Pre-term labor

9:30 am November 27, 2009

Well, communication from me dropped off for a while, and my friend JDD can tell you that this is not surprising. After Lara's mom passed away, I had little trite or clever to say, and my time here has been spent in one of two pursuits: coming to a viable dissertation topic during the day, and finding a way to spend time with family online that a number of people could and would participate in. Neither has been simple. Perhaps someday I'll tell you about it, but as of right now I am sitting in a hospital deli while Lara is upstairs at the maternity and delivery section of the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh, hoping that our baby will hold on for a few days or even hours more before being born.

On Thanksgiving, 26th of November, we were at the house of some friends from church having just finished eating a very fine supper. Lara had been uncomfortable all day, complaining of mild to medium lower abdominal pain. In fact, she had been feeling this sort of pain on and off for a few days, and I can even remember some days several weeks ago when she complained of the same sort of pain, but we thought (and probably correctly) that this pain was associated with stretching ligaments and perfectly normal. This night, however, the pain began to intensify and happen in increasingly frequent waves. After calling the NHS24 line (for medical advice) we decided to go the hospital, if for nothing else to get something for the pain.

After a brief (but thorough) overview of Lara in the emergency room, they whisked us up to another room where they began to inspect Lara specifically with regard to her pregnancy, including a quick ultrasound which revealed that the baby was head down. The baby was coming, and soon, at just over 23 weeks. Our initial response was shock and dismay. We knew that at 27 weeks a baby could have a decent chance at survival. All we could do, before and then, was to pray and call on the mercy of God.

We were then taken to a last room where we would be until after the baby was delivered. By this time the gas they had been giving Lara to reduce the pain was becoming increasingly unable to sufficiently deal with the pain at its worst. Some morphine fixed that problem right up. Both of us were still trying to process the information, varying between numbness and grief. But then a consultant from pediatrics came and spoke with us. He told us that 23 weeks is about as early as a baby can be delivered and have a chance at survival – a one-in-ten chance. Suddenly, “one-in-ten” became a life-preserver, something to latch onto and hope in. Even if the baby survives, he said, there would still be a strong possibility of some sort of mental or physical handicap. The point of this was that a decision needed to be made: given the likelihood of a lower quality of life, when the baby was born did we want them to do everything they could to help the baby to survive or not?

It's certainly much easier to glibly declare one's ideology when not actually faced with such a decision. In that moment I saw a future where Lara and I may have a child that is never fully independent, that may not live a full adult life, and I selfishly asked if I really wanted that. But I also asked myself if it was more selfish to bring a baby into the world and against nature help it to live a life that may be far from normal. Nevertheless, I am convinced this baby is from God, and it's my duty to, in another sense, help this baby, against nature, live a life far from normal. Lara was far ahead of me in this line of thought, answering politely but adamantly that we were aware of the possibilities, but we were committed to giving the baby every opportunity for life, and I agreed. Lara and I have discussed the possibility of a handicapped child and how we would parent such a child.

After that, it's been all about waiting. I tried to sleep in the chair, but that was definitely not happening, so I used my jacket to make a pillow and lay down on the floor, which was surprisingly comfortable at 4:30 in the morning. I must have slept pretty soundly for a little while, because the next thing I knew there were two people bringing in a pad for me to sleep on. Apparently, the midwife in charge of Lara had come in and seen my feet sticking out past the bed. After moving to the pad, I slipped into a coma.

This morning has been much the same as last night. As the time for the next shot of morphine approaches, the pain crescendos, falling back again after the shot. Lara sucks on her nitrous-oxide bestowing pacifier shaped like a hair blow-dryer and making sounds like Darth Vader. That combined with the morphine have provided for some rather silly moments, like when she tried to blow into the pacifier instead of breathing in from it, and then croaked a scary sounding guffaw when she realized what she was doing. An encouraging development has come this morning in that with the last shot of morphine the contractions basically stopped, and the baby was higher in the womb than it was last night when they searched for the heart beat. I'm not going to get my hopes up too much, though. No really.

I woke up woozy and slightly nauseous, but I wasn't really disoriented until I came down the elevator this morning only to discover that for some reason the ground floor looks completely different today than it did last night. I know there was a corridor here, but now there are three other corridors in different places leading in directions that make no sense. I was expecting to see David Bowie walking on the wall or something (hint: Labyrinth). And this brings us back to the hospital deli. I'm looking around thinking about the different things that bring people to hospital delies, and wishing I didn't have two recent and very personal insights into that query.