explanation was a delay with the surgeon or anesthesiologist. In most cases she would have been right, but given my freak-out of the night before, my mind was racing to some worst case scenarios. I really hoped that she wasn’t having any complications from the surgery.

We were making some nervous small talk at this point, punctuated by me saying every few minutes, “I hope everything is ok. I hope S. is ok.” There was another adoptive mom in the room who was trying to chat me up. Ordinarily, I would have been interested in talking with her as we were both awaiting the birth of a second child from the same adoptive mother… but I couldn’t focus on what she was saying. Instead, I just kept hearing a voice in my head screaming, “Something is wrong. Something was off with S. yesterday. This is not good!”

There was absolutely nothing I could do but wait. This is a theme from our whole adoption experience this time around.  Before the paperwork is signed, an adoptive parent is so helpless. Actually, an adoptive parent before finalization is even more helpless. It’s a weird place to be in!

The hour mark passed without any news. The next 15 minutes we all sat silent. I tried to zone out and not think of anything. Then, shattering the silence was a text the caseworker received. The floor fell from under me and my stomach dropped as she said the words, “We all need to get over to the NICU right now.” I went into calm crisis mode. I asked, “Is S ok?” I was assured that she was and we waited to be let in the locked doors of the NICU. We each had to scrub in for 2 minutes. That time seemed like an eternity.  What the hell was going on with the baby?! Was it just small trouble with transitioning after birth or were we dealing with a real critical care situation?

When we entered the room, there were warmers, the crash cart, and extra space that all indicated that this was the resuscitation room.  It was a room set up for the most severe cases. There was no doctor present at the time, but the charge nurse calmly said that they didn’t yet know what was wrong and they hoped everything would be just fine. I knew within a few moments of looking at this beautiful baby that everything was NOT fine.

He was hooked to monitors which showed low oxygen saturations, very high heart rate, and disastrously low blood pressure. Since no one was doing much at the moment, I began a newborn assessment as I would with any patient. This apparently was very bad for setting the tone with my interactions with NICU personnel! A nurse immediately descended on me and said, “You should just be a mom right now.” This is the second theme from our birth experience.  What exactly does, “you should just be the mom” mean?

I was able to gather a lot of information from my brief exam that we might need as the story unfolded. The baby was critically ill. It might be his heart. It might be an infection. I didn’t think it was likely to be a genetic disorder based on the baby’s appearance. It was clear that the baby would immediately need a higher level of support and the charge nurse confirmed what I was thinking. She asked us to leave the NICU so that they could sedate and intubate the baby, put him on a ventilator, and put in central lines. She also had the foresight to recommend that I take a quick photo before all of this, so that we could commemorate his birth without all the lines and tubes. I will be forever grateful for that!

Before we left the Unit, the NICU doc came and introduced himself. He directed all his comments to B and spoke very patronizingly to him as he obtained consent for treatment. (We had no legal rights to consent or even receive medical information at this point.) He almost entirely ignored me and Mr. Jacks except to say rather ominously to me, “You are a mom. You are not a doctor in this situation. You should not behave like a doctor. We are the doctors and we will make the diagnosis and treatment plans. Your only job is to be a mom.”  I remember him wagging his finger at me, though I can’t be sure that really happened. In my mind, it did. We were then escorted out and told that someone would find us later when the baby was stabilized. I never got a chance to say more than hello to the doctor.

We sat stunned in the NICU waiting room. Without a doubt, it was the most helpless and disempowered I have ever felt in my entire life. We were left wondering whether we had a baby who would be facing lifelong problems or only required simple stabilization and treatment.  Without any information except my preliminary assessment, both possibilities seemed equally plausible. I was also left second-guessing myself.  Did I do something wrong? Why did people keep telling me to “just be a mom”? Isn’t part of being a mom protecting the child with all the knowledge and information that you have? Should I really check my career at the door? Was I even this child’s mom at this point? I had never met him until that moment and hadn’t yet signed any paperwork to make him ours. What DOES it mean to be a mom right now?!

In that never-ending wait, I busied myself with trying to explain what was going on to Mr. Jacks and B as clearly and simply as possible. At the time, I could tell they thought I was being overly pessimistic. It was only later that they realized the gravity of the situation. My worst fears from the night before were coming true. What I hadn’t realized as I tossed and turned that night was how utterly confusing and lonely it was to be a potential adoptive parent in this situation. There was plenty of time to think about that now, but zoning out until we knew more seemed the most appropriate course of action– so that’s what I did.

To be continued.